Today in my mountain village we are living in a cloud. Soft rain sprinkles those who venture outside until they look like they are covered in dew. Three hundred metres up from sea level, the main road is set along the ridge-line. The local shops perch along the spine of the village, each side of which drops down to rough bush, or, where humans find themselves lucky, residential land. Down behind my favourite coffee shop there is a bitumen road that leads to a bush track. It falls slowly through a fern-lined valley, then winds around the land’s lowest points past a stream, until it reaches a cliff face offering the choice of two equally uncomfortable steep sandstone climbs ending at some of the furthermost points of the village. And the entrance to this wonderland? Hiding down behind the shops! So whenever you are in town, the bush is there beckoning, ready to open herself to you in new and more pleasing ways. Ever willing to give up to you a new, quiet secret, or beat you into a panting, submissive sweat.
On a drier day, I took the half-day walk along the track with my friend Lyndal. Lyndal knows how to compose photographs, so whenever I saw something beautiful I would hand her my phone and say, “Here. Take a photo of this.” And she did. Lyndal has one of the most honest Christian minds in the business and we talked long and well. So, all in all, five hours well spent.