If there is a geographical spot on this planet where you feel your spirit might flock to, where would that place be?
For me, hands down, it would be this place…
Machu Picchu, Peru.
For as long as I can remember, I have often found myself here while dreaming. And while I have never been there in the flesh (a thing I dearly hope to remedy), I have a hunch my spirit will find its way to this ancient Incan city when it is free to do so.
What about the rest of ye?
St Mark’s square in Venice
Redwolf
Not sure why the image tags aren’t working here like they work on other sites. 
Follow the link:
Remove the characters after .jpg in other words, the “?v=0”
Go raibh maith agat!
Gleann Cholm Cille, Co. Dhún na nGall, Éire
Redwolf
I’m already there.
Ballymun.
Slan,
D. 
Just about any bar. 
Loch Gile and Glencar chasing salmon 
or trout or a nice pike, watching my wife make perfect casts, and watching the pups play in the river or chase those evil big white birds on the lochs.
Just outside a little bitty town in Arkansas called Antoine–which has a population of maybe 200 people and I doubt it’s that many–there is a small river called Wolf Creek.
I grew up hearing about it, but I was nearly a teenager the first time I can remember that I was ever actually there.
The water is cold, crystal clear, and sparkling. The water and air are clean and fresh; there is no industry anywhere near there, and both earth and sky are unstained. When the wind blows you can hear it sing in the pines on the rolling hills. In the autumn it is often so quiet that you can hear single leaves fall. The air is so pure and clean if you breath it too fast, it’ll make your head hurt.
You breathe respectfully in Antoine while wading in Wolf Creek, and whatever worries you might be carrying, the water washes them away.
That is my home of the heart, the place where my roots go back to the soil.
It’s always been a special place to my family.
My mother’s people lived outside Antoine. As a child, she walked barefoot down dirt roads to the one-room schoolhouse in Antoine.
My father’s people lived outside Delight, “just a piece” down the road. When my father was courting my mother, he walked to her house through the woods, a distance of just over ten miles.
It’s a place where yesterday and today meet. Antoine is relatively unchanged from the town that my mom knew as a child. Some of the roads are paved, now, and there are sometimes contrails across the sky, but not often.
Up in a little hollow outside Antoine, there is a cemetery. If someone is being buried, it always drizzles cold rain. If you play a fife there on a wet day, the sound will carry for miles over the hills, and perhaps the fish in Wolf Creek hear it, and are startled.
But the cemetery isn’t the place my heart calls home, though both my parents sleep there, in the shadows of the trees.
When I think of the place I always want to go (and so seldom do), it’s to the waters of Wolf Creek sparkling in the sunlight.
I don’t have a picture–cameras haven’t been invented in Antoine yet --but you’ll just have to trust me: it’s one of the most beautiful places on earth.
–James
pack a tent…grab my dogs and fishing pole and this wonderful bit of heaven is less than 40 minutes away…so serene..I love Lake Tahoe.
http://www.allaboutjazz.com/php/gallery2/main.php?g2_view=core.DownloadItem&g2_itemId=20388&g2_serialNumber=2
I can’t get the image to come up on the this page. It’s 52nd Street in 1948. It doesn’t exist any more-at least in that form. Jazz City.
They put dye in the water ya know 
While this is a picture from a particular place, it’s just what I had of the sea. I always feel a sense of peace when I’m there…
nah…its that real, you know..
My other solace place is Mendocino…I love that town.
Tazewell, Virginia. Along a cow path. Near the stream. There would be really huge gray rocks embedded in the hillside.
Burke’s Garden, Tazewell co., is very nice, incredible soil
mine doesn’t exist anymore.
The area I grew up in was just turning from farming to residential back then. While there were the beginnings of “subdivisions”, I didn’t live in one. I lived in an area where there was a small “side” street with 10 houses, and houses along the main road. All yards were 2 acres or more. We lived on the corner lot of the main road (our house faced that way) and the side street (our driveway came off of that).
Across the street was Mr. Honerlaw’s farm. He raised beef cattle, sheep, pigs, chickens and Belgian horses. He plowed and planted with the horses - but used tractors and combines to harvest.
Two yards away was another farm - this one had cattle and grew crops. We spent many a late summer day playiing among the corn stalks.
At the end of the small side street was a rail road track that had a train run at 6 am and 6 pm. Across the tracks was more farm acreage. Behind that was a wooded area that hadn’t been logged for over a hundred years - maybe even some old growth trees. We called it “the woods” and spent hours building tree forts, playing in the small ponds catching snapping turtles and toads and frogs, eating mulberries and wild cherries.
The woods was pretty much destroyed when my “neighborhood” was hit by a tornado in 1974. Of the 20 or so houses that were the neighborhood - ours was the ONLY one left rebuildable, all the others had to be torn down and rebuilt. The farmer two lots away sold the property to a builder, and over 100 houses were put on it. The rail road tracks were torn up in 1978 (Dad and his neighbors used the rail road ties as landscaping timbers). All the other farms EXCEPT for Mr. Honerlaws has been turned into houses on postage stamp sized lots.
I’d like to go back to a day in the 1960’s. I’d like to pick some of the apples from our transparent apple tree - what we called cooking apples. I’d like to make necklaces out of the clover growing in the yard (Dad never was one for weed control - too much area to cut). I’d like to have some of the raw honey one of my neighbors collected from his bees. I’'d like to watch Mr. Honerlaw drive his team of Belgian horses.
And I’d like to have my kids experience all that - and be able to meet my Dad. He died when I was 4 1/2 months pregnant with Nate, my oldest.
