Early May, mellow May, and a southern hemispheric autumn.  A stiff breeze blows from the river and through the elegant dapple-trunked street trees. An early, long light stretches down cobbled lanes, echoing to the soft swish of wind, rasping rattle of wire-tined rakes and the reverberating roar of several two-stroke engines.

A squad of Colonia’s council workers are trying to herd the drifting, falling leaves.  Leaves that are in league with Wind.

Wind the contrarian.

Wind the schizophrenian.

Wind the tactician.

Wind which divides its forces and advances down the same street from both ends.  A pincer move worthy of any storm twister.

I’m wandering up and down the narrow cobblestoned calles, hoping that the parked modern car that was interfering with a possible photograph, or the Instagrammer who had insistently monopolised that pink wall yesterday, have all moved on.  I’m on the hunt for further pictures to add to several ongoing projects.

Wind: that most challenging of the elements to capture.  Given its near-ubiquitous presence on this trip, there’s been notable opportunities.  I’ve had the chances, the ingredients for an elemental drama have been plentiful, only to be found unprepared.  That inverting umbrella, or the dog who’s chasing a surf-kiter (instead of a cyclist) through the water.  Or it might have been the Navigator’s cycling 30° cant and her sudden slew across the carriageway in Tierra del Fuego.  Only had I suggested a re-play there might have been a major difference of opinion; safer to photograph road signage, wall-paintings or ghost-trails.

And then I find myself being pursued by a swirling cloud of herded leaves.

I’ve found today’s project.

Wind awake, turn the next corner to find that the national flag is ripping taut on a high banner pole with an interesting picture possibility.

Uruguay’s flag; in the idioma of vexillologists is: ‘a fly of nine equal bars horizant; alternate white, blue; a hoist canton carrying the charge ‘Sun of May’ resplendent on a field of white.

Pictures, like maps save a thousand words.

Now the challenge: can I align the Sol of Cosmos with the Sun of May?  But the banner’s shadow is creeping across wet rocks, rocks that are being washed by the rising tide and travelling out on to the River Plate.

It was a close call, but I’m still dry-shod and unembarrassed, as only the scavenger dogs got to watch the teetering, crouching crazy gringo.

*Note from The Navigator:

Those of you paying attention will have noticed that we are actually back home now, for a little while.  The blog may catch up with us, eventually.