View from the hill
Every day driving back from the station, whether it is a dawn run or just coming home on a regular weekday, I take the highway. Every day, heading north, I reach a point where there is a gentle hill which bulges at the top making it impossible to see the road ahead and every day I sail over the top of that hill and wish I could just freeze the moment and hang there gazing at the countryside before me.Fields flow left and right on both sides of the highway which winds down between trees that look like cypress but are not. The landscape slopes off into the pewter dappled surface of the sea, a flat and slightly wrinkled vista curving around the boundaries of the world, splashing at the edges of the sky waiting to catch fire at sunset. Further north the cement factory fumes and smokes a little, blot on the coastline sweeping in jags and curves as far as I can see.
Today there was something hot and pulsing on the radio and I flew along the road, windows open, wind blowing the words back down my throat as I sang along rushing nowhere for the sheer joy of speed and wind and wild abandon. Some moments in Barbados take my breath away. An everyday landscape that is so extraordinary there are no words to capture it. Except maybe beautiful.
Yes, that will do it. Beautiful.