Spent the weekend in an old lighthouse cottage. There's no lighthouse at the cottage now, just the transit light.
You can see the wind farm in the distance. There, because it is very very windy most of the time.
But great for hunkering down - no shops, no neighbours (apart from the field of swans), no internet, nobody else but me. So I read a lot of poetry. Fave lines of the retreat:
Some truths are now called trivial, though. Only God approves them.
Some humans who disdain them make a kind of weather
which, when it grows overt and widespread, we call war.
from Second Essay on Interest: the Emu, by Les Murray.
The spread of this poem is awesome. I think it tapped into me because of my new daily view: not only was I by the sea, facing south west, into the prevalent weather, but the land is very flat. The vastness encouraged me to spread my own thinking, to sink into a wider, more relaxed perspective. My usual view is of the terrace opposite.
I don't think I'm the only one to have lost a sense of the epic. How can we keep it when we're going about our daily business in the clustered streets? How can we remember to look up and see the sky and its stretch of weather to come and weather we've had?