I went to a hill today and looked out over the sea. All around me was a clutter of multicultural shops, many of them cheap, others modernised to within a sleek inch of their lives - and yet the area held a sense of its earlier Victorian days, as if the land remembered cartwheels, and lace hems, and the heavy shadows of horses falling on packed-dirt roads. There was a charm of peace in the air despite the traffic and constant pedestrian noise. Even the rain falling while I had afternoon tea in a little teahouse felt old-fashioned.
Tomorrow the next issue of Suburban Magic will be distributed. (Last week's was a day early.) In it, I share my love for hills and their faery dwellers. It's been my experience that high country holds close its memories, and shows a hospitality to the wild, to the secrets of the wind and songs of the old wayward sky, that makes it more interesting than lowlands and the coast. But I am biased. My seaside neighbourhood was once as Victorian as that hill community, and yet I do not feel the memory of it. I suspect the memory is there, soaked into verdant earth beneath the tarseal, and with a little more sympathy I would feel it just as strongly as I do on the hill, in the sky. I must remember what mountains taught me : hospitality to memory and to the wild dreaming, where ever I find myself.
1. The Mountain Eaten By The Sea