I don’t like the tropics; they’re too profuse. Anything goes, completely unchecked.
Give me the North. Each winter Life’s follies, feints, and flourishes are weighed, measured and tested. The ones that make it back the following year need to show something serious: at best, ingenuity, but at the very least, genuine toughness.
Everything in the North means business.
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“I was born on a storm-swept rock and hate the soft growth of sun-baked lands where there is no frost in men’s bones.”
–Liam O’Flaherty
Bingo.
“Mon pays, ce n’est pas un pays, c’est l’hiver” (“My country is not a country, it’s winter”)
~ Gilles Vigneault, Quebec singer
I live instead somewhat to the South of you, and in our inverted world I must content myself with being 2Km shy, to the South, of the Tropic of Capricorn, narrowly escaping the tropics by the skin of my teeth. This morning was frigid for our climate, perhaps 13 C., as we near the end of our practical winter. The coldest days are the most welcome, as they are the most peaceful and a respite from the monotony of the remaining three-quarters of the year.