Idle, city cynic that I am; here, I am constantly taken by a shake your head and pinch yourself surprise. I catch my breath sometimes, out and about, and think: “Beauty. Simply. Beauty.” Beauty will not be ignored despite my best and busiest endeavour and I never said, could never say, this was not a beautiful land.
There are days. There are places. Which are as if they have been painted by a master. You want to reach out to touch the bulked white cloud to see if it is still oil wet. You think that mellow green, grainy sand, ironed grey of the sea; how do these colours know the exact shade of a masterpiece? They do. Each time different. You breathe in. You expect the smell of garret and wiped cotton rags; not spring iced air. I drove across a moor, the Cheviot hills in the distance; the heather, brown, burgundy tinted; the whole, tufted with straw grass. You would think a hand had moulded the land, its curves caught with all the perfection of a sleeping Eve. I slowed the car. Then stopped.
An iron TV transmitter stood splayed in the emptiness. I am sure, I have seen a giant monkey climb it and roar out his black and white frustration. I watched the skies. I started to look across the perfect moor to catch a glimpse of angry ape. No bi-planes. No ape. My only companion, a white bottomed deer which turned to look at me. Listened to my Amy Winehouse. Liked her. Listened a while longer to her urban beat. Then. Casual. Leapt a fence to disappear back into the painted forest.