New Mountain Views

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We are steeped and soggy on the farm; the rain keeps falling. The cat comes into our bedroom in the small hours, loudly announcing his arrival and complaining bitterly that he is cold and wet and hungry. He won’t shut up until I towel him dry and he begins to purr; his purr is engine like, loud and growing and grumbling. Sometimes I hold him up and press his body to my ear so that my head rings with the sound of his contentment. As I write, he is lying curled by the fireplace where last nights embers still glow faintly. Jipe is curled beneath my desk and I can still hear the drip drip outside.

A friend asks if I can take a photo of the mountain. I would if I could see it – it’s had its head in the clouds for days, a dark grey crown of them. He says he has heard the snow is spectacular. That’s because the world is cooler. And quiet. No planes overhead to melt icecaps away.  My son arrived from London once, his flight late, he explained the delay: “a plane full of climbers; the pilot wanted to show the mountain off, we flew around it twice!”  Small bitter irony: admiring a view that their circumnavigation was eroding before their climb began. Climbers often disembark from those flights bearing new rucksacks and out-of-the-box boots. I imagine sore toes days later. Weeks afterwards their kit is on sale in the second hand markets.

So as the world is poised, populations poisoned, in a what next pose, vistas are clearing, as if an unseen palm has wiped across a fogged up windscreen: the Himalayas are seen for the first time in thirty years. I tell my sister. She laughs.

“And the Eiffel Tower from Nairobi National Park”

Such are the powers of Photoshop and too much time on people’s hands as they languish in lockdown.

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One Response to “New Mountain Views”

  1. Clare Taylor Says:

    Wonderful

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