South-West England

There are a number of places in this region that make you happy. In my experience  I am happy to be alone, not alive. I could not experience the emotional spectrum that I do if someone was striding alongside, map in hand, talking about life. This is not to say that the region cannot be communally enjoyed. A picnic with friends or family midst the claggy marshland on a rare sunny day, for example. Or walking on a long abandoned railway for hours with a backpack and some company. These are great experiences. But of a different species to the former. It can only really be explained by some extrapolated memory, transformed a little to make it expressible.

I walk between two large banks; a cross between cliffs and trenches due to consistent weathering and speciation. There is a chill whispering lightly on my already deadened extremities. The sky is a patchwork of blue and grey with nothing to separate the contrast. But you really could not care less about the impending precipitation. You breathe in something that tastes pure and fresh, like lemon water. These senses are just the fringe of what you feel as the forward expanse is examined. Granite slabs are strewn across flat grass which is striated and flecked with reed clumps and peculiar mounds which, upon closer inspection, reveal to be more covered granite. Occasionally the landscape is etched with crystal water that stumbles down toward an unknown location. A glint of reflected light catches you. Finally a lone tree with a small shadow wanes in the wind. It is sparse with an angular outline and weathered base, revealing impoverished roots. The bland tone of flaky bark and imperfection really makes you wonder about yourself. Your family. Your future. And how many ways you and this tree are similar.

Then you realize it is a tree and walk on.

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