Countryside Beauty Quotes

It is my belief, Watson, founded upon my experience, that the lowest and vilest alleys in London do not present a more dreadful record of sin than does the smiling and beautiful countryside.

Bees blew like cake-crumbs through the golden air, white butterflies like sugared wafers, and when it wasn't raining a diamond dust took over which veiled and yet magnified all things

He stood staring into the wood for a minute, then said: "What is it about the English countryside — why is the beauty so much more than visual? Why does it touch one so?" He sounded faintly sad. Perhaps he finds beauty saddening — I do myself sometimes. Once when I was quite little I asked father why this was and he explained that it was due to our knowledge of beauty's evanescence, which reminds us that we ourselves shall die. Then he said I was probably too young to understand him; but I understood perfectly.

Is the sunrise of Mount Fuji more beautiful from the one you see in the countryside a bit closer to home? Are the beaches of Indonesia really that much more serene than those we have in our own countries? The point I make is not to downplay the marvels of the world, but to highlight the notion of the human tendency in our failure to see the beauty in our daily lives when we take off the travel goggles when we are home. It is the preconceived notion of a place that creates the difference in perception of environments rather than the actual geological location.

Rome is not outside me, but inside me.. Her feverish sweetness, her tragic countryside, her own beauty and harmony, all these are mine, for my thought and my work.

To his eyes all seemed beautiful, but to me a tinge of melancholy lay upon the countryside, which bore so clearly the mark of the waning year, Yellow leaves carpeted the lanes and fluttered down upon us as we passed, The rattle of our wheels died away as we drove through drifts of rotting vegetation--sad gifts, as it seemed to me, for Nature to throw before the carriage of the returning heir of the Baskervilles.

[After the Captain of the guards went into the wagon, where Laurent dressed as Jokaste was wearing a short blue dress] ‘The stories of Lady Jokaste’s beauty are not exaggerated,’ said the Captain, man-to-man, as they wound their way across the countryside.

People say that Kashmir was crafted by God’s own hand. He molded the high mountains and hills that stretch as far as the eye can see, purified the crystal blue rivers and lakes, and painted the grass with His brush. He’s kept its beauty fresh ever since, a slice of heaven on earth. I don’t believe that. I think God forgot about us a long time ago. The aesthetic countryside is nothing but a facade, an illusion. Underneath the land’s mirage of beauty lies the truth, and this truth is the one thing the people of Kashmir understand above all else: suffering.

There was so much time that marvelous summer. Day after day, mist rose from the meadow as the sky lightened and hedges, barns and woods took shape until, at last, the long curving back of the hills lifted away from the Plain. It was a sort of stage-magic.

One fine moonlit night, Mortain and his Wild Hunt were riding through the countryside when they spied two maids more beautiful than any they had ever seen before. They were picking evening primrose, which only blooms in the moonlight. “The two maids turned out to be Amourna and Arduinna, twin daughters of Dea Matrona. When Mortain saw the fair Amourna, he fell instantly in love, for she was not only beautiful but light of heart as well, and surely the god of death needs lightness in his world. “But the two sisters could not be more different. Amourna was happy and giving, but her sister, Arduinna, was fierce, jealous, and suspicious, for such is the dual nature of love. Arduinna had a ferocious and protective nature and did not care for the way Mortain was looking at her beloved sister. To warn him, she drew her bow and let fly with one of her silver arrows. She never misses, and she didn’t miss then. The arrow pierced Mortain’s heart, but no one, not even a goddess, can kill the god of death. “Mortain plucked the arrow from his chest and bowed to Arduinna. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘For reminding me that love never comes without cost

Have you forgotten to have a beautiful breakfast in a countryside village? Then, you have forgotten the life!

There is nothing so beautiful, lovable and moving as the English countryside.

What is it about the English countryside---why is the beauty so much more than visual? Why does it touch one so?

And my heart swells at the silly, simple human fact that when we stumble upon something beautiful, our first instinct is to show it to the people we love. It’s what we do with pretty seashells on a beach, a radiant sunset, a rare bird flitting through the trees, a heard of wild horses grazing in the countryside. “Look,” we say, saving these little pieces of beauty for each other, “Do you see it too? Isn’t the world such a strange, lovely, breathtaking place?

There’s something hypnotic about the word ‘tea’. I’m asking you to enjoy the beauties of the English countryside; to tell me your adventures and hear mine; to plan a campaign involving the comfort and reputation of two-hundred people; to honor me with your sole presence and to bestow upon me the illusion of paradise, and I speak as though the pre-eminent object of all desire were a pot of boiled water and a plateful of synthetic pastries in Ye Olde Worlde Tudor Tea Shoppe.

This land, like so much of the French countryside, was a painting, but Mercier felt his heart touched with melancholy and realized, not for the first time, that beautiful places were hard on lonely people.

It was a sumptuous, oh, truly sumptuous autumn day, all Byzantine coppers and golds under a Tiepolo sky of enamelled blue, the countryside all fixed and glassy, seeming not so much itself as its own reflection in the still surface of the lake. It was the kind of day on which, latterly, the sun for me is the world’s fat eye looking on in rich enjoyment as I writhe in misery.

Are they not fresh and beautiful?" [Watson] cried... Holmes shook his head gravely. "... You look at these scattered houses, and you are impressed bu their beauty. I look at them, and the only thought which comes to me is a feeling of their isolation and of the impunity with which crime may be committed here... They always filled me with a certain horror. It is my belief, Watson... that the lowest and vilest alleys in London do not present a more dreadful record of sin than does the smiling and beauty of the countryside... But the reason is obvious. The pressure of public opinion can do in the town what the law cannot accomplish.

... the English landscape at its finest - such as I saw it this morning - possesses a quality that the landscapes of other nations, however more superficially dramatic, inevitably fail to possess.

Arriving on Bainbridge Island is the opposite of arriving in Seattle. When you got in your car and waited to unload off the ferry in Seattle, you saw the Space Needle, cars, and a mound of urban construction. Once you exit the ferry terminal on Bainbridge, however, it’s mostly trees. Pine as far as the eye can see. Well, pines, firework and coffee stands, and eventually a casino. You drive through the Port Madison Indian Reservation when you leave the island. I couldn’t help but smile as I went past the casino. I didn’t really get gambling, since I’d never had money to throw away, but as I passed through all the beautiful countryside that I’m sure once belonged to the tribe, I sort of hoped they would rob the white man blind. Perhaps not politically correct, but the feeling was there all the same.

For the next thirteen-plus hours, I stared out the window at the passing towns and countryside. All those lives. All those untold stories and private dramas. There was something so beautiful and sad about it. I felt weirdly emotional, like I was running away from home, but also running to a new home.

Suddenly the door opened and in stomped a giant reeking of the river, and before anyone knew what was happening, he had grabbed a chair, smashed it in two, and chased the terrified customers into a corner. The three youngsters pressed against the wall like periwinkles in the rain, but at the very last moment, when the man had picked up half a chair in each hand and seemed ready for the kill, he burst into song, and after conducting himself in "Gray Dove Where Have You Been?" he flung aside the halves of the chair, paid the waiter for the damage, and, turning to the still-shaking customers, said, "Gentlemen I am the hangman's assistant," whereupon he left, pensive and miserable. Perhaps he was the one who, last year at the Holesovice slaughterhouse, put a knife to my neck, shoved me into a corner, took out a slip of paper, and read me a poem celebrating the beauties of the countryside at Ricany, then apologized saying he hadn't found any other way of getting people to listen to his verse.

I had travelled the world and I had come to realise, in faint surprise, that I had seen no countryside that could compare in pastoral beauty with that of my own home. It takes a long time for an Australian to accept the fact that the wide, bustling, sophisticated world of the northern hemisphere cannot compare with his own land in certain ways;

Soldiers planted like vegetables waiting for the day of harvest. … everything is more intense at night, perfectly beautiful, and when the wind shifts and the reek of rotting meat vanishes for a few blessed minutes you can smell the sweet scent of the countryside.

Strangers talked freely to one another without caution. I had forgotten how rich and beautiful is the countryside--the deep topsoil, the wealth of great trees, the lake country of Michigan handsome as a well-made woman, and dressed and jeweled. It seemed to me that the earth is generous and outgoing here in the heartland, and perhaps the people took a cue from it.

The Tuscan countryside whizzed by in a kaleidoscopic whirl of shapes and colors. Green grass and trees melded with blue sky, purple and yellow wildflowers, peachy-orange villas, brown-and-gray farmhouses, and the occasional red-and-white Autogrill, Italy's (delicious) answer to fast food.

The all-pervading disease of the modern world is the total imbalance between city and countryside, an imbalance in terms of wealth, power, culture, attraction and hope. The former has become over-extended and the latter has atrophied. The city has become the universal magnet, while rural life has lost its savour. Yet it remains an unalterable truth that, just as a sound mind depends on a sound body, so the health of the cities depends on the health of the rural areas. The cities, with all their wealth, are merely secondary producers, while primary production, the precondition of all economic life, takes place in the countryside. The prevailing lack of balance, based on the age-old exploitation of countryman and raw material producer, today threatens all countries throughout the world, the rich even more than the poor. To restore a proper balance between city and rural life is perhaps the greatest task in front of modern man.

These days I live in a magical little village on Dartmoor in Devon, England, and my "special spot" is a moss-covered rock in a circle of trees in the woods behind my house. I often go into the woods, or walk through the fields and hills nearby, when I need inspiration, or to work out a plot problem, or come up with an idea. I think better on my feet, particularly when there is beautiful countryside around me and a dog at my side. When I was younger and lived in big cities, I had special places there too. There's magic everywhere, if you look.

Townsfolk have no conception of the peace that mother nature bestows, and as long as that peace is unfound the spirit must seek to quench its thirst with ephemeral novelties. And what is more natural that that of the townsman's feverish search for pleasure should mould people of unstable, hare-brained character, who think only of their personal appearance and their clothes and find momentary comfort in foolish fashions and other such worthless innovations? The countryman, on the other hand walks out into the verdant meadows, into an atmosphere clear and pure, and as he breaths it into his lungs some unknown power streams through his limbs, invigorating body and soul. The peace in nature fills his mind with calm and cheer, the bright green grass under his feet awakens a sense of beauty, almost of reverence. In the fragrance that is borne so sweetly to his nostrils, in the quietude that broods so blissfully around him, there is comfort and rest. The hillsides, the dingles, the waterfalls, and the mountains are all friends of his childhood, and never to be forgotten.

For the first time since they'd left the inn, his eyes stopped roaming the hills and crags of the countryside and roamed her body's curves instead. Slowly, with a raw, possessive hunger. A low, simmering heat sparked and built inside her, feeding off that desire in his eyes the same way a flame fed off coal. He'd once called her uncommonly pretty in conversation, and at the time she had been tempted to argue back. But tonight, for the first time in her life, she felt irresistible. Ravishing. Truly beautiful. In his eyes, if no one else's. Oh, this was dangerous.

..my feelings for the countryside…the beauty and the wildness, the enchantment of so much colour and life and warmth of the sun. Most people are restless in the country, they feel a vacancy, and want to get back to the shops and pavements and traffic; what they call life. Sometimes this war seems to have come directly out of that restlessness.

It was under English trees that I meditated on that lost labyrinth: I pictured it perfect and inviolate on the secret summit of a mountain; I pictured its outlines blurred by rice paddies, or underwater; I pictured it as infinite—a labyrinth not of octagonal pavillions and paths that turn back upon themselves, but of rivers and provinces and kingdoms....I imagined a labyrinth of labyrinths, a maze of mazes, a twisting, turning, ever-widening labyrinth that contained both past and future and somehow implied the stars. Absorbed in those illusory imaginings, I forgot that I was a pursued man; I felt myself, for an indefinite while, the abstract perceiver of the world. The vague, living countryside, the moon, the remains of the day did their work in me; so did the gently downward road, which forestalled all possibility of weariness. The evening was near, yet infinite.

Britain still has the most reliably beautiful countryside of anywhere in the world. I would hate to be part of the generation that allowed that to be lost.

The lowest and vilest alleys in London do not present a more dreadful record of sin than does the smiling and beautiful countryside.

Death. I thought it would be gardens, perhaps. Beautiful countryside with cool streams. It's only blackness. Nervous and dark. There is no rest there.

But we were not orphans, we were children of the world, and we could see what was beautiful in the world, so why would we remain slaves?

Beneath the chirp of cicadas, I can practically hear the energy between us humming, like the power lines that buzz overhead in a countryside

In the countryside, they say this means that the spirit is restless. Your soul is trying to escape your body. Other times, they say you are a witch.

The countryside is beautiful. I’ve never seen anything like it. Thatched roofs on the houses. Snow everywhere, the sky is so blue. I’m 22 years old today.

The new day dawned in a haze of soft sunshine. It crept across the countryside suddenly to expand and burst forth over all the peaceful woods and meadowland. Blue-gold tinged with pink, each dewdrop turned into a scintillating jewel, spiders' webs became glittering filigree, birdsong rang out as if there had never been a day as fresh and beautiful as this one.

No doubt you are aware that the winds have colour... A record of this belief will be found in the literature of all ancient peoples. There are four winds and eight sub-winds each with its own colour. The wind from the east is a deep purple, from the south a fine shining silver. The north wind is a hard black and the west is amber. People in the old days had the power of perceiving these colours and could spend a day sitting quietly on a hillside watching the beauty of the winds, their fall and rise and changing hues, the magic of neighbouring winds when they are inter-weaved like ribbons at a wedding. It was a better occupation than gazing at newspapers. The sub-winds had colours of indescribable delicacy, a reddish-yellow half-way between silver and purple, a greyish-green which was related equally to black and brown. What could be more exquisite than a countryside swept lightly by cool rain reddened by the south-west breeze'.

The practice of meditation is like a long journey in the beautiful countryside. If you focus on the brakes, the speed dial, the accelerator, the mirror too often - you will take the fun out of the journey

There was once a town in the heart of America where all life seemed to live in harmony with its surroundings. The town lay in the midst of a checkerboard of prosperous farms, with fields of grain and hillsides of orchards where, in spring, white clouds of bloom drifted above the green fields. In autumn, oak and maple and birch set up a blaze of color that flamed and flickered across a backdrop of pines. Then foxes barked in the hills and deer silently crossed the fields, half hidden in the mists of the fall mornings. Along the roads, laurel, viburnum, and alder, great ferns and wildflowers delighted the traveler's eye through much of the year. Even in winter the roadsides were places of beauty, where countless birds came to feed on the berries and on the seed heads of the dried weeds rising above the snow. The countryside was, in fact, famous for the abundance and variety of its bird life, and when the flood of migrants was pouring through in spring and fall people traveled from great distances to observe them. Others came to fish the streams, which flowed clear and cold out of the hills and contained shady pools where trout lay. So it had been from the days many years ago when the first settlers raised their homes, sank their wells, and built their barns. Then a strange blight crept over the area and everything began to change. Some evil spell had settled on the community: mysterious maladies swept the flocks of chickens, the cattle, and sheep sickened and died. Everywhere was a shadow of death. The farmers spoke of much illness among their families. In the town the doctors had become more and more puzzled by new kinds of sickness appearing among their patients. There had been sudden and unexplained deaths, not only among adults but even among children whoe would be stricken suddently while at play and die within a few hours. There was a strange stillness. The birds, for example--where had they gone? Many people spoke of them, puzzled and disturbed. The feeding stations in the backyards were deserted. The few birds seen anywhere were moribund; they trembled violently and could not fly. It was a spring without voices. On the mornings that had once throbbed with the dawn chorus of robins, catbirds, doves, jays, wrens, and scores of other bird voices there was no sound; only silence lay over the fields and woods and marsh. On the farms the hens brooded, but no chicks hatched. The farmers complained that they were unable to raise any pigs--the litters were small and the young survived only a few days. The apple trees were coming into bloom but no bees droned among the blossoms, so there was no pollination and there would be no fruit. The roadsides, once so attractive, were now lined with browned and withered vegetation as though swept by fire. These, too, were silent, deserted by all living things. Even the streams were not lifeless. Anglers no longer visited them, for all the fish had died. In the gutters under the eaves and between the shingles of the roofs, a white granular powder still showed a few patches; some weeks before it had fallen like snow upon the roofs and the lawns, the fields and streams. No witchcraft, no enemy action had silenced the rebirth of life in this stricken world. The people had done it to themselves.

Finding a taxi, she felt like a child pressing her nose to the window of a candy store as she watched the changing vista pass by while the twilight descended and the capital became bathed in a translucent misty lavender glow. Entering the city from that airport was truly unique. Charles de Gaulle, built nineteen miles north of the bustling metropolis, ensured that the final point of destination was veiled from the eyes of the traveller as they descended. No doubt, the officials scrupulously planned the airport’s location to prevent the incessant air traffic and roaring engines from visibly or audibly polluting the ambience of their beloved capital, and apparently, they succeeded. If one flew over during the summer months, the visitor would be visibly presented with beautifully managed quilt-like fields of alternating gold and green appearing as though they were tilled and clipped with the mathematical precision of a slide rule. The countryside was dotted with quaint villages and towns that were obviously under meticulous planning control. When the aircraft began to descend, this prevailing sense of exactitude and order made the visitor long for an aerial view of the capital city and its famous wonders, hoping they could see as many landmarks as they could before they touched ground, as was the usual case with other major international airports, but from this point of entry, one was denied a glimpse of the city below. Green fields, villages, more fields, the ground grew closer and closer, a runway appeared, a slight bump or two was felt as the craft landed, and they were surrounded by the steel and glass buildings of the airport. Slightly disappointed with this mysterious game of hide-and-seek, the voyager must continue on and collect their baggage, consoled by the reflection that they will see the metropolis as they make their way into town. For those travelling by road, the concrete motorway with its blue road signs, the underpasses and the typical traffic-logged hubbub of industrial areas were the first landmarks to greet the eye, without a doubt, it was a disheartening first impression. Then, the real introduction began. Quietly, and almost imperceptibly, the modern confusion of steel and asphalt was effaced little by little as the exquisite timelessness of Parisian heritage architecture was gradually unveiled. Popping up like mushrooms were cream sandstone edifices filigreed with curled, swirling carvings, gently sloping mansard roofs, elegant ironwork lanterns and wood doors that charmed the eye, until finally, the traveller was completely submerged in the glory of the Second Empire ala Baron Haussmann’s master plan of city design, the iconic grand mansions, tree-lined boulevards and avenues, the quaint gardens, the majestic churches with their towers and spires, the shops and cafés with their colourful awnings, all crowded and nestled together like jewels encrusted on a gold setting.

I enjoy waking up before the weather. It never rains at 4:00AM. Yes, it’s always cold, but it’s not an uncomfortable cold; it’s the cold of an engine at rest, a day that has yet to fire into life. At this time, everything is fresh and crisp, as if it’s new and still in its wrapping. Sunsets are beautiful, but the light fades to darkness. It’s like watching a candle burn itself out. The dawn is the birth of a new day; the sun spills colours into the clouds like a child’s paintbrush swirling in a pot of water. The countryside has such a beautiful sadness about it; a distant tractor ambles slowly along a furrowed field like a tear on a cheek.

She was all I had ever dreamt of being. She was beautiful, more beautiful than anyone I had ever seen. She was intelligent, smarter than anyone I had ever met. When poised and quiet, she had an impact on people anyways, a statue and incarnate of everything revered in a woman, yet when she spoke, you did not know how to thank what deity for having been graced to be in the presence of someone like her. She did not speak as I did, and she spoke so little.

It was not beauty at all that she wanted, or depressed though she was, she would have bought a ticket to somewhere or other upon the Metropolitan railway and gone out to see the recumbent autumnal graces of the country-side. Her mind was groping after something that eluded her experience, a something that was shadowy and menacing, and yet in some way congenial; a something that lurked in waste places, that was hinted at by the sound of water gurgling through deep channels and by the voices of birds of ill-omen. Loneliness, dreariness, aptness for arousing a sense of fear, a kind of ungodly hallowedness - these were the things that called her thoughts away from the comfortable fireside.

They always fill me with a certain horror. It is my belief, Watson, founded upon my experience, that the lowest and vilest alleys in London do not present a more dreadful record of sin than does the smiling and beautiful countryside.

Almost on crossing the Ohio line it seemed to me that people were more open and more outgoing. The waitress in a roadside stand said good morning before I had a chance to, discussed breakfast as though she liked the idea, spoke with enthusiasm about the weather, sometimes even offered some information about herself without my delving. Strangers talked freely to one another without caution. I had forgotten how rich and beautiful is the countryside - the deep topsoil, the wealth of great trees, the lake country of Michigan handsome as a well-made woman, and dressed and jeweled. It seemed to me that the earth was generous and outgoing here in the heartland, and perhaps the people took a cue from it.

Giacomo was walking as usual but with an additional bounce in his step for he was after all going over to Delilah Gange’s house, hers was the best and the poshest of the village yet her disposition was kind and of humility yet polished and admirable.

Allow the beauty of creation to soak deep within our souls with eye candy such as mountain or lake or ocean or countryside or forest. It reminds us how small we are and how utterly magnificent God is, and that makes His love for us all the more breathtaking.

I have one and only one wish: to withdraw from the world, to live far away in the countryside in a beautiful house, and to study and work there, all alone. I hope to realize that dream next yeat, when I will be thirty years old and will say goodbye to the world forever.

God, she was beautiful. She was so beautiful her image and her laugh and her picturesque face and odour lingered and stay etched upon and echoed across the multitude of chambers in her subconscious psyche. She tried to count the stars in the night sky like the freckles on the blonde’s nose. She thought of her lips being the clouds of stardust that stayed around the night sky, so distracting yet not really spoken about. She thought of the Moon being her eyes, so wide and big and bright. Her beauty was transient and translucent like the night sky.

The rose- petalled, gaunt and veined fingers met the shorter and calloused ones, and the hands of fate went to work at making the beauty of the current surceasing interlude outweigh the consequences and shroud the disillusionment of any adoration in eventuality with oblivion.

Tranquility is the soul of our community.” Not a quarter mile’s distance away, Susanna Finch sat in the lace-curtained parlor of the Queen’s Ruby, a rooming house for gently bred young ladies. With her were the room house’s newest prospective residents, a Mrs. Highwood and her three unmarried daughters. “Here in Spindle Cove, young ladies enjoy a wholesome, improving atmosphere.” Susanna indicated a knot of ladies clustered by the hearth, industriously engaged in needlework. “See? The picture of good health and genteel refinement.” In unison, the young ladies looked up from their work and smiled placid, demure smiles. Excellent. She gave them an approving nod. Ordinarily, the ladies of Spindle Cove would never waste such a beautiful afternoon stitching indoors. They would be rambling the countryside, or sea bathing in the cove, or climbing the bluffs. But on days like these, when new visitors came to the village, everyone understood some pretense at propriety was necessary. Susanna was not above a little harmless deceit when it came to saving a young woman’s life. “Will you take more tea?” she asked, accepting a fresh pot from Mrs. Nichols, the inn’s aging proprietress. If Mrs. Highwood examined the young ladies too closely, she might notice that mild Gaelic obscenities occupied the center of Kate Taylor’s sampler. Or that Violet Winterbottom’s needle didn’t even have thread.

The beauty of cathedrals, churches, marriage, heaven and the Elysian fields will forever be ingrained in my head as the beauty these eyes lost the chance to see but the beauty of the poppy fields near the French countryside will forever be the one my eyes will never regret witnessing.

The part of the Lake District that Beatrix Potter chose as her own was not only physically beautiful, it was a place in which she felt emotionally rooted as a descendant of hard-working north-country folk. The predictable routines of farm life appealed to her. There was a realism in the countryside that nurtured a deep connection. The scale of the villages was manageable. Yet the vast desolateness of the surrounding fells was awe-inspiring. It was mysterious, but easily imbued with fantasy and tamed by imagination. The sheltered lakes and fertile valleys satisfied her love of the pastoral. The hill farms and the sheep on the high fells demanded accountability. There was a longing in Beatrix Potter for association with permanence: to find a place where time moved slowly, where places remained much as she remembered them from season to season and from year to year.

Beautiful and perhaps the most beautiful of the land though Bellatrix Garden was, an alluring enchantress owning up to her name to the most beautiful that France had to offer, what was surplus in exquisite splendour was compensated for by negate of intellect and mere existence of a hedonistic tendency.

A wet region of staggering natural beauty, it was originally colonized by two groups: merchants, missionaries, and woodsmen from New England (who arrived by sea and controlled the towns) and farmers, prospectors, and fur traders from Greater Appalachia (who arrived by wagon and dominated the countryside).

The night was as perfect as she could possibly have hoped. Only on nights like this did Wharton Park rival the beauty of her childhood home in Provence. The softness of an English country evening, when land and sky seemed to melt into each other, the smell of freshly mown grass, mingling with the scent of roses, had its own special magic.

The sun still beats down warmly over the Sienese countryside in September, and the stubble left by harvest covers the fields with a sort of animal fur. It is one of the most beautiful countrysides in the world: God has drawn the curve of its hills with an exquisite freedom, and has given it a rich and varied vegetation among which the cypresses stand out like lords. Man has worked this earth to advantage and has spread his dwellings over it; but from the most princely villa to the humbles cottage they all have a similar grace and harmony with their ochre walls and curved tiles. The road is never monotonous; it winds and rises, only to descend into another valley between terraced fields and age-old olive groves. Both God and man have shown their genius at Siena.

Like true country people, they loved watching the countryside change with the seasons. They savored the trees turning green in the spring. They saw the summer flowers blossom, fade, and drop. They exclaimed over the autumn colors, gold and red and rust. They watched the leaves fall, and the fields turn sere, to be purified by winter. The wheel of the year turned once, twice, three times.

Nothing - and I mean, really, absolutely nothing - is more extraordinary in Britain than the beauty of the countryside. Nowhere in the world is there a landscape that has been more intensively utilised - more mined, farmed, quarried, covered with cities and clanging factories, threaded with motorways and railway lines - and yet remains so comprehensively and reliably lovely over most of its extent.

The New Man was not the victor, loud-mouthed and vain, but the man who was humble and solemn, with the beautiful eyes of a terrified animal. And so through the eyes of these lovers—because even married couples became lovers again with the danger of the front hanging over them—I learned to see the countryside, the flowers on the tables, the children at play, and to see that every hour is a sacrament.

Dusk settled over our shoulders like a damp purple blanket. The river- the churn and clank of boat traffic, the shush of water, and the tangy smell of catfish and mud- was slowly beaten back by honeysuckle and cicadas and some bird that cooed the same three syllables in a lilting circle. It was all so familiar and so foreign. I pictured a young girl in a blue cotton dress running down this same road on cinnamon-stick legs. Then I pictured another girl, white and square-jawed, running before her. Adelaide. Mother. I would've missed it if I hadn't been looking: a narrow dirt drive crowded on either side by briars and untrimmed boughs. Even once I'd followed the track to its end I was uncertain- who would live in such a huddled, bent-back cabin, half-eaten by ivy and some sort of feral climbing rose? The wooden-shake shingles were green with moss; the barn had collapsed entirely.

The whole Romantic sham, Bernard! It’s what happened to the Enlightenment, isn’t it? A century of intellectual rigour turned in on itself. A mind in chaos suspected of genius. In a setting of cheap thrills and false emotion. The history of the garden says it all, beautifully. There’s an engraving of Sidley Park in 1730 that makes you want to weep. Paradise in the age of reason. By 1760 everything had gone – the topiary, pools and terraces, fountains, an avenue of limes – the whole sublime geometry was ploughed under by Capability Brown. The grass went from the doorstep to the horizon and the best box hedge in Derbyshire was dug up for the ha-ha so that the fools could pretend they were living in God’s countryside. And then Richard Noakes came in to bring God up to date. By the time he’d finished it looked like this (the sketch book). The decline from thinking to feeling, you see.

I asked myself, What is true about a person? Would I change in the same way the river changes color but still be the same person? And then I saw the curtains blowing wildly, and outside the rain was falling harder, causing everyone to scurry and shout. I smiled. And then I realized it was the first time I could see the power of the wind. I couldn't see the wind itself, but I could see it carried the water that filled the rivers and shaped the countryside. It caused me to yelp and dance. I wiped my eyes and looked in the mirror. I was surprised at what I saw. I had on a beautiful red dress, but what I saw was even more valuable. I was strong. I was pure. I had genuine thoughts inside that no one could see, that no one could ever take away from me. I was like the wind. I threw my head back and smiled proudly to myself. And then I draped the large embroidered red scarf over my face and covered those thoughts up. But underneath the scarf I still knew who I was. I made a promise to myself. I would always remember my parent's wishes, but I would never forget myself

There are a few familiar landmarks from the area—a conical hill, perhaps a castle—but the aerial view seems to be, typical of Leonardo, a mix of the actual and the imagined, viewed as if by a soaring bird. The glory of being an artist, he realized, was that reality should inform but not constrain. “If the painter wishes to see beauties that would enrapture him, he is master of their production,” he wrote. “If he seeks valleys, if he wants to disclose great expanses of countryside from the summits of mountains, and if he subsequently wishes to see the horizon of the sea, he is lord of all of them.”44

Growing up where she did, Beatrix had developed a romantic and adventurous nature, and she had no outlet for it any more. The happiest times I can remember spending with them were when we drove out - twice, I think - to the Long Mynd for a picnic. Roger had long since traded in his motorbike and scraped together enough money to buy a second-hand Morris Minor. Somehow we all squeezed into this (I seem to recall sitting in the front passenger seat, Beatrix sitting behind me with the baby on her lap) and drove out for the afternoon to those wonderful Shropshire hills. I wonder if you have ever walked on them yourself, Imogen. They are part of your story, you know. So many things have changed, changed beyond recognition, in the almost sixty years since the time I'm now recalling, but the Long Mynd is not one of them. In the last few months I have been too ill to walk there, but I did manage to visit in the last spring, to offer what I already sensed would be my final farewells. Places like this are important to me - to all of us - because they exist outside the normal timespan. You can stand on the backbone of the Long Mynd and not know if you are in the 1940s, the 2000s, the tenth or eleventh century... It is all immaterial, all irrelevant. The gorse and the purple heather are unchanging, and so are the sheeptracks which cut through them and criss-cross them, the twisted rocky outcrops which surprise you at every turn, the warm browns of the bracken, the distant greys of the conifer plantations, tucked far away down in secretive valleys. You cannot put a price on the sense of freedom and timelessness that is granted to you there, as you stand on the high ridge beneath a flawless sky of April blue and look across at the tame beauties of the English countryside, to the east, and to the west a hint of something stranger - the beginnings of the Welsh mountains

The June weather was delicious. The sky was blue, the larks were soaring high over the green corn, I thought all that countryside more beautiful and peaceful by far than I had ever known it to be yet. Many pleasant pictures of the life that I would lead there, and of the change for the better that would come over my character when I had a guiding spirit at my side whose simple faith and clear home-wisdom I had proved, beguiled my way. They awakened a tender emotion in me; for, my heart was softened by my return, and such a change had come to pass, that I felt like one who was toiling home barefoot from distant travel, and whose wanderings had lasted many years.

If these girls sold into prostitution had remained in the countryside, they would have gone their whole lives not knowing how to write, never straining to find words to express the beauty of flowers. They would have led lives where flowers were flowers, birds were birds, trees were trees, and that was that. It was a world without flaws but lacking in subtlety, taste, and suggestion. They would have worn rustic clothes and crawled around in muddy rice paddies, working up a seat, till they reached the end of their lives as stooped old women. If there was any benefit in becoming a prostitute, it was only the possibility of becoming literate and discovering the power of words.

The journey from Rome to Siena is harder than its distance warrants. Once outside the great walls of the city the route becomes as treacherous for humans as for animals. Before the coming of Our Lord, when men knew no better than to worship an army of badly behaved gods, the countryside around Rome was legendary for its fertility, with well-kept roads filled with carts and produce pouring into the city’s markets. But over centuries of the true faith, it has degenerated into wilderness and brigandry, divvied up between the families of the great Roman barons; men hidden inside castles and fortresses who would prefer to carry on slaughtering each other than to create stability together.

Captain Prince nervously craned his neck to learn what the delay was. He heard something strange, a chorus singing softly in the twilight. The tune was hard to make out at first, but then Prince caught it—“God Bless America,” the familiar stanzas rendered in thickly accented English, the melody charmingly curdled with the occasional stale note. At the entrance to the town a few dozen teenage girls dressed in white gowns were singing in sad, sweet voices. It was like a hastily arranged beauty pageant. The local school principal had gone door to door recruiting the prettiest young women from Platero and the surrounding countryside. Some of the girls slipped garlands of fresh sampaguita flowers over the Rangers’ heads and offered welcoming kisses.

The countryside was a thousand different shades of green, from the patchwork quilts of the cultivated land to the desolation of the open moors. The road dipped through dales where forests protected spotless villages and then climbed switchbacked curves to take them again up to the open land where the North Sea wind blew unforgivingly across heather and furze. Here, the only life belonged to the sheep. They wandered free and unfenced, unfettered by the ancient dry stone walls that constructed boundaries for their fellows in the dales below. There were contradictions everywhere. In the cultivated areas, life burgeoned from every cranny and hedgerow, a thick vegetation that in another season would produce the mixed beauties of cow parsley, campion, vetch, and foxglove. It was an area where transportation was delayed while two dogs expertly herded a flock of plump sheep across pasture, down hillside, and along the road for a two-mile stroll into the centre of a village,

She gazed out at the seductive vista. The countryside was dressed in its prettiest May garb- everything budding or blooming or bursting out in the exuberance of late spring. For Laura, the landscape at thirteen hundred feet up a Welsh mountain was the perfect mix of reassuringly tamed and excitingly wild. In front of the house were lush, high meadows filled with sheep, the lambs plump from their mother's grass-rich milk. Their creamy little shapes bright and clean against the background of pea green. A stream tumbled down the hillside, disappearing into the dense oak woods at the far end of the fields, the ocher trunks fuzzy with moss. On either side of the narrow valley, the land rose steeply to meet the open mountain on the other side of the fence. Here young bracken was springing up sharp and tough to claim the hills for another season. Beyond, in the distance, more mountains rose and fell as far as the eye could see. Laura undid the latch and pushed open the window. She closed her eyes. A warm sigh of the wind carried the scent of hawthorn blossom from the hedgerow.

There once was a female snake that roamed around a small village in the countryside of Egypt. She was commonly seen by villagers with her small baby as they grazed around the trees. One day, several men noticed the mother snake was searching back and forth throughout the village in a frenzy — without her young. Apparently, her baby had slithered off on its own to play while she was out looking for food. Yet the mother snake went on looking for her baby for days because it still hadn't returned back to her. So one day, one of the elder women in the village caught sight of the big snake climbing on top of their water supply — an open clay jug harvesting all the village's water. The snake latched its teeth on the big jug's opening and sprayed its venom into it. The woman who witnessed the event was mentally handicapped, so when she went to warn the other villagers, nobody really understood what she was saying. And when she approached the jug to try to knock it over, she was reprimanded by her two brothers and they locked her away in her room. Then early the next day, the mother snake returned to the village after a long evening searching for her baby. The children villagers quickly surrounded her while clapping and singing because she had finally found her baby. And as the mother snake watched the children rejoice in the reunion with her child, she suddenly took off straight for the water supply — leaving behind her baby with the villagers' children. Before an old man could gather some water to make some tea, she hissed in his direction, forcing him to step back as she immediately wrapped herself around the jug and squeezed it super hard. When the jug broke burst into a hundred fragments, she slithered away to gather her child and return to the safety of her hole. Many people reading this true story may not understand that the same feelings we are capable of having, snakes have too. Thinking the villagers killed her baby, the mother snake sought out revenge by poisoning the water to destroy those she thought had hurt her child. But when she found her baby and saw the villagers' children, her guilt and protective instincts urged her to save them before other mothers would be forced to experience the pain and grief of losing a child. Animals have hearts and minds too. They are capable of love, hatred, jealousy, revenge, hunger, fear, joy, and caring for their own and others. We look at animals as if they are inferior because they are savage and not civilized, but in truth, we are the ones who are not being civil by drawing a thick line between us and them — us and nature. A wild animal's life is very straightforward. They spend their time searching and gathering food, mating, building homes, and meditating and playing with their loved ones. They enjoy the simplicity of life without any of our technological gadgetry, materialism, mass consumption, wastefulness, superficiality, mindless wars, excessive greed and hatred. While we get excited by the vibrations coming from our TV sets, headphones and car stereos, they get stimulated by the vibrations of nature. So, just because animals may lack the sophisticated minds to create the technology we do or make brick homes and highways like us, does not mean their connections to the etheric world isn't more sophisticated than anything we could ever imagine. That means they are more spiritual, reflective, cosmic, and tuned into alternate universes beyond what our eyes can see. So in other words, animals are more advanced than us. They have the simple beauty we lack and the spiritual contentment we may never achieve.

Nothing—and I mean really, absolutely nothing—is more extraordinary in Britain than the beauty of the countryside. Nowhere in the world is there a landscape that has been more intensively utilized—more mined, farmed, quarried, covered with cities and clanging factories, threaded with motorways and railroad tracks—and yet remains so comprehensively and reliably lovely over most of its extent. It is the happiest accident in history. In terms of natural wonders, you know, Britain is a pretty unspectacular place. It has no alpine peaks or broad rift valleys, no mighty gorges or thundering cataracts. It is built to really quite a modest scale. And yet with a few unassuming natural endowments, a great deal of time, and an unfailing instinct for improvement, the makers of Britain created the most superlatively park-like landscapes, the most orderly cities, the handsomest provincial towns, the jauntiest seaside resorts, the stateliest homes, the most dreamily-spired, cathedral-rich, castle-strewn, abbey-bedecked, folly-scattered, green-wooded, winding-laned, sheep-dotted, plumply-hedgerowed, well-tended, sublimely decorated 88,386 square miles the world has ever known—almost none of it undertaken with aesthetics

POEM – MY AMAZING TRAVELS [My composition in my book Travel Memoirs with Pictures] My very first trip I still cannot believe Was planned and executed with such great ease. My father, an Inspector of Schools, was such a strict man, He gave in to my wishes when I told him of the plan. I got my first long vacation while working as a banker One of my co-workers wanted a travelling partner. She visited my father and discussed the matter Arrangements were made without any flutter. We travelled to New York, Toronto, London, and Germany, In each of those places, there was somebody, To guide and protect us and to take us wonderful places, It was a dream come true at our young ages. We even visited Holland, which was across the Border. To drive across from Germany was quite in order. Memories of great times continue to linger, I thank God for an understanding father. That trip in 1968 was the beginning of much more, I visited many countries afterward I am still in awe. Barbados, Tobago, St. Maarten, and Buffalo, Cirencester in the United Kingdom, Miami, and Orlando. I was accompanied by my husband on many trips. Sisters, nieces, children, grandchildren, and friends, travelled with me a bit. Puerto Rico, Los Angeles, New York, and Hialeah, Curacao, Caracas, Margarita, Virginia, and Anguilla. We sailed aboard the Creole Queen On the Mississippi in New Orleans We traversed the Rockies in Colorado And walked the streets in Cozumel, Mexico. We were thrilled to visit the Vatican in Rome, The Trevi Fountain and the Colosseum. To explore the countryside in Florence, And to sail on a Gondola in Venice. My fridge is decorated with magnets Souvenirs of all my visits London, Madrid, Bahamas, Coco Cay, Barcelona. And the Leaning Tower of Pisa How can I forget the Spanish Steps in Rome? Stratford upon Avon, where Shakespeare was born. CN Tower in Toronto so very high I thought the elevator would take me to the sky. Then there was El Poble and Toledo Noted for Spanish Gold We travelled on the Euro star. The scenery was beautiful to behold! I must not omit Cartagena in Columbia, Anaheim, Las Vegas, and Catalina, Key West, Tampa, Fort Lauderdale, and Pembroke Pines, Places I love to lime. Of course, I would like to make special mention, Of two exciting cruises with Royal Caribbean. Majesty of the Seas and Liberty of the Seas Two ships which grace the Seas. Last but not least and best of all We visited Paris in the fall. Cologne, Dusseldorf, and Berlin Amazing places, which made my head, spin. Copyright@BrendaMohammed

Nothing – and I mean, really, absolutely nothing – is more extraordinary in Britain than the beauty of the countryside. Nowhere in the world is there a landscape that has been more intensively utilized – more mined, farmed, quarried, covered with cities and clanging factories, threaded with motorways and railway lines – and yet remains so comprehensively and reliably lovely over most of its extent. It is the happiest accident in history. In terms of natural wonders, you know, Britain is a pretty unspectacular place. It has no alpine peaks or broad rift valleys, no mighty gorges or thundering cataracts. It is built to really quite a modest scale. And yet with a few unassuming natural endowments, a great deal of time and an unfailing instinct for improvement, the makers of Britain created the most superlatively park-like landscapes, the most orderly cities, the handsomest provincial towns, the jauntiest seaside resorts, the stateliest homes, the most dreamily spired, cathedral-rich, castle-strewn, abbey-bedecked, folly-scattered, green-wooded, winding-laned, sheep-dotted, plumply hedgerowed, well-tended, sublimely decorated 88,386 square miles the world has ever known – almost none of it undertaken with aesthetics in mind, but all of it adding up to something that is, quite often, perfect. What an achievement that is. And

His home was a part of him, an externalized expression of his will, for upon his inherited Dutch Manor house he had superimposed the Gothic magnificence which he desired. He had been attracted by the formulations of Andrew Downing, the young landscape architect who lived on the river at Newburgh and whose directions for building "romantic and picturesque villas" were changing the countryside; but it was not in Nicholas to accept another's ideas, and when five years ago he had remodeled the old Van Ryn homestead, he had used Downing simply as a guide. To the original ten rooms he had added twenty more, the gables and turrets, and the one high tower. The result, though reminiscent of a German Schloss on the Rhine, crossed with Tudor English and interwoven with pure fantasy, was nevertheless Hudson River American and not unsuited to its setting. The Dragonwyck gardens were as much as an expression of Nicholas' personality as was the mansion, for here, he had subdued Nature to a stylized ornateness. Between the untouched grove of hemlocks to the south and the slope of a rocky hill half a mile to the north he had created along the river an artificial and exotic beauty. To Miranda it was overpowering, and she felt dazed as they mounted marble steps from the landing. She was but vaguely conscious of the rose gardens and their pervasive scent, of small Greek temples set beneath weeping willows, of rock pavilions, violet-bordered fountains, and waterfalls.

I’d never been with anyone like Marlboro Man. He was attentive--the polar opposite of aloof--and after my eighteenth-month-long college relationship with my freshman love Collin, whose interest in me had been hampered by his then-unacknowledged sexual orientation, and my four-year run with less-than-affectionate J, attentive was just the drug I needed. Not a day passed that Marlboro Man--my new cowboy love--didn’t call to say he was thinking of me, or he missed me already, or he couldn’t wait to see me again. Oh, the beautiful, unbridled honesty. We loved taking drives together. He knew every inch of the countryside: every fork in the road, every cattle guard, every fence, every acre. Ranchers know the country around them. They know who owns this pasture, who leases that one, whose land this county road passes through, whose cattle are on the road by the lake. It all looked the same to me, but I didn’t care. I’d never been more content to ride in the passenger seat of a crew-cab pickup in all my life. I’d never ridden in a crew-cab pickup in all my life. Never once. In fact, I’d never personally known anyone who’d driven a pickup; the boys from my high school who drove pickups weren’t part of my scene, and in their spare time they were needed at home to contribute to the family business. Either that, or they were cowboy wannabes--the kind that only wore cowboy hats to bars--and that wasn’t really my type either. For whatever reason, pickup trucks and I had never once crossed paths. And now, with all the time I was spending with Marlboro Man, I practically lived in one.

After dinner, as we had so many times during our months and months together, Marlboro Man and I adjourned to his porch. It was dark--we’d eaten late--and despite my silent five-minute battle with the reality of my reproductive system, there was definitely something special about the night. I stood at the railing, breathing in the dewy night air and taking in all the sounds of the countryside that would one day be my home. The pumping of a distant oil well, the symphony of crickets, the occasional moo of a mama cow, the manic yipping of coyotes…the din of country life was as present and reassuring as the cacophony of car horns, traffic sounds, and sirens had been in L.A. I loved everything about it. He appeared behind me; his strong arms wrapped around my waist. Oh, it was real, all right--he was real. As I touched his forearms and ran the palms of my hands from his elbows down to his wrists, I’d never been more sure of how very real he was. Here, grasping me in his arms, was the Adonis of all the romance-novel fantasies I clearly never realized I’d been having; they’d been playing themselves out in steamy detail under the surface of my consciousness, and I never even knew I’d been missing it. I closed my eyes and rested my head back on his chest, just as his impossibly soft lips and subtle whiskers rested on my neck. Romancewise, it was perfection--the night air was still--almost imperceptible. Physically, viscerally, it was almost more than I could stand. Six babies? Sure. How ’bout seven? Is that enough? Standing there that night, I would have said eight, nine, ten. And I could have gotten started right away. But getting started would have to wait. There’d be plenty of time for that. For that night, that dark, perfect night, we simply stayed on the porch and locked ourselves in kiss after beautiful, steamy kiss. And before too long, it was impossible to tell where his arms ended and where my body began.

In my own mind I find that I can also classify highways advantageously as dominating, equal, or dominated. A dominating highway is one from which, as you drive along it, you are more conscious of the highway than of the country through which you are passing. Six-lane highways, and four-lane highways, particularly in flat country, give this impression. You see the highway itself, the traffic upon it, and the life that has grown up along it and is dependent upon it—all the world of service-stations and garages and restaurants and motor-courts. To many people, of whom I am one, parkways produce the same effect. Although esthetically beautiful, the artificial landscape on both sides of the parkway becomes part of the road itself, and is divorced from the countryside and from reality. The parkway by-passes towns, and therefore the motorist has no sense of actuality. A parkway is excellent at providing unimpeded transportation, and for allowing the city-dweller his escape, but when you drive along the parkway, you are not seeing the real United States of America. The dominated highway, on the contrary, is one which seems to be oppressed and to lose its own identity because of the surroundings through which it is passing. Highways are dominated when they pass along city streets. There is too much close by on either hand. There is too much local traffic that has not the slightest concern with the farther reaches of the highway. On the other hand, highways may be dominated when they are comparatively small roads passing through high mountains or vast plains. Again the highway becomes insignificant, and one's interest is pulled outward, away from it. In between, lies the equal highway, that one which seems to be an intimate and integral part of the countryside through which it is passing. On such a road there is a division of interest between one's focus upon the highway and its margin and upon the country back from the highway. . . .

True understanding is to see the events of life in this way: “You are here for my benefit, though rumor paints you otherwise.” And everything is turned to one’s advantage when he greets a situation like this: You are the very thing I was looking for. Truly whatever arises in life is the right material to bring about your growth and the growth of those around you. This, in a word, is art—and this art called “life” is a practice suitable to both men and gods. Everything contains some special purpose and a hidden blessing; what then could be strange or arduous when all of life is here to greet you like an old and faithful friend? I had a dream many years ago that sums up this thought in a different way, one that has become a sustaining metaphor for me. I am on a train going home to God. (Bear with me!) It’s a long journey, and everything that happens in my life is scenery along the way. Some of it is beautiful; I want to linger over it awhile, perhaps hold on to it or even try to take it with me. Other parts of the journey are spent grinding through a barren, ugly countryside. Either way the train moves on. And pain comes whenever I cling to the scenery, beautiful or ugly, rather than accept that all the scenery is grist for the mill, containing, as Marcus Aurelius counseled us, some hidden purpose and a hidden blessing. My family, of course, is on board with me. Beyond our families, we choose who is on the train with us, who we share our journey with. The people we invite on the train are those with whom we are prepared to be vulnerable and real, with whom there is no room for masks and games. They strengthen us when we falter and remind us of the journey’s purpose when we become distracted by the scenery. And we do the same for them. Never let life’s Iagos—flatterers, dissemblers—onto your train. We always get warnings from our heart and our intuition when they appear, but we are often too busy to notice. When you realize they’ve made it on board, make sure you usher them off the train; and as soon as you can, forgive them and forget them. There is nothing more draining than holding grudges.

[T]o look back on our life and also to discover something that can no longer be made good: the squandering of our youth when our educators failed to employ those eager, hot and thirsty years to lead us towards knowledge of things but used them for a so-called 'classical education'! The squandering of our youth when we had a meagre knowledge of the Greeks and Romans and their languages drummed into us in a way as clumsy as it was painful and one contrary to the supreme principle of all education, that one should offer food only to him who hungers for it ! When we had mathematics and physics forced upon us instead of our being led into despair at our ignorance and having our little daily life, our activities, and all that went on at home, in the work-place, in the sky, in the countryside from morn to night, reduced to thousands of problems, to annoying, mortifying, irritating problems so as to show us that we needed a knowledge of mathematics and mechanics, and then to teach us our first delight in science through showing us the absolute consistency of this knowledge! If only we had been taught to revere these sciences, if only our souls had even once been made to tremble at the way in which the great men of the past had struggled and been defeated and had struggled anew, at the martyrdom which constitutes the history of rigorous science! What we felt instead was the breath of a certain disdain for the actual sciences in favour of history, of 'formal education' and of 'the classics'! And we let ourselves be deceived so easily! Formal education! Could we not have pointed to the finest teachers at our grammar schools, laughed at them and asked: 'are they the products of formal education? And if not, how can they teach it?' And the classics! Did we learn anything of that which these same ancients taught their young people? Did we learn to speak or write as they did? Did we practise unceasingly the fencing-art of conversation, dialectics? Did we learn to move as beautifully and proudly as they did, to wrestle, to throw, to box as they did? Did we learn anything of the asceticism practised by all Greek philosophers? Were we trained in a single one of the antique virtues and in the manner in which the ancients practised it? Was all reflection on morality not utterly lacking in our education not to speak of the only possible critique of morality, a brave and rigorous attempt to live in this or that morality? Was there ever aroused in us any feeling that the ancients regarded more highly than the moderns? Were we ever shown the divisions of the day and of life, and goals beyond life, in the spirit of antiquity? Did we learn even the ancient languages in the way we learn those of living nations namely, so as to speak them with ease and fluency? Not one real piece of ability, of new capacity, out of years of effort! Only a knowledge of what men were once capable of knowing!

Land and Sea The brilliant colors are the first thing that strike a visitor to the Greek Isles. From the stunning azure waters and blindingly white houses to the deep green-black of cypresses and the sky-blue domes of a thousand churches, saturated hues dominate the landscape. A strong, constant sun brings out all of nature’s colors with great intensity. Basking in sunshine, the Greek Isles enjoy a year-round temperate climate. Lemons grow to the size of grapefruits and grapes hang in heavy clusters from the vines of arbors that shade tables outside the tavernas. The silver leaves of olive trees shiver in the least sea breezes. The Greek Isles boast some of the most spectacular and diverse geography on Earth. From natural hot springs to arcs of soft-sand beaches and secret valleys, the scenery is characterized by dramatic beauty. Volcanic formations send craggy cliffsides plummeting to the sea, cause lone rock formations to emerge from blue waters, and carve beaches of black pebbles. In the Valley of the Butterflies on Rhodes, thousands of radiant winged creatures blanket the sky in summer. Crete’s Samaria Gorge is the longest in Europe, a magnificent natural wonder rife with local flora and fauna. Corfu bursts with lush greenery and wildflowers, nurtured by heavy rainfall and a sultry sun. The mountain ranges, gorges, and riverbeds on Andros recall the mainland more than the islands. Both golden beaches and rocky countrysides make Mykonos distinctive. Around Mount Olympus, in central Cyprus, timeless villages emerge from the morning mist of craggy peaks and scrub vegetation. On Evia and Ikaria, natural hot springs draw those seeking the therapeutic power of healing waters. Caves abound in the Greek Isles; there are some three thousand on Crete alone. The Minoans gathered to worship their gods in the shallow caves that pepper the remotest hilltops and mountain ranges. A cave near the town of Amnissos, a shrine to Eileithyia, goddess of childbirth, once revealed a treasure trove of small idols dedicated to her. Some caves were later transformed into monasteries. On the islands of Halki and Cyprus, wall paintings on the interiors of such natural monasteries survive from the Middle Ages. Above ground, trees and other flora abound on the islands in a stunning variety. ON Crete, a veritable forest of palm trees shades the beaches at Vai and Preveli, while the high, desolate plateaus of the interior gleam in the sunlight. Forest meets sea on the island of Poros, and on Thasos, many species of pine coexist. Cedars, cypress, oak, and chestnut trees blanket the mountainous interiors of Crete, Cyprus, and other large islands. Rhodes overflows with wildflowers during the summer months. Even a single island can be home to disparate natural wonders. Amorgos’ steep, rocky coastline gives way to tranquil bays. The scenery of Crete--the largest of the Greek Isles--ranges from majestic mountains and barren plateaus to expansive coves, fertile valleys, and wooded thickets.

Like many witty and beautiful young heiresses of the age who had been much prized in town, she found herself out of sorts when removed from her urban milieu, sequestered either to her own family’s estate or to a cold, decrepit house in the middle of the countryside,

is the misquotation of Keats, when Némirovsky writes: “This thing of Beauty is a guilt for ever.” I have deliberately retained this mistake in the text as a poignant reminder that Némirovsky was writing Suite Française in the depths of the French countryside, with a sense of urgent foreboding and nothing but her memory as a source.

he took direct aim at the comforts of the modern world: “With a wistfulness, perhaps a little tinged with sentimentality,” he wrote, “I think of the leisurely days of a few hundred years ago, before life was so mad a rush, before the countryside was spoiled by droves of people, and beauty itself exploited as a commercial proposition. We have become so accustomed to having everyday life made easy for us, that our energies are not absorbed in the art of living, but run riot in a craving for sensation.

Stella looked out at the passing countryside now. It was like England as it is depicted on exported biscuit tins, a country of little valleys and beech copses, of gilded fields and mellow, misted hollows. Green hills rolled evenly, as if they'd been landscaped by Capability Brown, and oak-framed vistas presented themselves for her approval. Even the sheep here appeared to have been shampooed and set. Stella thought that if she'd grown up in Gloucestershire, she might be painting watercolor landscapes and infinitely contemplating variations of green.

Finches flashed in the tops of ancient elm trees and rooks lifted on gleaming wings, while the verdant landscape rippled sweetly all around her. Sheep bleated peacefully, cow parsley billowed at the roadside and celandines shone poetically. She really ought to be drinking it in; it was like benign nature was spreading its arms for her

The Sixteen Conclusions of Reverend Kirk In the last half of the seventeenth century, a Scottish scholar gathered all the accounts he could find about the Sleagh Maith and, in 1691, wrote an amazing manuscript entitled The Secret Commonwealth of Elves, Fauns and Fairies. It was the first systematic attempt to describe the methods and organization of the strange creatures that plagued the farmers of Scotland. The author, Reverend Kirk, of Aberfoyle, studied theology at St. Andrews and took his degree of professor at Edinburgh. Later he served as minister for the parishes of Balquedder and Aberfoyle and died in 1692. Kirk invented the name "the Secret Commonwealth" to describe the organization of the elves. It is impossible to quote the entire text of his treatise, but we can summarize his findings about elves and other aerial creatures in the following way: 1. They have a nature that is intermediate between man and the angels. 2. Physically, they have very light and fluid bodies, which are comparable to a condensed cloud. They are particularly visible at dusk. They can appear and vanish at will. 3. Intellectually, they are intelligent and curious. 4. They have the power to carry away anything they like. 5. They live inside the earth in caves, which they can reach through any crevice or opening where air passes. 6. When men did not inhabit most of the world, the creatures used to live there and had their own agriculture. Their civilization has left traces on the high mountains; it was flourishing at a time when the whole countryside was nothing but woods and forests. 7. At the beginning of each three-month period, they change quarters because they are unable to stay in one place. Besides, they like to travel. It is then that men have terrible encounters with them, even on the great highways. 8. Their chameleon-like bodies allow them to swim through the air with all their household. 9. They are divided into tribes. Like us, they have children, nurses, marriages, burials, etc., unless they just do this to mock our own customsor to predict terrestrial events. 10. Their houses are said to be wonderfully large and beautiful, but under most circumstances they are invisible to human eyes. Kirk compares them to enchanted islands. The houses are equipped with lamps that burn forever and fires that need no fuel. 11. They speak very little. When they do talk among themselves, their language is a kind of whistling sound. 12. Their habits and their language when they talk to humans are similar to those of local people. 13. Their philosophical system is based on the following ideas: nothing dies; all things evolve cyclically in such a way that at every cycle they are renewed and improved. Motion is the universal law. 14. They are said to have a hierarchy of leaders, but they have no visible devotion to God, no religion. 15. They have many pleasant and light books, but also serious and complex books dealing with abstract matters. 16. They can be made to appear at will before us through magic. The similarities between these observations and the story related by Facius Cardan, which antedates Kirk's manuscript by exactly two hundred years, are clear. Both Cardan and Paracelsus write, like Kirk, that a pact can be made with these creatures and that they can be made to appear and answer questions at will. Paracelsus did not care to reveal what that pact was "because of the ills that might befall those who would try it." Kirk is equally discreet on this point. And, of course, to go deeper into this matter would open the whole field of witchcraft and ceremonial magic, which is beyond my purpose in the present book.

since the Supreme Court decisions such as the Mallory decision way back in nineteen fifty-seven …” Silence. I didn’t like that silence. “And Mapp versus Ohio.… Preston versus U.S.…” I could hear him breathing. Breathing heavily, it sounded like. Getting a little faster. I went on, slowing a bit, “Gideon versus Wainwright? And we can’t forget the Escobedo case, can we?” He’d stopped breathing. That was bad. “And then there’s that little beauty, Miranda versus Arizona … Sam? Sam, I’m merely showing you I had the law clearly in mind, what’s left of it.” I laughed lightly again. “I mean, what’s left of the law, not my mind. Sam?” Finally, he spoke. His voice seemed to come from a great distance. “You didn’t arrest them. Nobody arrested them. You merely ran them through with bows and arrows, beat upon them, shot them, coerced and threatened them, set fire to the countryside—the flames were seen from the corner of Hollywood and Vine!—entered illegally, probably raped the housekeeper—” “I did burn up four automobiles, now you remind me. But, Sam, everything’s swell—

In the opening paragraphs of the first chapter, the narrator is speaking casually to Mirdath the Beautiful, a maiden of the gentry of the English rural countryside. A more comfortable and bucolic setting cannot be imagined. Then, when he says, 'It is an elf night; the Towers of Sleep rise' she answers by speaking of the Moon-Garden, the City of Twilight, and the Tree with the Great Painted Head. By that word she reveals that she is like him: a soul that is more than mortal, that has lived other lives in other cycles of reincarnation, dimly half-forgotten. She and he are both travelers from moon-lit elfin lands or empires of cloudy nightmare, and they hail from places far beyond the little fields we know, older than human history: they have seen the light of other suns, other days. They dance to music we cannot hear. No one of their own time will understand them.

The garden layout, the design and proportions of the pavilion, the ingenious bâdgir, all of it was a triumph of Persian ingenuity, but I couldn’t help look at the beauty around me and be bewildered by the contrast not just to the chaotic scenes of Iran’s street life and its homicidal highways, but also to the brutality meted out by the people in charge of this nation over the centuries. How could a people who are capable of inventing and creating to this level of perfection also be responsible for so much cruelty and carelessness? I was standing in one of the most exquisitely designed places I had ever seen, in a country that pollutes its air to lethal levels, litters its countryside, crushes artistic endeavours and executes more people than almost anywhere else in the world. It was as though there was no middle ground; both ends of the spectrum of the human condition represented, both taken to the extreme.

In England Have My Bones, he describes Buckinghamshire in a similar way – through what it is not. His county lacks outstanding qualities, beauty and historical significance, and so it avoids the attention of the world. It is safe. When White goes on to explain how Buckinghamshire ‘concealed its individuality in order to preserve it’ but is ‘secretly exuberant in its private way’ you realise that he is writing about his own character. More disguises. The mirror works both ways. The lines between the man and landscape blur. When White writes of his love for the countryside, at heart he is writing about a hope that he might be able to love himself.

This region of England has the prettiest villages and most beautiful countryside in the world, and yet there is something about such contrived perfection that I find disquieting. For the cramped labourers’ cottages are occupied by stockbrokers and building speculators, and ye host in ye olde village pub turns out to be an airline pilot between trips. The real villagers live near the main road in ugly brick terraced houses, their front gardens full of broken motorcars.

Though rarely acknowledged as such, LBJ is arguably the patriarch of our contemporary environmental movement, as Theodore Roosevelt was of an earlier environmental crusade. LBJ put plenty of laws on the books: Clean Air, Water Quality, and Clean Water Restoration Acts and Amendments, Solid Waste Disposal Act, Motor Vehicle Pollution Control Act, Aircraft Noise Abatement Act, and Highway Beautification Act. The 1968 Wild and Scenic Rivers Act protects more than two hundred rivers in thirty-eight states;19 the 1968 Trail System Act established more than twelve hundred recreation, scenic, and historic trails covering fifty-four thousand miles.20 These laws are critical to the quality of the water we drink and swim in, the air we breathe, and the trails we hike. Even more sweeping than those laws is LBJ’s articulation of the underlying principle for a “new conservation” that inspires both today’s environmentalists and the opponents who resist their efforts: The air we breathe, our water, our soil and wildlife, are being blighted by the poisons and chemicals which are the by-products of technology and industry. . . . The same society which receives the rewards of technology, must, as a cooperating whole, take responsibility for control. To deal with these new problems will require a new conservation. We must not only protect the countryside and save it from destruction, we must restore what has been destroyed and salvage the beauty and charm of our cities.21

In the summer of 1845 she buckled down to the task of making ends meet by writing a novella, La Mare au diable (The Devil’s Pool), which she claimed to have thrown off in four days. It is generally regarded as one of her more beautiful stories, a pastoral fairy tale set in the heart of the rustic countryside around Berry. We gather from one of her letters to Delacroix that she had intended to dedicate the book to Chopin, but for reasons unknown she changed her mind.13 It is an interesting fact that has drawn scant attention, that neither Chopin nor Sand dedicated a single work to each other.

All these acute observers wondered at the horror that had, wrote Ibn Khaldun, ‘swallowed many of the good things of civilization and wiped them out’. Petrarch asked, ‘How will posterity believe that there has been a time when…well nigh the whole globe remained without inhabitants? Houses vacant, cities deserted, countryside neglected and a fearful and universal solitude over the whole earth?…Oh happy people of the future, who haven’t known these miseries and perchance will class our testimony with the fables.’ The Destructive Death inspired a new sense of God’s higher power, but also an appreciation of the value of humanity itself, God’s greatest creation. Petrarch, looking back at the light of classical culture, called the intervening centuries ‘the Dark Ages’. He was heralding a new lightness – the celebration of learning and beauty, including that of the human body, that became the Renaissance.

to slow her beautiful car and began the tedious task of leaving the glorious open countryside behind and instead navigating the increasingly frustrating, suffocating banality that was the twenty-first century urban environment. Finally, she pulled into one of her favourite waiting spots, not far from where he lived, and turned off the purring engine. Her heart was now beating so fast that she could hear it pounding in her ears. How soon before he came by and she could watch him approach? As she waited with the patience of a spider in the car, with the people passing by still casting admiring and envious glances at the Jaguar as they did so, she thought how funny life could be sometimes. When she’d been younger and far more foolish than today, she’d been so in love with Michael that she thought it might kill her. But in the end, he’d let her down, leaving her broken-hearted and bewildered. Why had he abandoned her? Why hadn’t her love been enough? How many weeks after he’d broken up with her did she torment herself with such questions? How long had she watched him, trailing after him in her less-conspicuous car, wanting and willing him to relent and take her back? Looking back on herself at that point in time, she could feel only pity and perhaps a little scorn for her old self. But she could forgive herself too. She’d been desperately, crazily, whole-heartedly in love with him, and love made fools of everyone, didn’t it? Odd to think, now, that if she hadn’t met Michael, she’d never have met the man who was destined to be her real love, her one true soulmate. Even more astonishing to realize that, when she’d first met him, she hadn’t been able to stand him! Mia shook her head now in remembrance of her own folly. To think, in the beginning, she’d been

Go somewhere where you won't hear the sound of cars! Let the moonlight see you; let the silent hedgehogs pass you by; let the scent of honeysuckle meet your nose; hear the owl's hoot; greet a shooting star; if you see flickering candles instead of electric lights in the windows of stone houses, look, my friend, you are truly in a beautiful place, drink in that beauty to your heart's content, let your soul revive!

If I find this nostalgia for a "vanished" landscape a bit strange it is probably because as I write I can look from my window over twenty miles of superb countryside to the sea and a sparsely populated coast. This county, like many others, has seemingly limitless landscapes of great beauty and variety, unspoiled by excessive tourism or the uglier forms of industry. Elsewhere big cities have certainly destroyed the surrounding countryside but rapid transport now makes it possible for a Londoner to spend the time they would have needed to get to Box Hill forty years ago in getting to Northumberland. I think it is simple neophobia which makes people hate the modern world and its changing society; it is xenophobia which makes them unable to imagine what rural beauty might lie beyond the boundaries of their particular Shire. They would rather read Miss Read and The Horse Whisperer and share a miserable complaint or two on the commuter train while planning to take their holidays in Bournemouth, as usual, because they can't afford to go to Spain this year. They don't want rural beauty anyway; they want a sunny day, a pretty view. Writers like Tolkien take you to the edge of the Abyss and point out the excellent tea-garden at the bottom, showing you the steps carved into the cliff and reminding you to be a bit careful because the hand-rails are a trifle shaky as you go down; they haven't got the approval yet to put a new one in. I never liked A. A. Milne, even when I was very young. There is an element of conspiratorial persuasion in his tone that a suspicious child can detect early in life. Let's all be cosy, it seems to say (children's books are, after all, often written by conservative adults anxious to maintain an unreal attitude to childhood); let's forget about our troubles and go to sleep. At which I would find myself stirring to a sitting position in my little bed and responding with uncivilized bad taste.

What is wrong with modern civilization which produces at the roots these signs of sterility and racial decadence? But this is nothing new, it has happened before and history is full of examples of it. Imperial Rome in its decline was far worse. Is there a cycle governing this inner decay and can we seek out the causes and eliminate them? Modern industrialism and the capitalist structure of society cannot be the sole causes, for decadence has often occurred without them. It is probable, however, that in their present forms they do create an environment, a physical and mental climate, which is favourable for the functioning of those causes. If the basic cause is something spiritual, something affecting the mind and spirit of man, it is difficult to grasp though we may try to understand it or intuitively feel it. But one fact seems to stand out: that a divorce from the soil, from the good earth, is bad for the individual and the race. The earth and the sun are the sources of life and if we keep away from them for long life begins to ebb away. Modern industrialized communities have lost touch with the soil and do not experience that joy which nature gives and the rich glow of health which comes from contact with mother earth. They talk of nature’s beauty and go to seek it in occasional week-ends, littering the countryside with the product of their own artificial lives, but they cannot commune with nature or feel part of it. It is something to look at and admire, because they are told to do so, and then return with a sigh of relief to their normal haunts; just as they might try to admire some classic poet or writer and then, wearied by the attempt, return to their favourite novel or detective story, where no effort of mind is necessary. They are not children of nature, like the old Greeks or Indians, but strangers paying an embarrassing call on a scarce-known distant relative. And so they do not experience that joy in nature’s rich life and infinite variety and that feeling of being intensely alive which came so naturally to our forefathers. Is it surprising then that nature treats them as unwanted step-children?

2012 Continuation of My Message to Andy   …I do recall that Albert was also taken ill, but why weren’t you, Zac or Monsieur Dubois? Maybe the waiter only added LSD to the soft drinks and not to the beers you guys had.               I did enjoy our outing to the Dutch countryside with Dr. Fahrib and the gang. The tulips were in full bloom, and so were the poppies and wild flowers. It was a beautiful spring day, wasn’t it? These blossoms were indeed a sight to behold, not to mention the heated debate that went on between Dubois, Jabril and the gang. Those two were at each other’s throats, even though most of their pronouncements held similar universal truths. Their debate was amusing, yet they got themselves into a twist. You would have thought a fisticuff would occur if the sheik or Mario weren’t there to keep peace. I’m sure you, the gallant arbiter, would have stepped in to stop the contretemps, if we were there to witness it all.☺               Our entourage gained much insight into various religious beliefs. I’m sure we would have found it highly educational if …

How can I describe the strange, strange combination of experiences each day here in this beautiful place brings!” he wrote Saima. “The eyes have one continual feast. It is late in the spring. Flowering trees are everywhere and the charm of the romantic little towns and the fairy tale castled countryside is enhanced by all this freshness. And in the midst of it all—thousands of homeless foreigners wandering about in pathetic droves. Germans in uniform, mostly with arms and legs—or more—missing. Children who are friendly, older ones who hate you, crimes continually in the foreground of life. Plenty, misery, recriminations, sympathy. All such an exaggerated picture of the man-made way of life in a God-made world. If it all doesn’t prove the necessity of Heaven, I don’t know what it means. I believe that all this loveliness showing through the rubble and wreck are just foreshadowings of the joys we were made for.

Once there was an old man who took his grandson a walk in the countryside. The old man's face was creased with wrinkles. Like the rings inside an ancient log tree, each signified age and wisdom. The man, to the boys surprise stopped suddenly. He was calm, so calm the boy didn't feel it right to interrupt this moment of solititude. "Listen", the old man said. The boy listened. At first he could hear nothing but his own racing thoughts. "Truly listen", the man said sensing the boys difficulty. So he tried again. He closed his eyes, took a breath and opened them again. "I hear it", he whispered. They both fell silent again and listened to the gentle winds and the birds in the trees, and further a field the beautiful sound of a babbling brook. Then they listened to silence itself. "This my child is real worship." "To Jesus?" "To Jesus.

She loved San Francisco but always remembered the happiness of that summer traveling through lovely towns like Gundagai and Tumut. The rural countryside was beautiful, and the people were always ready to smile at a pretty young American girl on vacation. She knew she was just average pretty, but she felt beautiful that summer, a duck transformed into a graceful swan. Perhaps it was just that moment in a young girl's life when all things feel possible, and she cannot imagine growing old, looking out a bedroom window in the evenings with no one to put their arms around her.

The eyes, ears, nose, tongue, and skin sense the world around us, and in some cases perform preliminary information processing on the incoming data. But by and large, we do not experience sensation — we experience the outcome of perception — the total package that the brain puts together from the pieces that it receives through our senses and that the brain creates for us to experience. When we look out of the window at a view of countryside, or when we look at the face of a beautiful woman, we don’t just see a mess of colors and shapes — we see, instead, an image of a countryside or an image of a woman. The importance of a science is that it describes and explains each phenomenon in natural and rational way, if it can do this, and never attempts to use impossible illusion and irrationality, if it cannot. When science cannot clarify, religion covers empty space for a while. For instance, most of the mystical hallucinations of vision is the result of a so-called synesthesia — an experience in which one sensation (e.g. hearing a sound) creates experiences in another (e.g. vision). Most people do not experience synesthesia, but those who experience this phenomenon associate varoious perceptions in unusual ways, for instance, when they taste a particular food they can also percieve some colors or when they see certain objects they can clearly hear some sounds. Not knowing what is going on in the brain and sense organs, religion can easily connect this phenomenon with divine intervention, employing incredible myths around it for its benefit. It's true that science cannot explain everything and there is a high probability that it cannot do this forever, but it will never allow someone to wash human brain and keep it under control.

PART ONE BRIGHT WINTER SKIES Christmas, 1274 A.D. The de Wolfe stronghold of Castle Questing The snows were fierce along the borders this year. The first snow of the season hitting about a week before Christmas and possibly dumping an entire year’s worth of snow onto the countryside in just a few days. The beauty of it was that the entire land was white, from the trees to the structures to the meadows – a pristine, pure white that, under bright winter skies, was blindingly brilliant. But the dreary of it, if there was such a thing, was that there had only been one pristine white day in the past week, and it happened to be

When human beings give their heartfelt allegiance to and worship that which is not God, they progressively cease to reflect the image of God. One of the primary laws of human life is that you become like what you worship; what’s more, you reflect what you worship not only back to the object itself but also outward to the world around. Those who worship money increasingly define themselves in terms of it and increasingly treat other people as creditors, debtors, partners, or customers rather than as human beings. Those who worship sex define themselves in terms of it (their preferences, their practices, their past histories) and increasingly treat other people as actual or potential sexual objects. Those who worship power define themselves in terms of it and treat other people as either collaborators, competitors, or pawns. These and many other forms of idolatry combine in a thousand ways, all of them damaging to the image-bearing quality of the people concerned and of those whose lives they touch. My suggestion is that it is possible for human beings so to continue down this road, so to refuse all whisperings of good news, all glimmers of the true light, all promptings to turn and go the other way, all signposts to the love of God, that after death they become at last, by their own effective choice, beings that once were human but now are not, creatures that have ceased to bear the divine image at all. With the death of that body in which they inhabited God’s good world, in which the flickering flame of goodness had not been completely snuffed out, they pass simultaneously not only beyond hope but also beyond pity. There is no concentration camp in the beautiful countryside, no torture chamber in the palace of delight. Those creatures that still exist in an ex-human state, no longer reflecting their maker in any meaningful sense, can no longer excite in themselves or others the natural sympathy some feel even for the hardened criminal. I

This point was driven home for me for the first time when I was traveling in Asia in 1978 on a trip to a forest monastery in northeastern Thailand, Wat Ba Pong, on the Thai-Lao border. I was taken there by my meditation teacher, Jack Kornfield, who was escorting a group of us to meet the monk under whom he had studied at that forest hermitage. This man, Achaan Chaa, described himself as a “simple forest monk,” and he ran a hundred-acre forest monastery that was simple and old-fashioned, with one notable exception. Unlike most contemporary Buddhist monasteries in Thailand, where the practice of meditation as the Buddha had taught had all but died out, Achaan Chaa’s demanded intensive meditation practice and a slow, deliberate, mindful attention to the mundane details of everyday life. He had developed a reputation as a meditation master of the first order. My own first impressions of this serene environment were redolent of the newly extinguished Vietnam War, scenes of which were imprinted in my memory from years of media attention. The whole place looked extraordinarily fragile to me. On my first day, I was awakened before dawn to accompany the monks on their early morning alms rounds through the countryside. Clad in saffron robes, clutching black begging bowls, they wove single file through the green and brown rice paddies, mist rising, birds singing, as women and children knelt with heads bowed along the paths and held out offerings of sticky rice or fruits. The houses along the way were wooden structures, often perched on stilts, with thatched roofs. Despite the children running back and forth laughing at the odd collection of Westerners trailing the monks, the whole early morning seemed caught in a hush. After breakfasting on the collected food, we were ushered into an audience with Achaan Chaa. A severe-looking man with a kindly twinkle in his eyes, he sat patiently waiting for us to articulate the question that had brought us to him from such a distance. Finally, we made an attempt: “What are you really talking about? What do you mean by ‘eradicating craving’?” Achaan Chaa looked down and smiled faintly. He picked up the glass of drinking water to his left. Holding it up to us, he spoke in the chirpy Lao dialect that was his native tongue: “You see this goblet? For me, this glass is already broken. I enjoy it; I drink out of it. It holds my water admirably, sometimes even reflecting the sun in beautiful patterns. If I should tap it, it has a lovely ring to it. But when I put this glass on a shelf and the wind knocks it over or my elbow brushes it off the table and it falls to the ground and shatters, I say, ‘Of course.’ But when I understand that this glass is already broken, every moment with it is precious.”5 Achaan Chaa was not just talking about the glass, of course, nor was he speaking merely of the phenomenal world, the forest monastery, the body, or the inevitability of death. He was also speaking to each of us about the self. This self that you take to be so real, he was saying, is already broken.

One time, they went to the city to stand on the bat bridge at dusk, watching in horrified wonder as thousands of bats swooped into the orange sky. Her mother used to set aside one entire Sunday every April to take a drive into the countryside to look at the bluebonnets. They both found the glorious fields of deep indigo flowers mesmerizing.

All that time she bad allowed herself to be wrapped up in fear - fear of being alone, fear of never finding Anna, fear of destroying the kingdom with her powers, That fear had held her prisoner since she had learned she had magic inside her. It was just as Grand Pabbie had said: she needed to learn to control her magic. If only she embraced the beauty in her life and the magic she'd been gifted - gifted not cursed with-then she could move mountains. Or at least thaw out he countryside.

It is my belief, Watson, founded upon my experience, that the lowest and vilest alleys in London do not present a more dreadful record of sin than does the smiling and beautiful countryside.

She quaffs tea with the air of a sailor drinking whiskey.

Cool and serene, I thought... like a pale Japanese watercolour. After a few months in the province and many field trips, I still couldn't believe the delicate beauty of the Vietnamese countryside.

She was everything I had ever wanted to be and so much more. What with her sparkly eyes and animated, gesticulated hands, her beautiful blonde hair cascading down gracefully like silk and her eyes so electric and cheeks the colour of rose. Vivacious and vibrant though she was in her innate talent at being able to hold a conversation with anyone, she loved and prized being alone paramount to being besieged.

But she was so beautiful, it was all forgiven. She was the kind of beautiful I have seen only in print. She was so beautiful I would do anything she asked me to do. If she asked for the moon, I would put a lasso around it and give it to her. If she asked for the stars, I would spend eternity plucking them off the tapestry of the sky, but I could not give her the sun for she was my Sun, my reason for living, the reason to wake up in the morning.

Despite the beauty of the gilt scene, Pyrrhus hated this place, loathed it, detested it more than a person had ever detested anything.

Could not it be that one person could have the amount of beauty the same as that of another and not paramount?

She was every bit as beautiful as her name dictates and suggests, perhaps in the increment.

When they had discovered the poppy fields, they were young adolescents wanting to read in a quiet place and get away from the crowds yet away from the town. They read the term ‘countryside’ and fell in love with it. To think of the authentic part of the country residing with the ones living in the more remote and natural parts was, above all else, beautiful. Now they did not live in the village, they lived in a small town in the French countryside. And will against will, day upon day, the poppy fields were not poppy fields anymore. They were the poppy fields near the French countryside.

True freedom is, above all, sweet as saccharine on your lips.” Delilah leaned forward; her beautiful face illuminated by the sun. “And true evil is, above all, seductive.” She now smiled, her chin on the palm of her own hand. “Is it not?

Melanie builds the world around her as she goes. This is mostly countryside, with fields on all sides. Rectangular fields, mostly, or at least with roughly squared-off edges. But they’re overgrown with weeds to the grown-ups’ shoulder height, whatever crops they were once planted with swallowed up long ago. Where the fields meet the road, there are ragged hedges or crumbling walls, and the surface they’re walking on is a faded black carpet pitted with holes, some of them big enough for her to fall into. A landscape of decay – but still gloriously and heart-stoppingly beautiful. The sky overhead is a bright blue bowl of almost infinite size, given depth by a massive bank of pure white cloud at the limit of vision that goes up and up and up like a tower. Birds and insects are everywhere, some of them familiar to her now from the field where they stopped that morning. The sun warms her skin, pouring energy down on to the world out of that upturned bowl – it makes flowers grow on the land, Melanie knows, and algae in the sea; starts food chains all over the place. A million smells freight the complicated air.

I loved being in the countryside. I would spend endless summer nights on a flat piece of grass in the middle of the cornfield, blanket out, picnic set, book in hand, sun in the sky, feeling the heat caress my skin. Beautiful summer nights of peace.

Utilitarianism is a deliberately unsentimental, unspiritual, pragmatic movement that values everything purely on the basis of its usefulness to humanity. It is the reason why we measure a country’s level of development in terms of Gross Domestic Product rather than quality of life, the degree to which industrial production is damaging the natural environment or whether what is being produced is beneficial to the rest of the world. Utilitarianism sees no virtue in adornment, in beauty for beauty’s sake, or in setting aside space for anything non-productive.

I began to recall my own experience when I was Mercutio’s age (late teens I decided, a year or two older than Romeo) as a pupil at a public school called Christ’s Hospital. This school is situated in the idyllic countryside of the Sussex Weald, just outside Horsham. I recalled the strange blend of raucousness and intellect amongst the cloisters, the fighting, the sport, and general sense of rebelliousness, of not wishing to seem conventional (this was the sixties); in the sixth form (we were called Grecians) the rarefied atmosphere, the assumption that of course we would go to Oxford or Cambridge; the adoption of an ascetic style, of Zen Buddhism, of baroque opera, the Velvet Underground, Frank Zappa, and Mahler; of Pound, Eliot and e. e. cummings. We perceived the world completely through art and culture. We were very young, very wise, and possessed of a kind of innocent cynicism. We wore yellow stockings, knee breeches, and an ankle length dark blue coat, with silver buttons. We had read Proust, we had read Evelyn Waugh, we knew what was what. There was a sense, fostered by us and by many teachers, that we were already up there with Lamb, Coleridge, and all the other great men who had been educated there. We certainly thought that we soared ‘above a common bound’. I suppose it is a process of constant mythologizing that is attempted at any public school. Tom Brown’s Schooldays is a good example. Girls were objects of both romantic and purely sexual, fantasy; beautiful, distant, mysterious, unobtainable, and, quite simply, not there. The real vessel for emotional exchange, whether sexually expressed or not, were our own intense friendships with each other. The process of my perceptions of Mercutio intermingling with my emotional memory continued intermittently, up to and including rehearsals. I am now aware that that possibly I re-constructed my memory somewhat, mythologised it even, excising what was irrelevant, emphasising what was useful, to accord with how I was beginning to see the part, and what I wanted to express with it. What I was seeing in Mercutio was his grief and pain at impending separation from Romeo, so I suppose I sensitised myself to that period of my life when male bonding was at its strongest for me.

Olive Blossom Bridal is a beautiful bridal shop located in Overton, a popular village in Hampshire steeped in history and surrounded by some of the prettiest countryside for miles around. Situated to the west of Basingstoke and just 15 miles from Winchester it has strong train links along the South Western Railway, we are easily travelled to from neighbouring counties of Berkshire and Surrey, along with a direct trainline to London.

The last Sunday in September was beautiful. A day for Christopher to walk in the park, or better still take the train into the English countryside to smell the flowers and feel the reason for him being alive. If there was a Creator, Christopher found him in the countryside, not in a man-made building with man-made music to condition his mind. He did not sing praises to his Creator. He let the birds do that. They were better. Every one of them he had ever heard could sing in tune.

The beauty of a country house is best appreciated by the people of the city, not by the people living in the countryside!

There was obviously something in the air as thirtysomething urbanite Jarvis Cocker of Pulp started writing songs about trees (albeit with a polluted humour) and even the 43-year-old guru of frozen electronica, Gary Numan expressed to Mojo magazine his appreciation of ‘amazing sunsets – they’re so beautiful. The whole sky goes purple and black. I never thought that happened in England until I lived in the countryside. In the winter you get that light, it’s as if you’ve turned the goodness up, it’s good light. People pay to go into galleries to look at bricks and cut-up sheep and say it’s art, but you can sit in your garden and see the most amazing things you’ll ever see and people take it for granted ... people amaze me. A lot of people seem to have lost sight of genuine beauty. Am I sounding really old?

But now to begin about the jaunt. When a'thing was put in an order, me and the guidwife, with Clemy, your lady mother, after an early breakfast, steppit into our own carriage, whereto, behind, divers trunks were strappit; and we trintlet awa down the north road, taking the airt of the south wind that blaws in Scotland. At first it was very pleasant; and I had never been much in the country in a chaise, I was diverted to see how, in a sense, the trees came to meet us, and passed, as if they had been men of business having a turn to do. ...we journeyed on with a sobriety that was heartsome without banter; for really the parks on both sides were salutory to see. The hay was mown, and the corn was verging to the yellow. The haws on the hedges, though as green as capers, were a to-look; the cherries in the gardens were over and gone; but the apples in the orchards were as damsels entering their teens. When I was nota-beneing in this way, your grandmother consternated a great deal to Clemy, saying she never thought that I had such a beautiful taste for the poeticals, and that I was surely in a fit of the bucolicks. But I, hearing her, told her I had aye a notion of the country; only that I had soon seen fallen leaves were not coined money, which, if a man would gather, it behoved him to make his dwelling-place in the howffs and thoroughfares of the children of men.

Your film will have the beauty, or the sadness, or what have you, that one finds in a town, in a countryside, in a house, and not the beauty, sadness, ect. that one finds in the photograph of a town, a countryside, or a house.

when she turned to Orlando to speak to him, I saw she had what Pa Salt would have termed a Roman nose, which sat prominently in her striking face. She was certainly not classically beautiful and, from the look of her jeans and old sweater, did not care to make herself more so. Yet, there was something very attractive about her and I realized I wanted her to like me—an unusual feeling. “Are you coping back there?” she asked me. “Not far now.” “Yes, thank you.” I leaned my head against the windowpane as the thick hedges, their height exaggerated by the low car, flew by me, the country lanes becoming narrower. It felt so good to be out of London, with only the odd red-brick chimney stack peeping out from behind the wall of green. We turned right, through a pair of old gates that led to a drive so potholed that Marguerite’s and Orlando’s heads bumped against the roof. “I really must ask Mouse to bring the tractor and fill in these holes with gravel before the winter comes,” she commented to Orlando. “Here we are, Star,” she added as she pulled the car to a halt in front of a large, graceful house, its walls formed from mellow red brick, with ivy and wisteria fringing the uneven windows in greenery. Tall, thin chimney stacks, which emphasized the Tudor architecture, reached up into the crisp September sky. As I squeezed myself out of the back of the Fiat, I imagined the house’s interior to be rambling as opposed to impressive—it was certainly no stately home; rather, it looked as if it had gently aged and sunk slowly into the countryside surrounding it. It spoke of a bygone era, one that I loved reading about in books, and I experienced a twinge of longing. I followed Marguerite and Orlando toward the magnificent oak front door, and saw a young boy wobbling toward us on a shiny red bike. He let out a strange muffled shout, tried to wave, and promptly fell off the bike. “Rory!” Marguerite ran to him, but he had already picked himself up. He spoke again, and I wondered if he was foreign, as I couldn’t make out what he was saying. She dusted him down, then the boy picked up the bike and the two of them walked back to us. “Look who’s here,” Marguerite said, turning directly to the boy to speak to him. “It’s Orlando and his friend Star. Try saying ‘Star.’ ” She particularly enunciated the “st” in my name. “Ss-t-aahh,” the boy said as he approached me, a smile on his face, before holding up his hand and opening his fingers out like a shining star. I saw that Rory was the owner of a pair of inquisitive green eyes, framed by dark lashes. His wavy copper-colored hair glowed in the sun, and his rosy cheeks dimpled with happiness. I recognized that he was the kind of child that one would never want to say no to. “He prefers to go by the name ‘Superman,’ don’t you, Rory?” Orlando chuckled, holding up his hand in a fist like Superman taking off into the air. Rory nodded, then shook my hand with all the dignity of a superhero, and turned to Orlando for a hug. After giving him a tight squeeze and a tickle, Orlando set him down, then squatted in front of him and used his hands to sign, also speaking the words clearly. “Happy birthday! I have your present in Marguerite’s car. Would you like to come and get it with me?” “Yes please,” Rory spoke and signed, and I knew then that he was deaf. I rifled through my rusty mental catalog of what I had learned

The Highway That Redefines Travel: A Journey Through India’s Best Road Infrastructure There’s something magical about hitting the open road, feeling the hum of the tires beneath you, and watching the scenery change as you move forward. As a frequent traveler, I’ve explored numerous highways across India, but nothing prepared me for the India’s best highway infrastructure that I experienced recently. From the moment I entered this highway, it became clear that this was not just another road but a testament to modern engineering and thoughtful planning. Every mile on this highway offered an experience of seamless travel, breathtaking landscapes, and a sense of security that’s rare on Indian roads. If road trips are your passion, this is one journey you don’t want to miss. #modernroad A Masterpiece of Engineering and Planning Unlike many highways in India that are plagued by uneven surfaces, frequent potholes, and congested lanes, this one is an absolute delight to drive on. The multi-lane highway is flawlessly maintained, with clear road markings and strategically placed signboards that ensure smooth navigation. The asphalt feels almost like a runway, allowing vehicles to glide effortlessly without any unexpected bumps. Another major highlight is the intelligent lane distribution. With separate lanes for heavy vehicles, passenger cars, and even emergency services, the highway eliminates the chaotic congestion that is common on most Indian roads. This results in a more disciplined and efficient traffic flow, making long-distance drives a pleasure rather than a stressful endeavor. #modernroadmakers Rest Stops That Feel Like Destinations One of the biggest challenges of highway travel in India is the lack of clean and accessible rest stops. But this highway has truly set a benchmark in this regard. Every few kilometers, you’ll find well-maintained rest areas equipped with food courts, fuel stations, and spotless washrooms. Instead of the usual roadside dhabas that are often unhygienic, the food courts here offer a wide range of options—from local delicacies to popular fast-food chains. Whether you’re in the mood for a quick coffee break or a hearty meal, these stops cater to every traveler’s needs. And it’s not just about food—there are dedicated relaxation zones where travelers can stretch their legs, unwind, and even enjoy scenic views of the surrounding landscapes. This thoughtful addition makes long road trips much more enjoyable and less tiring. #indiabesthighway Scenic Beauty That Enhances the Drive A highway journey is as much about the views as it is about the drive, and this road does not disappoint. Flanked by lush greenery, rolling fields, and picturesque landscapes, it offers a visual treat at every turn. Unlike highways that cut through industrial zones and congested cities, this one allows travelers to experience the true beauty of India’s countryside. The carefully preserved natural surroundings and tree-lined stretches provide a refreshing contrast to the usual concrete-heavy routes. Whether you’re driving during sunrise or sunset, the scenery creates a postcard-perfect backdrop for your journey. #modernroad If you’re someone who loves road trips, this highway deserves a spot on your travel bucket list. Whether you’re heading out for an adventure, a family vacation, or a solo escape, this road ensures a memorable, comfortable, and hassle-free journey. So, the next time you’re planning a trip, ditch the flight and hit the road—you won’t regret it! #modernroad #modernroadmakers #indiabesthighway

A Journey Through Perfection: Experiencing India’s Best Highway Infrastructure Traveling across India is an adventure filled with surprises, but nothing enhances the experience like a smooth, well-constructed highway. On my recent journey, I had the pleasure of driving through a highway that truly represents the pinnacle of modern road infrastructure in India. From flawless roads to scenic surroundings, this stretch stands as a testament to how far the country has come in revolutionizing its highway networks. #modernroad Seamless Driving Experience Like Never Before As I entered the highway, the first thing that caught my attention was the sheer quality of the road. The well-paved surface, neatly marked lanes, and efficient traffic management made my drive effortless. Unlike many highways where potholes and congestion make the journey exhausting, this route offered a smooth and uninterrupted ride. Wider lanes and minimal traffic congestion ensured that vehicles moved swiftly without unnecessary delays. Smart toll systems reduced wait times, making the overall journey more efficient. Clearly visible signboards and proper lighting made night driving safer and more convenient. The highway is a perfect example of how modern engineering can transform road travel into a luxurious experience. #modernroadmakers Scenic Beauty Along the Way A great highway isn’t just about infrastructure; it’s also about the experience it offers. As I drove along, I was captivated by the breathtaking landscapes surrounding the road. Green fields, small villages, and a peaceful countryside atmosphere made my trip even more enjoyable. Rest stops at strategic locations provided much-needed breaks with clean washrooms and food outlets. Lush greenery along the edges of the highway helped in reducing pollution and enhancing the visual appeal. Safe pedestrian crossings and underpasses ensured that local communities weren’t affected by high-speed vehicles. This perfect blend of nature and technology sets a new benchmark for Indian highways. #indiabesthighway Unmatched Safety and Maintenance A highway is only as good as its maintenance, and this one excels in that department. The regular upkeep and advanced monitoring systems ensure that the road remains in top condition throughout the year. Some key features that make this highway stand out include: ✔ Emergency Response Systems: Quick-response helplines and patrol vehicles are available for assistance. ✔ Well-Planned Drainage Systems: Prevents waterlogging during monsoons, making driving safer. ✔ Speed Monitoring & Surveillance: Reduces the risk of accidents and promotes disciplined driving. These aspects make it not only a comfortable but also a safe travel route for all kinds of passengers. Impact on Connectivity and Economy This highway isn’t just about convenience; it plays a crucial role in boosting regional connectivity and economic growth.

She stood before him in a pale green dress, her hair unbound and tumbling down her back, her smile –the one he should have seen days ago –was enough to light up the darkest night. His mouth had suddenly become dry and paralyzed, as if he’d been born without the ability to speak. Or swallow. Or think any coherent thought. Graeme felt all at once foolish, immature and unworthy. He was about to turn and run away like a boy, when Josephine all but flung herself into his embrace, twining her slender arms around his waist and resting her head against his chest. “Graeme,”she said, a note of glee in her voice. “I’ve waited a very long time for you.” The sensation of feeling foolish, immature and unworthy fell away as he wrapped his own arms around her. Why did I resist this for all these years? She pushed away slightly to look up at him. He studied every inch of her lovely face. Josephine was quite beautiful, with her creamy skin and oval shaped face. Her green eyes reminded him at once of the summer grass that lined a French countryside. Dark lashes surrounded those eyes –eyes that were sparkling with joy and excitement as they looked into his. A pert, little nose and deliciously looking full, pink lips, which he was quite certain would feel as soft as a whisper against his own. He wondered then if anyone would object if he married her now. This very day. This very moment. “Ye’re beautiful,”he said. Those cream colored cheeks turned a lovely shade of pink when he gave her the compliment. “Jose—”he stopped himself. “Joie, I ken I am wholly unworthy of ye, but would ye do me the distinct honor of marryin’me?” Josephine had already agreed to such, more than four years ago. She had learned, however, through his letters, that it had been quite important to Graeme that he be able to marry a woman of his own choosing. Her heart felt close to bursting from her chest. He was choosing her of his own free will. A joy-filled smile curved on her face and she flung her arms around his neck. “Aye, Graeme MacAulay, I will marry you.

One is formed by what one’s parents say and do; and one is formed by what one’s parents are. But what happens when what they say and do don’t match? My father, a man, advanced male values to us, his daughters. And my mother, a woman, did the same. So it was my mother who didn’t match, who didn’t make sense. We belong as much to our moment in history as to our parents: I suppose it would have been reprehensible in Britain in the late twentieth century, for her to have told us not to worry about our maths, that the important thing was to find a niche husband to support us. Yet her mother had probably told her precisely that. There was nothing as a woman, she could bequeath us; nothing to pass on from mother to daughter but these adulterated male values. And of that forsaken homeland, beauty, which now lay so despoiled—as the countryside around our Suffolk home as in the years of my growing up despoiled, disfigured by new roads and houses that it pained my oversensitive eyes to look at—of beauty, a woman’s beauty, of the place I had come from I knew nothing at all. I didn’t know its manners or its customs. I didn’t speak its language. In that world of femininity where I had the right to claim citizenship, I was an alien.

By the time Theophilus attacked Serapis the laws were on his side. But many other Christians were so keen to attack the demonic temples that they didn’t wait for legal approval. Decades before the laws of the land permitted them to, zealous Christians began to indulge in acts of violent vandalism against their ‘pagan’ neighbours. The destruction in Syria was particularly savage. Syrian monks – fearless, rootless, fanatical – became infamous both for their intensity and for the violence with which they attacked temples, statues and monuments – and even, it was said, any priests who opposed them. Libanius, the Greek orator from Antioch, was revolted by the destruction that he witnessed. ‘These people,’ he wrote, ‘hasten to attack the temples with sticks and stones and bars of iron, and in some cases, disdaining these, with hands and feet. Then utter desolation follows, with the stripping of roofs, demolition of walls, the tearing down of statues, and the overthrow of altars, and the priests must either keep quiet or die . . . So they sweep across the countryside like rivers in spate.’ Libanius spoke elegiacally of a huge temple on the frontier with Persia, a magnificent building with a beautiful ceiling, in whose cool shadows had stood numerous statues. Now, he said, ‘it is vanished and gone, to the grief of those who had seen it’ – and the grief of those who now never would. This temple had been so striking, he said, that there were even those who argued that it was as great as the temple of Serapis – which, he added with an irony not lost on later historians, ‘I pray may never suffer the same fate.

And just wait until you see how soft and green the countryside is in summer! How gentle and floral, filled with honeysuckles and primroses, narrow laneways and hedgerows... These foreign words, spoken with a romantic longing that Ada could not understand and did not trust, she had turned over with the dispassionate interest of an archaeologist building a picture of a distant civilization. She had been born in Bombay, and India was as much a part of her as the nose on her face and the freckles that covered it. She didn't recognize words like "soft" and "gentle" and "narrow": her world was vast and sudden and blazing. It was a place of unspeakable beauty- of brilliant flowers on the terrace and sweet swooning fragrance in the dead of night- but also of mercurial cruelty. It was her home.

The same rule of self-destructive financial calculation governs every walk of life. We destroy the beauty of the countryside because the un-appropriated splendors of nature have no economic value. We are capable of shutting off the sun and the stars because they do not pay a dividend.

Although Beatrix considered Hampshire to be the most beautiful place in England, the Cotswolds very nearly eclipsed it. The Cotswolds, often referred to as the heart of England, were formed by a chain of escarpments and hills that crossed Gloucestershire and Oxfordshire. Beatrix was delighted by the storybook villages with their small, neat cottages, and by the green hills covered with plump sheep. Since wool had been the most profitable industry of the Cotswolds, with profits being used to improve the landscape and build churches, more than one plaque proclaimed, THE SHEEP HATH PAID FOR ALL. To Beatrix's delight, the sheepdog had a similarly elevated status. The villagers' attitude toward dogs reminded Beatrix of a Romany saying that she had once heard from Cam... "To make a visitor feel welcome, you must also make his dog feel welcome." Here in this Cotswold village, people took their dogs everywhere, even to churches in which pews were worn with grooves where leashes had been tied.

We all enjoy leaving the city and going to the countryside. The trees are so beautiful; the air is so fresh. For me, this is one of the great pleasures of life. In the countryside, I like to walk slowly in the woods, look deeply at the trees and flowers, and, when I have to pee, I can do so right in the open air. The fresh air is so much more pleasant than any bathroom in the city, especially some very smelly public restrooms. But I have to confess that for years I was uneasy about peeing in the woods. The moment I approached a tree, I felt so much respect for its beauty and grandeur that I couldn’t bring myself to pee right in front of it. It seemed impolite, even disrespectful. So I would walk somewhere else, but there was always another tree or bush, and I felt equally disrespectful there. We usually think of our bathroom at home, made of wood, tile, or cement, as inanimate and we have no problem peeing there. But after I studied the Diamond Sutra and I saw that wood, tile, and cement are also marvelous and animate, I began to even feel uncomfortable using my own bathroom. Then I had a realization. I realized that peeing is also a marvelous and wondrous reality, our gift to the universe. We only have to pee mindfully, with great respect for ourselves and whatever surroundings we are in. So now I can pee in nature, fully respectful of the trees, the bushes, and myself. Through studying the Diamond Sutra, I solved this dilemma, and I enjoy being in the countryside now more than ever.

someday you’ll learn that our countryside is the best, and our women are the most beautiful.” And he gave the boy his blessing.

Oliver Rackham writes, in his The History of the Countryside, a book of passionate opinion and the observations of a lifetime: ‘More intractable than destruction in pursuit of a purpose is the blight of tidiness which every year sweeps away something of beauty or meaning.

But why should they rescue you?’ he said. ‘There you are, sitting in a castle in the beautiful Italian countryside, with your own room and nobody bothering you and complete freedom to do your work. For most people that is a fantasy!’ ‘I don’t know,’ Linda said dully. ‘I guess it must mean there’s something wrong with me.

Cruising Through Uttar Pradesh: My Ride on the Agra Etawah Toll Road Setting Off: A Spontaneous Trip Turns into a Pleasant Surprise I wasn’t planning anything big—just a simple weekend drive from Agra to Etawah to catch up with an old friend. I had heard about the Agra Etawah Toll Road Project, but honestly, I didn’t expect much. I’ve driven on plenty of highways across India, and they often come with a mixed bag of experiences. But this one… this one was different. Just minutes after entering the toll road, I realized I was in for a smooth ride—literally. Wide lanes, clean shoulders, proper lane marking, and a surface that felt like silk under my tires. A rare combination on Indian roads. #ModernRoadMakers A Highway Built for Real Travelers There’s something incredibly relaxing about a well-made highway. The kind where you don’t have to constantly hit the brakes or swerve to avoid potholes. The Agra Etawah Toll Road delivers that feeling perfectly. I was able to maintain a consistent speed, enjoy my playlist, and even admire the beautiful countryside as it passed me by. Plus, with emergency lanes, decent rest stops, and petrol stations strategically placed, the whole stretch feels safe and prepared for any traveler’s need.

Who is Genereux Philip? I am Genereux Uwabunkonye Philip, co-founder of UnicGroup, Unicvesity Worldwide, UnicSource, and UnicAir. Sometimes, introducing yourself can be quite a challenge, not because you don’t know who you are, but because there is so much within you that it’s hard to know where to begin. Still, let me give it a try and share how I see myself. Hopefully, the image I have of myself aligns with how others perceive me. I’m proudly from Imo State, Nigeria, and belong to the vibrant and resilient Igbo ethnic group. I am someone who embraces life with a positive outlook. I love to read and write, to reflect and dream. I enjoy deep conversations and thoughtful listening. My faith plays a big role in my life, I love to pray and stay spiritually grounded. I find comfort both in solitude and in the company of uplifting, positive people. I appreciate the peaceful rhythm of the countryside just as much as I enjoy the energy of a lively city. I am drawn to people with beautiful minds and generous spirits. And when it comes to food, I delight in the rich flavors of Ofe Owerri, Ofe Oha, Ofe Egusi, yam porridge, and rice dishes. I also appreciate comfortable shoes, good books, and heartwarming romantic films. I love nature, I love people, and I love to laugh and smile often. I would describe myself as a caring, affectionate, and understanding person, someone who gives generously from the heart and expects little in return.

Holmes’s famous dictum: ‘The lowest and vilest alleys in London do not present a more dreadful record of sin than does the smiling and beautiful countryside.

Agra Etawah Toll Road Project: Enhancing Passenger Comfort and Convenience on the Journey The Agra Etawah Toll Road Project has emerged as a symbol of modern infrastructure development, significantly transforming the journey between Agra and Etawah. For passengers who frequently travel this route, the toll road has become a game-changer in ensuring comfort, speed, and safety. This blog delves into the experience of a passenger traveling on this state-of-the-art toll road. Smooth and Swift Travel Experience Before the toll road came into existence, the journey between Agra and Etawah was riddled with challenges. Passengers faced delays due to traffic congestion, uneven road conditions, and safety concerns. The #Agraetawahtollroadproject has eradicated these issues by introducing a well-maintained expressway that offers a seamless travel experience. The smooth asphalt surface and the absence of frequent roadblocks or potholes ensure that passengers can cover the distance in significantly less time. For a passenger, the reduction in travel time is a major benefit. What once used to be an exhausting journey now feels like a quick, enjoyable ride. Families, in particular, appreciate the toll road for its convenience during long-distance travel, as it keeps fatigue at bay. Safety and Security: A Passenger’s Priority Safety is paramount for any traveler, and the Agra Etawah Toll Road has set a benchmark in this regard. The road is equipped with proper lighting, reflective markers, and well-defined lanes that enhance visibility and navigation. Moreover, frequent patrolling by highway security teams ensures a safe environment for both private and commercial vehicles. The presence of emergency response services along the toll road further reassures passengers. In case of breakdowns or accidents, help is just a call away, making the journey stress-free. Scenic Beauty and Rest Stops One of the understated joys of traveling on the Agra Etawah Toll Road is the opportunity to enjoy the scenic beauty of Uttar Pradesh’s countryside. The expansive fields and picturesque landscapes provide a refreshing break from the urban chaos. For passengers planning long journeys, the well-placed rest stops along the toll road are a blessing. These rest areas are equipped with clean washrooms, eateries, and fuel stations, ensuring that travelers can pause and rejuvenate before continuing their journey. A Boon for Business Travelers The toll road has also become a lifeline for business travelers who frequently commute between Agra and Etawah. Reduced travel time allows them to manage their schedules more efficiently, ensuring they arrive at meetings or deliveries on time. The hassle-free experience ensures that they can focus on their work rather than worrying about road conditions. Conclusion: A Journey Worth Taking The Agra Etawah Toll Road Project has redefined travel for passengers, offering a blend of efficiency, safety, and comfort. Whether you are a daily commuter, a business traveler, or a family on a road trip, this toll road promises a superior travel experience. As a passenger, one cannot help but appreciate how this infrastructure development has made journeys not just faster but also more enjoyable.

It was uncanny how the weather could transform the countryside from a thing of beauty into something to be endured.

If these girls sold into prostitution had remained in the countryside, they would have gone their whole lives not knowing how to write, never straining to find words to express the beauty of flowers. They would have led lives where flowers were flowers, birds were birds, trees were trees, and that was that. It was a world without flaws but lacking in subtlety, taste, and suggestion. They would have worn rustic clothes and crawled around in muddy rice paddies, working up a sweat, till they reached the end of their lives as stooped old women. If there was any benefit in becoming a prostitute, it was only the possibility of becoming literate and discovering the power of words.

This region of England has the prettiest villages and most beautiful countryside in the world, and yet there is something about such contrived perfection that I find disquieting.

A Solo Explorer’s Drive on the Agra–Etawah Expressway Introduction Every solo traveller seeks a route that offers both comfort and discovery. The Agra–Etawah Toll Road Project is one such stretch in Uttar Pradesh that has redefined highway experiences. It connects two culturally significant cities while providing a world-class roadway for those who love the thrill of an uninterrupted journey. The Road That Connects More Than Cities Agra, globally known for the Taj Mahal, and Etawah, famous for its safari park and rustic charm, are now seamlessly linked by this toll road. For decades, travellers faced delays, uneven roads, and unpredictable traffic. With the launch of this project, commuting has become quicker, safer, and far more enjoyable. The highway is not just a passage—it’s a bridge to opportunities, tourism, and cultural exchange. A Traveller’s Experience Driving solo along this stretch feels like gliding over silk. Wide lanes, smooth surfaces, and reliable signages make the journey stress-free. What makes it even more remarkable is the balance between speed and safety. Modern toll systems and lane management ensure minimum waiting time, making the traveller’s road story an effortless one. It’s a reminder that #modernroadmakers long-distance driving truly liberating. Scenic Beauty Along the Way Unlike a monotonous highway, this toll road offers delightful glimpses of the countryside. From expansive farmlands to occasional clusters of local life, the view refreshes the mind. Stopping at roadside dhabas adds a flavour of authenticity to the ride—small breaks that add character to the overall travel experience. Safety and Planning For a solo explorer, safety is a prime concern. Here, the project shines again. Proper lighting, well-marked emergency zones, and accessible rest areas provide reassurance throughout the trip. The road not only saves time but also builds confidence in travellers who venture out alone. Conclusion The Agra Etawah Toll Road Project is more than an infrastructural achievement—it is a journey-maker. It transforms routine travel into a memorable adventure by combining speed, comfort, and scenic charm. For any solo wanderer, this highway stands as a symbol of India’s modern travel evolution. #agraetawahtollroadproject

A Solo Explorer’s Drive on the Agra–Etawah Expressway Introduction Every solo traveller seeks a route that offers both comfort and discovery. The Agra–Etawah Toll Road Project is one such stretch in Uttar Pradesh that has redefined highway experiences. It connects two culturally significant cities while providing a world-class roadway for those who love the thrill of an uninterrupted journey. The Road That Connects More Than Cities Agra, globally known for the Taj Mahal, and Etawah, famous for its safari park and rustic charm, are now seamlessly linked by this toll road. For decades, travellers faced delays, uneven roads, and unpredictable traffic. With the launch of this project, commuting has become quicker, safer, and far more enjoyable. The highway is not just a passage—it’s a bridge to opportunities, tourism, and cultural exchange. A Traveller’s Experience Driving solo along this stretch feels like gliding over silk. Wide lanes, smooth surfaces, and reliable signages make the journey stress-free. What makes it even more remarkable is the balance between speed and safety. Modern toll systems and lane management ensure minimum waiting time, making the traveller’s road story an effortless one. It’s a reminder that #modernroadmakers long-distance driving truly liberating. Scenic Beauty Along the Way Unlike a monotonous highway, this toll road offers delightful glimpses of the countryside. From expansive farmlands to occasional clusters of local life, the view refreshes the mind. Stopping at roadside dhabas adds a flavour of authenticity to the ride—small breaks that add character to the overall travel experience. Safety and Planning For a solo explorer, safety is a prime concern. Here, the project shines again. Proper lighting, well-marked emergency zones, and accessible rest areas provide reassurance throughout the trip. The road not only saves time but also builds confidence in travellers who venture out alone. Conclusion The Agra Etawah Toll Road Project is more than an infrastructural achievement—it is a journey-maker. It transforms routine travel into a memorable adventure by combining speed, comfort, and scenic charm. For any solo wanderer, this highway stands as a symbol of India’s modern travel evolution. #agraetawahtollroadproject

I’m always dazzled by the beauty of the English countryside at the start of spring, but Wiltshire has a particular trick of throwing you back in time.

Balancing herself against the last chimney, Nancy surveyed the countryside around her. What a beautiful and picturesque panorama it was, she thought! Not far away was a lazy little river, whose waters sparkled in the sunlight. The surrounding fields were green and sprinkled with patches of white daisies

There’s a special kind of magic in the countryside, where wildflowers paint the fields in every color of the sky and gentle animals roam freely, unbothered by time. It’s a place where the scent of blossoms drifts on the breeze, birds sing lullabies to the morning, and every creature, great and small, reminds us that beauty lives in stillness, in simplicity, and in the quiet harmony of nature." ~ 'The Quiet Harmony Of Nature

We changed trains at Leeds and from that point I found myself entranced by the increasingly beautiful countryside. The stations became smaller and more isolated and the landscape more unspoiled until by the time we reached Gargrave and Hellifield it was as if we’d arrived in another world, one perhaps imagined by Tolkien. An autumn sun was shining and the hills, as green and as rolling as I’d ever seen, were stitched out with drystone walls, hedgerows and sheep. It made me wonder why I spent ten hours a day, every day, in a room in the middle of a city when there was all of this only a few hours away.

A Solo Explorer’s Drive on the Agra–Etawah Expressway Introduction Every solo traveller seeks a route that offers both comfort and discovery. The Agra–Etawah Toll Road Project is one such stretch in Uttar Pradesh that has redefined highway experiences. It connects two culturally significant cities while providing a world-class roadway for those who love the thrill of an uninterrupted journey. The Road That Connects More Than Cities Agra, globally known for the Taj Mahal, and Etawah, famous for its safari park and rustic charm, are now seamlessly linked by this toll road. For decades, travellers faced delays, uneven roads, and unpredictable traffic. With the launch of this project, commuting has become quicker, safer, and far more enjoyable. The highway is not just a passage—it’s a bridge to opportunities, tourism, and cultural exchange. A Traveller’s Experience Driving solo along this stretch feels like gliding over silk. Wide lanes, smooth surfaces, and reliable signages make the journey stress-free. What makes it even more remarkable is the balance between speed and safety. Modern toll systems and lane management ensure minimum waiting time, making the traveller’s road story an effortless one. It’s a reminder that #modernroadmakers long-distance driving truly liberating. Scenic Beauty Along the Way Unlike a monotonous highway, this toll road offers delightful glimpses of the countryside. From expansive farmlands to occasional clusters of local life, the view refreshes the mind. Stopping at roadside dhabas adds a flavour of authenticity to the ride—small breaks that add character to the overall travel experience. Safety and Planning For a solo explorer, safety is a prime concern. Here, the project shines again. Proper lighting, well-marked emergency zones, and accessible rest areas provide reassurance throughout the trip. The road not only saves time but also builds confidence in travellers who venture out alone. Conclusion The Agra Etawah Toll Road Project is more than an infrastructural achievement—it is a journey-maker. It transforms routine travel into a memorable adventure by combining speed, comfort, and scenic charm. For any solo wanderer, this highway stands as a symbol of India’s modern travel evolution. #agraetawahtollroadproject

Frankly, however, I do not agree with pseudo-idealistic blurbings which sigh that starry-eyed straying through scented countrysides is ample teward for a birdless gunner. If one’s mind is receptive to the beauties of frosted pumpkins and vivid sunsets beyond purpling ridges, so much the better. But any hard-going, intelligent shot has a right to fruitful field expectancy. In a vast majority of us lurks an urge for action an ear for trigger music, and a nose for skillet savor. When those blessings, are decently eamed, good lick and amen!" - Amid Whirring Wings By Nash Buckingham

Rolling Smoothly: How the Agra Etawah Toll Road Redefines India’s Best Highway Infrastructure Introduction If you’ve ever driven from Agra toward Etawah, you know how breathtakingly seamless the journey feels today. The transformation didn’t happen overnight — it’s the result of one of India’s most successful infrastructure projects, the Agra Etawah Toll Road, built by Modern Road Makers. Stretching for 124.52 kilometers, this project isn’t just a highway; it’s a moving symbol of progress and perfection in India’s Best Highway Infrastructure. This route connects history with modernity — from the Mughal magnificence of Agra to the evolving industrial growth of Etawah. And every kilometer you drive speaks of engineering brilliance and thoughtful planning. Engineering Excellence on the Move The Agra Etawah Toll Road Project forms a key stretch of National Highway 19 (NH-2), one of India’s oldest and busiest routes. It was developed under the Build-Operate-Transfer (BOT) model at a cost of approximately ₹3,244 crore. With Modern Road Makers at the helm, this six-lane expressway is designed to deliver world-class travel comfort and safety. From start to finish, the project includes: 3 major bridges, 26 minor bridges, and 7 railway overbridges 6 major flyovers and over 200 culverts 69.64 km of service roads and 64 km of slip roads 3 km of noise barriers to protect nearby communities Two advanced toll plazas with FASTag support Every element — from the smooth asphalt to the precisely marked lanes — demonstrates why this corridor stands tall among #indiasbesthighwayinfrastructure projects. The Traveller’s Perspective I recently drove down this stretch, and it felt like cruising through the future of Indian roads. The lanes are wide, the road surface is perfectly laid, and the signage is clear even at night. What impressed me most was how well the road merges beauty with utility. Halfway through my trip, I pulled over at a rest stop — neat, organized, and ideal for travelers like me. With the open countryside on both sides and a smooth horizon ahead, it felt like the perfect combination of nature and engineering. As I sped past the Firozabad stretch, the glass city shimmered in the distance, and I couldn’t help but appreciate how #modernroadmakers have managed to balance local connectivity with national mobility. This isn’t just a toll road; it’s a lifeline for traders, tourists, and transporters alike. Economic Pulse of Uttar Pradesh The Agra Etawah Toll Road Project has become a major growth driver for Uttar Pradesh. The reduced travel time between two important cities has made logistics smoother, business faster, and tourism stronger. Local industries, from small-scale glassworks in Firozabad to agricultural businesses near Etawah, are reaping the benefits of better access and reduced transportation costs. What’s even more impressive is how this single road has created thousands of jobs — during construction, operation, and ongoing maintenance. It’s proof that modern infrastructure doesn’t just move vehicles — it moves economies. And that’s exactly what #agraetawahtollroadproject stands for. Sustainability and Safety Unlike old-style highways, this road has been built with sustainability in mind. The use of green medians, proper stormwater drainage, and advanced lighting systems ensures that the route remains safe and eco-friendly. The addition of noise barriers along populated stretches and intelligent traffic monitoring technology makes it one of the safest and most environment-conscious roads in India. Modern Road Makers have shown that creating India’s Best Highway Infrastructure doesn’t mean compromising with the planet — it means innovating responsibly.

Driving into Development: The Agra Etawah Toll Road Project Travelling across Uttar Pradesh has become smoother and faster than ever, thanks to the Agra Etawah Toll Road Project. This modern six-lane highway, built by Modern Road Makers, connects the historical charm of Agra with the growing city of Etawah. For anyone who loves long drives or road trips, this stretch is a true delight — combining safety, speed, and scenic beauty. #agraetawahtollroadproject #modernroadmakers A Modern Highway in the Heart of Uttar Pradesh The Agra Etawah Toll Road Project is part of National Highway 19 (NH-19), previously known as NH-2. It covers a total distance of about 124.52 kilometers, linking key towns like Firozabad, Shikohabad, and Jaswant Nagar before reaching Etawah. This road is also a section of the Golden Quadrilateral, India’s most ambitious highway network connecting major metro cities. The highway was developed by Modern Road Makers, a company known for constructing high-quality roads and modern infrastructure across India. Their focus on durability, design, and safety is clearly visible throughout the entire route. Key Features of the Project The Agra Etawah Toll Road is not just another road — it’s a model of modern road construction. Some of its main features include: Six-lane main carriageway for smooth and speedy traffic flow. Service roads for local movement and smaller vehicles. 7 flyovers and 7 railway overbridges for uninterrupted travel. 3 major and 26 minor bridges ensuring strong connectivity. Over 200 culverts for proper water drainage. Two toll plazas equipped with FASTag systems for easy payments. Underpasses for pedestrians and light vehicles for safety. Noise barriers and safety walls along sensitive stretches. With these features, the highway offers one of the best driving experiences in the region. #modernroadmakers The Road Trip Experience If you’re travelling from Agra to Etawah, the journey feels both modern and refreshing. Once you leave the busy streets of Agra, the open stretch welcomes you with wide lanes and clear signs. The road passes through farmlands, villages, and small towns — giving a real glimpse of Uttar Pradesh’s countryside life. You’ll find dhabas and rest points at regular intervals, perfect for a short tea break or local snack. The road is well-maintained, and driving feels effortless, whether by car or bike. The smooth surface and well-marked lanes make it ideal for both local travellers and tourists heading toward destinations like the Etawah Safari Park. During evenings, the highway glows beautifully with soft lighting and passing headlights — a perfect sight for those who love night drives. Benefits for Travellers and Locals The Agra Etawah Toll Road Project has benefited everyone — travellers, transporters, and local residents. Faster travel: It has reduced the travel time between Agra and Etawah by nearly half. Safety first: Dividers, underpasses, and proper signage have made it safer for all. Boost to tourism: Easier connectivity has brought more tourists to Agra’s monuments and Etawah’s wildlife parks. Economic growth: Local markets, industries, and farmers now reach larger cities more efficiently. Comfort and convenience: Rest areas, petrol pumps, and smooth roads make long drives more enjoyable. #agraetawahtollroadproject Travel Tips for a Great Journey Keep FASTag ready: It helps you pass tolls quickly. Check fuel early: Refill before long stretches to avoid delays. Drive within limits: Follow lane rules and maintain speed. Avoid late-night driving: Fog and low visibility can occur in winters. Explore nearby spots: Stop at Firozabad for glass art or visit the Etawah Lion Safari. Conclusion The Agra Etawah Toll Road Project, developed by Modern Road Makers, is more than just a route — it’s a symbol of progress and better connectivity in Uttar Pradesh.

Agra Etawah Toll Road – Driving Through India’s Best Highway Infrastructure If there’s one road that defines India’s progress in modern transportation, it’s the Agra Etawah Toll Road. Every stretch of this expressway tells a story of precision, technology, and unmatched comfort. Built and maintained by Modern Road Makers, this project stands tall as a symbol of India’s Best Highway Infrastructure — blending innovation with reliability. #modernroadmakers #indiasbesthighwayinfrastructure A Journey of Speed and Smoothness The Agra Etawah Toll Road forms a crucial 124-kilometer section of the Agra–Lucknow Expressway, connecting two of Uttar Pradesh’s most significant cities — Agra and Etawah. Designed as a six-lane, access-controlled expressway, it allows travelers to experience uninterrupted driving at high speeds while maintaining the utmost safety. For frequent travelers, business commuters, and tourists like me, this route is more than just a connection between destinations — it’s a symbol of India’s growth story. The journey that once took hours through congested roads now feels seamless and peaceful. Modern Road Makers: The Backbone of Excellence Behind the success of this world-class expressway stands Modern Road Makers, a name synonymous with engineering perfection. Their contribution to the Agra Etawah Toll Road Project goes beyond construction — it’s about vision. Using cutting-edge technology, premium road materials, and sustainable techniques, they’ve created a masterpiece that redefines quality and endurance. Their approach to highway development focuses on long-term performance and user comfort. Every detail — from lane markings to toll systems — has been executed with precision. This commitment is what makes Modern Road Makers a trusted name in creating India’s Best Highway Infrastructure. #agraetawahtollroadproject Highlights That Make It Stand Out Driving on this toll road feels like a premium experience. Here are a few features that make it truly special: Seamless Connectivity: It forms a vital link between Delhi, Agra, Etawah, and Lucknow, boosting trade and tourism. Intelligent Traffic Management: CCTV surveillance and patrol systems ensure driver safety 24/7. Eco-Conscious Construction: Solar-powered lighting and eco-friendly design help reduce the project’s carbon footprint. Travel Comfort: Rest zones, emergency support, and service areas enhance convenience for travelers. Such features have transformed road travel in northern India, bringing world-class standards to the heart of the country. A Traveler’s Experience on the Highway As someone who loves exploring by road, my drive along the Agra Etawah Toll Road was unforgettable. The wide lanes, smooth turns, and beautiful countryside views make the trip feel both relaxing and inspiring. You can truly sense the difference that expert planning and top-tier construction make. Whether you’re traveling for work or leisure, this expressway gives a taste of what #indiasbesthighwayinfrastructure looks like in real life — safe, efficient, and scenic. The Future of Indian Highways Projects like the Agra Etawah Toll Road are shaping the future of India’s transport network. With companies like Modern Road Makers leading the way, our highways are no longer just routes; they’re lifelines of economic growth and travel comfort. The success of this expressway proves that with strong vision, smart technology, and dedication to excellence, India is ready to compete with the best in global infrastructure development. Conclusion The Agra Etawah Toll Road Project is not merely a construction achievement — it’s a statement of how far India has come in creating world-class infrastructure. For travelers like me, every kilometer reaffirms the pride of driving through India’s Best Highway Infrastructure, crafted with care and precision by Modern Road Makers. #modernroadmakers #agraetawahtollroadproject #indiasbesthighwayinfrastructure

The Highway of Change: Inside the Agra Etawah Toll Road Project If you love road trips and long scenic drives, the Agra Etawah Toll Road Project is one of the most comfortable and well-built highways to experience in Uttar Pradesh. Developed by Modern Road Makers, this six-lane highway connects two important cities — Agra, known for its world-famous Taj Mahal, and Etawah, a growing district known for its wildlife and natural beauty. #agraetawahtollroadproject #modernroadmakers The Route That Connects Heritage and Growth The Agra Etawah Toll Road Project stretches for about 124.52 kilometers and forms an important part of National Highway 19 (NH-19). It begins near Agra, passes through Firozabad, Shikohabad, and Jaswant Nagar, and ends at Etawah. This road is a part of the Golden Quadrilateral, India’s ambitious network of highways that connects major cities across the country. For anyone travelling between Delhi, Kanpur, or Lucknow, this road acts as a vital link — saving both time and fuel. Built and maintained by Modern Road Makers, the project is designed with top-quality materials, smooth surfacing, and strong safety features. Key Features of the Highway This toll road stands out because of its design and world-class structure. Some of its main features include: A six-lane main carriageway for faster and safer driving. Service roads on both sides to manage local traffic. Flyovers, bridges, and underpasses for uninterrupted travel. Noise barriers and drainage systems for comfort and safety. Toll plazas equipped with FASTag technology for seamless payment. Proper signage, lighting, and lane markings for easy navigation. With such advanced features, the Agra Etawah Toll Road ensures a smooth, reliable, and comfortable travel experience for everyone. #modernroadmakers The Traveller’s Experience For travellers, the journey on this road feels refreshing and peaceful. Once you leave Agra, the highway opens up with wide lanes and a clean surface. The countryside views are relaxing, with farms, small villages, and stretches of greenery on both sides. There are plenty of small dhabas and tea stalls where you can stop for a quick meal or a cup of chai. Towns like Firozabad and Shikohabad also have good eateries and rest stops, making the journey even more enjoyable. If you’re driving during the evening, the cool breeze and golden sunset make it a perfect drive for photography lovers. For families and bikers alike, the Agra Etawah Toll Road Project is a route worth exploring.

Agra Etawah Toll Road – Driving Through India’s Best Highway Infrastructure If there’s one road that defines India’s progress in modern transportation, it’s the Agra Etawah Toll Road. Every stretch of this expressway tells a story of precision, technology, and unmatched comfort. Built and maintained by Modern Road Makers, this project stands tall as a symbol of India’s Best Highway Infrastructure — blending innovation with reliability. #modernroadmakers #indiasbesthighwayinfrastructure A Journey of Speed and Smoothness The Agra Etawah Toll Road forms a crucial 124-kilometer section of the Agra–Lucknow Expressway, connecting two of Uttar Pradesh’s most significant cities — Agra and Etawah. Designed as a six-lane, access-controlled expressway, it allows travelers to experience uninterrupted driving at high speeds while maintaining the utmost safety. For frequent travelers, business commuters, and tourists like me, this route is more than just a connection between destinations — it’s a symbol of India’s growth story. The journey that once took hours through congested roads now feels seamless and peaceful. Modern Road Makers: The Backbone of Excellence Behind the success of this world-class expressway stands Modern Road Makers, a name synonymous with engineering perfection. Their contribution to the Agra Etawah Toll Road Project goes beyond construction — it’s about vision. Using cutting-edge technology, premium road materials, and sustainable techniques, they’ve created a masterpiece that redefines quality and endurance. Their approach to highway development focuses on long-term performance and user comfort. Every detail — from lane markings to toll systems — has been executed with precision. This commitment is what makes Modern Road Makers a trusted name in creating India’s Best Highway Infrastructure. #agraetawahtollroadproject Highlights That Make It Stand Out Driving on this toll road feels like a premium experience. Here are a few features that make it truly special: Seamless Connectivity: It forms a vital link between Delhi, Agra, Etawah, and Lucknow, boosting trade and tourism. Intelligent Traffic Management: CCTV surveillance and patrol systems ensure driver safety 24/7. Eco-Conscious Construction: Solar-powered lighting and eco-friendly design help reduce the project’s carbon footprint. Travel Comfort: Rest zones, emergency support, and service areas enhance convenience for travelers. Such features have transformed road travel in northern India, bringing world-class standards to the heart of the country. A Traveler’s Experience on the Highway As someone who loves exploring by road, my drive along the Agra Etawah Toll Road was unforgettable. The wide lanes, smooth turns, and beautiful countryside views make the trip feel both relaxing and inspiring. You can truly sense the difference that expert planning and top-tier construction make. Whether you’re traveling for work or leisure, this expressway gives a taste of what #indiasbesthighwayinfrastructure looks like in real life — safe, efficient, and scenic. The Future of Indian Highways Projects like the Agra Etawah Toll Road are shaping the future of India’s transport network. With companies like Modern Road Makers leading the way, our highways are no longer just routes; they’re lifelines of economic growth and travel comfort. The success of this expressway proves that with strong vision, smart technology, and dedication to excellence, India is ready to compete with the best in global infrastructure development. Conclusion The Agra Etawah Toll Road Project is not merely a construction achievement — it’s a statement of how far India has come in creating world-class infrastructure. For travelers like me, every kilometer reaffirms the pride of driving through India’s Best Highway Infrastructure, crafted with care and precision by Modern Road Makers. #modernroadmakers #agraetawahtollroadproject #indiasbesthighwayinfrastructure

The Agra Etawah Toll Road – Redefining India’s Best Highway Infrastructure Introduction Highways aren’t just about connecting cities — they’re about connecting people, opportunities, and experiences. The Agra Etawah Toll Road, developed and operated by Modern Road Makers, is a perfect example of this vision. This six-lane marvel stands tall as a true symbol of India’s Best Highway Infrastructure, combining strength, safety, and smart design in every kilometer. For a traveller like me, the drive on this route isn’t just smooth — it’s inspiring. #modernroadmakers Route and Connectivity Stretching across 124.52 kilometers, the Agra Etawah Toll Road links some of the most important regions of Uttar Pradesh. It starts from the historic city of Agra, passes through Firozabad, Shikohabad, and Jaswantnagar, and ends in Etawah — a district known for its wildlife and scenic beauty. This road plays a vital role in connecting Delhi with central and eastern Uttar Pradesh, forming a crucial part of India’s national highway network. With this project, travel time between these cities has been reduced drastically, benefiting both commuters and tourists. Whether you’re heading to explore heritage sites or travelling for work, the Agra Etawah route ensures a comfortable and quick journey. #agraetawahtollroadproject Modern Engineering and Design The Agra Etawah Toll Road showcases the unmatched engineering skills of Modern Road Makers. Built to world-class standards, this six-lane stretch includes: 47 kilometers of service roads and over 30 kilometers of slip roads for local connectivity. 6 flyovers, 3 major bridges, and 26 minor bridges ensuring smooth flow across terrains. 7 railway overbridges for uninterrupted movement. Multiple underpasses for pedestrians and vehicles to ensure safety and accessibility. Noise barriers, bus bays, truck lay-bys, and rest points designed for the comfort of travellers. Every inch of the road reflects planning and precision. The smooth asphalt surface, proper drainage, clear lane markings, and reflective signage make driving easy and enjoyable — even at night. This is where the true meaning of India’s Best Highway Infrastructure comes alive. #indiasbesthighwayinfrastructure Traveller’s Experience on the Road Driving along the Agra Etawah Toll Road is a joy in itself. The broad lanes allow steady speed, and the well-maintained surface makes long drives effortless. The journey offers picturesque views of the countryside, small towns, and farmlands, adding a refreshing touch to your travel. There are multiple rest areas and lay-bys along the route, allowing travellers to stop for refreshments or short breaks. Whether you’re a solo rider, a family traveller, or someone exploring Uttar Pradesh’s heritage, this road ensures a safe, scenic, and smooth experience. For tourists starting from Agra, this route connects easily to destinations like Fatehpur Sikri, Bateshwar Temples, and the Etawah Safari Park — making it an exciting drive for anyone who loves discovering new places. Why It’s India’s Best Highway Infrastructure The Agra Etawah Toll Road stands out not just for its quality but for the vision behind it. Modern Road Makers have ensured every aspect of the project reflects long-term sustainability and modernity. The materials used are of the highest grade, ensuring durability against heavy traffic and weather challenges.

Ten years ago, when she was eighteen and not called Arrow, she borrowed her father's car and drove to the countryside to visit friends. It was a bright, clear day, and the car felt alive to her, as though she and the car moving together was some sort of destiny, and everything was happening exactly as it ought to. As she rounded the corner, one of her favourite songs came on the radio, and sunlight filtered through the trees the way it does with lace curtains, reminding her of her grandmother, and tears began to slide down her cheek. Not for her grandmother, who was then very much alive, but because she felt an enveloping happiness to be alive, a joy made stronger by the certainty that someday it would all come to an end. It overwhelmed her, and made her pull to the side of the road. Afterwards she felt a little foolish, and never spoke to anyone about it. Now, however, she knows she wasn't being foolish. She realizes that for no particular reason she stumbled into the core of what it means to be human. It's a rare gift to understand that your life is wonderous, and that it won't last forever.

Traveling is hard work. Everything is ALWAYS strange; staying home IS much easier; but this you do for inspiration, for challenges, for beauty, for growth, but most of all, for the memories.

What the hell was he supposed to say? That he’d seen her across the room at that stupid Wine Down Napa event and felt like he’d had an arrow shot into his chest by a flying baby? That his palms had sweat because of a woman for the first time ever that night? He’d already been in that Viennese countryside holding a picnic basket in one hand and an acoustic guitar in the other. God, she was so beautiful and interesting and fucking hilarious. Where had she been all his life?