A consequence of writing about cities is dreaming of them - last night I dreamed I was alone in a nameless Russian city of tall gilt glass cafes, wide streets, rivers, grey distances. A city of building sites and confusion in which my friends were just out of reach.
The wind in the hill trees here sounds like rain every morning because the leaves are drying out.
A drive in late afternoon yesterday - Stonewall Hill and long views into the hazy, sunny Radnor Hills, endless distances of hills and woods and fields. Dust from wheatfields being harvested, huge combined harvesters on the roads. A strange, rich, back-of-the-throat catching smell, which we can't place or trace. Burning stubble? Chemicals? Fertiliser? Dried mud-trails on the roads, swerves out of the fields where the harvesters have turned back onto the lanes. They are working mad hours to get the harvest in; they drive past, lights flashing, long after dusk, and we can see them over by Kinsham, using lights to work in the fields.
This morning we hope to see the wood-piece that Justine worked on last weekend.
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Wellington is a city of contrasts Dave and I feel sure that you would love the juxtaposition of house and forest and of placid (mostly!) harbour and swaying hills. It has little history but a big heart. Where permanency isn't commonplace but pride of belonging is. People go but always find a way back here and those that leave feel as if they've visited an oasis of contrasts.
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