When John Harris talks about purple cows he’s taking a detour to the French countryside, which is dotted by millions of indistinctive black-and-white bovines. What he’s really talking about is his yellow boat — not a submarine, like the one the Beatles sang about, although as a trained musician he’d dig that one, too.
The sun had chased the fog out to sea. The Golden Gate’s red spires propped up an azure sky as she spread her wings and heeled to the breeze. Her plumb stem forcefully shouldered aside the boiling ebb, delighting the gawkers ashore who never saw this display of grace and power by the schooner Wander Bird on San Francisco Bay.
Sapphire skies, juicy green meadows and sparkling water. Not a blade of grass out of whack. It was a day to remember in the town of Marstal, on the Danish island of Ærø. If this brings on vowel-anxiety, relax. This isn’t about phonetics but salty schooners, the people who built them and those who sailed them to faraway places.
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