the memory of mountains

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.

Hill Country

16 pages

1. The Mountain Eaten By The Sea

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In the quiet hours, the inbetween moments and the half-light, I sometimes like to write. My books are made from fairytale shadow and old magical songs. They speak about dreams, lost wishes, longing for something beyond the self, and always about love. You can learn about them here.

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