On sunny days I think I live in the most beautiful place on earth. In my head I know there are probably more beautiful places, but on sunny days even if there are, it doesn’t matter.
I get frustrated at times that I can never quite capture it with my camera. It must be a trick nature plays, for no matter where I stand or how long I wait, I never get what my eyes send to my heart.
When I first came here, I thought all about the mountains, the lives they had seen go by, and how they stood magnificent. Later I fell for the trees, like you would fall for a new lover, bare or laden with leaves, red berried or blossomed; they had a way about them, a way different to the mountains. There were quiet times, when I would watch them sway, listen to them creak, but on sunny days when all is still except for the hum made by the hovering bees, they can just be.
There is a mist, or a veil up here, it lies as if caught in the silence of snow, settling over places further away, changing the colour of the mountains from black blue to pink powder grey.
You can hear the bird song too on sunny days, not like in January when it falls like drops of rain. No it too is different now, more a celebration, an eager tease, even the odd jackdaw cawing loudly disturbed from sleep.
I think about all this as I drink my coffee, as I look at the plants we will soon put into the ground, plants that will hopefully survive the sharpness of the winters here, and will gain their place in this small piece of the most beautiful place on earth, at least on sunny days.
