Years ago, with some friends, I visited a home in an island away from the mainland where we live. It was my second time there. On a remote slope lies a little home surrounded by grassy knolls, a dusty road and winding overgrown paths.
One afternoon, we went out hiking and followed an old steep path going down. We kept going down and I wondered if we were lost when we found ourselves on a brook with stones, large and small, scattered among the bed. Hiking our pants up, we waded and rested for a while. I sat on top of a boulder, noting how closely the trees bent over the water, the quietness except our low voices and the tinkling of the flowing water. A few dragonflies float around me, their wings glinting against the gold rays of the late afternoon. It was magical.
Suddenly, for a few moments, I felt I was in an enchanted place, a land of the fairies. And I don’t dare touch anything, just sit still and gaze around for fear of not returning to my world. In the local dialect, it would have been aptly called mari-it. One of my friends, who was the guide, called for us to resume walking and I felt my reverie break. Still, I have never forgotten that time.