Sardinia, alastair macleod [whitelam books txt] 📗

"The land was sparse, dry, covered in Maquis shrub; juniper, myrtle, dwarf pine, wild rosemary. They were all more all or less aromatic, the beating sun releasing a heady scent into the air. He walked down the track, his boots crunching on gravel. In the bay below, the sea, a bright Mediterranean blue lazily caressed the cliffs. He was searching for geckos – sunny days brought them out to bask. Cold rendered them inactive. He thought of his wife. She was like that. Back in Manchester she’d been a different person, morose, taciturn, cynical. Here she just flowered out. It was the sun"