When we were on holiday, about a fortnight ago (it feels like a thousand years ago at least), we went to some beautiful places.
North Wales likes to present its beauty on a fairly epic, rugged scale. There are mountains. There are great screes of slate and miles and miles of ochre and russet land which runs smack into the sea. There is a great deal of nothingness punctuated by the odd sheep, and the odder town. It is wild, and unsettling, and uneasy making.
I like it. I like it very much, but I can imagine it is not easy to live with.
Driving across the landscape often leaves you rather silent with awe. It invites you to think profound thoughts about isolation, and loneliness and whether, if you lived there permanently you might end up being a bit mad.
I think it might send me a bit mad.
But for a while, borrowing the landscape is just wonderful. I love the way the sun and clouds play across the landscape altering the colours as they flow.
Tilly made me laugh one day, pointing to a mountain top and saying:
‘Mama, what is that funny yellow colour up there?’
To which I replied:
‘It is the sun.’
