The chalk ridge stretches across the land from east to west, rising above the plains like a great green wave.
From up there the land below seems remote, even a little mysterious, a low flat expanse of fields, roads and settlements that contrast with the rounded wild spacious uplands. Up here it's bright and windy. Yes, the air is always moving, caressing hair and mane or making them dance. From up here I can see far, taking in the intricacies of an encompassing horizon.
It's up on the hills that I feel comfortable. I can see where I am, and the way ahead I can pick out. Up here life seems straightforward, and that's a reassuring antidote to the parallel world where I must work in an office. That place seems far away, safely at bay with its rules and meetings, computers and documents.
It's not as if I grew up in hill country. But from an early age the hills entranced me. I thought about them, dreamt of them, climbed slops to look down. That's the territory of the adopted child, constitutionally an outsider. Above is the best variant of beyond, for height conveys the opportunity to understand.
Yes, upon the hill I've come home. My mother inhabits the slopes, her garments the meadows and flowers, the wind her flowing hair. The woods are our dwellings, the hawthorn marks the streets and paths of our wanderings together. My human mother may have absconded, but up here I discover calm, security and a little wisdom. The hills and I accept one-another uncritically, they the older, I the newcomer.
I am young, and ageless too. I am old, as in an old soul who connects with that which is even more ancient. I feel wonder, and comfort. I dream of lovely trails that lead to beautiful places. I imagine a homely destination, that cottage of the imagination upon on a slope with a wisp of smoke from its chimney. It's a place that I must build in my heart.