I often meet the woodcutter on these roads I drive up and down several times a day. He drives very slowly, never in a hurry, his pick-up truck piled up with the split firewood he's delivering. We usually stop, pull down our windows, and have a little chat. He'll ask me how life is in "that bastard village" (an expression that took me aback the first time I heard it, but that locally simply refers to topography, and means "in the middle of nowhere" - don't ask me why), and then he'll update me on his lifetime passion: flowers. One day he proudly showed me a new azalea he'd just bought, tree shaped, with mango-orange large blossoms. With his big, rough working-man hands, he lifted it very gently from the back of the truck, and commented with a smile, "Some people drive to new places and go for a meal at a restaurant. I don't, I go the flower shops, and buy new plants".