We’ve been away. Specifically Castle Hill on New Zealand’s South Island. It’s a magical landscape with rolling green hills and horses, and as you come up the road you see these amazing outcrops of sand stone, bursting out of the hill.
Dr Seuss could not have imagined such a beautiful hill. The stones are worn smooth by rain and time, and they are round, with arches and caves and pockets. We ran around bare foot, because this is New Zealand and there’s no creepy crawlies or prickles in the grass. Ryan and all our friends climbed, but mostly the baby and I just soaked it up.
I didn’t have a watch. I fed the baby when he cried, and laid him down to sleep when he looked snoozy. When it got cold we walked down the hill to the campervan, which felt like our own little green house. When it rained the climbing stopped and we took long drives through the mountains, taking pictures of rivers and kias.
I sat cross-legged on a blanket in the sunshine and fed the baby. It felt like the most natural, most right thing in the world. There was no where else for me to be, nothing else for me to be doing.
Apparently, in 2002 the Dalai Lama named Castle Hill one of the spiritual centres of the universe. I don’t think I needed to be told.