Sunshine mountain…where the four winds blow

Sunday 24^th October, 2010

For what is it to die but to stand naked in the wind and to melt into the sun? (Kahlil Gibran)

A gloriously sunny day had dawned on my mountain. I would have loved to sit in the sun and dry my hair au naturel whilst contemplating the next phase in my writing journey. But alas no. No hot water. I had run out of gas and whilst showering in cold water would most likely give my hair a healthy shine it is not something I relish. A basin of hot water from the kettle sufficed as the dogs and I headed down the mountain in search of Repsol man. At the appropriate destination I unloaded my empty canister and awaited the man. He duly sauntered over. Charlie barked. Repsol man beat a hasty retreat. I assured him that Charlie is not vicious. He started to put the new canister in the car but as Charlie barked again he literally ran off leaving the canister precariously balanced. I have been reliably informed that the Spanish are not enamoured with dogs, particularly those that bark. That would account for the number of passive pooches to be found littering the winding streets of Sedella.

Come early evening and I am pestered for a walk and so set out taking care to avoid the horses that had not long passed and which Charlie hates with a passion. I decide that the brook which runs through the narrow valley below my house is the place to go. It is only the final 100 metres that are hard to navigate and I slide, slip and lurch down to the water’s edge. The dogs meanwhile have hurtled headlong and can be heard splashing up and down the brook’s course.  I had envisaged walking the banks of the brook to the track I know is some 600 metres or so further along. Once again this day I was thwarted in my original intent. The banks are precipitous and over-grown, and the water too deep to wade through. I find myself on the far side of the brook, some 50 metres on with nowhere to go but back from whence I came or up. I chose up. Up a very steep hillside whose earth is loose and the only tracks are those made by goats. Up to the wrong side of the valley. Up, whilst the dogs send loose rocks clattering down towards me as they bound effortlessly onwards.



slightly to the left is where I surfaced!



As I paused to regain my breath, clinging to a prickly shrub as my feet sought purchase, I mulled over the sheer stupidity of my actions. No phone in my pocket should I slip, the possibility of non-avoidance of dog-propelled rocks and no idea how to get back when I get to the top – what had I been thinking? Resolution – get home in one piece and not be so idiotic in future.  Some 90 minutes after leaving the house I found myself staring back at it from the opposite hill. ‘Now to get back there, before the sun sets’. Towards the lake will not work, so I headed in the general direction of Sedella. It crossed my mind that somewhere I would have to breach the brook again.  Cross that bridge, should there be one, when I find it. Fortuitously I discovered a track that brought me to the brook at a narrow clear crossing with the track continuing on the other side. Marching on we headed up the slope on the correct side of the valley. Doubt did kick in towards the top as I looked at the track on which my house sits; on a different rise to the one I was on. Had I sold myself a pig in the poke? The sun was sinking and I did not relish the prospect of walking the hills in the dark.

Momentarily I was distracted from my woes by the sight of a somewhat deceased goat. The skin had been nearly completely pulled back from its skull but the collar was still round its neck. Its hide lay flat. Thankfully Charlie decided not to roll in the dead creature (an unfortunate habit he has when happening upon erstwhile animals).

Relief was imminent as I surmounted the rise, saw the ruined house - which still housed some creature, but I did not stop to look – and regained my familiar track. As we rounded a bend we came across the horses that I had sought to avoid. Fate has an odd sense of humour.

The relief of a hot shower was multiplied by the knowledge that I had been sensible enough not to put off ‘til tomorrow what could be done today! I watched the sun finally slip below the horizon as I sipped on a cold can of beer and tucked into a healthy salad. Funny how experiences that could so easily go wrong make you feel so alive. At about 10pm, as I sat researching some paid(!) work, the clatter of my garden furniture disappearing from the veranda sent me outside.  The wind, which had been absent all day, blew forcefully around the house. I retrieved the garden furniture and placed them in the dining room.

As I lay in bed, the wind continued to gain strength. The shutters rattled, the curtains billowed and I lay there thinking about the goat’s carcass. Possibly the reason Charlie had not rolled in it is that the only remains were the hide, skull and collar. The skeleton was gone. There were no putrefying innards to attract the Labrador nose. I would have thought vultures would have taken the hide as well, maybe not.  Vultures led me to think of the most wondrous sight I had seen on my return from the gas run. 40 or so eagles had been circling the mountain by the turning onto my track. Gently wheeling as they rode the thermals they were magnificent to see. Stopped by the side of the road watching the awesome creatures I had cursed my lack of binoculars and camera.

Sleep was not forthcoming. From the kitchen window I looked onto the garden bathed in a brilliant white light. The giant moon spilled its beams across the white washed walls and white gravel. It was bright enough to read by. The wind, far from abating, was growing ever stronger as I ambled back to bed with a mug of hot chocolate. It was as if the wind would pick up the house and transport it far, far away. I felt like Dorothy in Kansas. Eventually I closed the window to muffle the deafening roar of the wind. ‘The only problem is’, I thought as sleep finally covered me, ‘I haven’t got any red shoes to get me back home’.