One more short section that I wrote in the last two weeks before leaving the island – once again away from work and back to how beautiful it is – and I think that’s what I ought to remember.

1^st October, continued.

The best part of all the work here and even (or especially) after all the painful hours of hiking up slippery hills, are the beautiful views. From every clear space you can see the sea – sometimes blue, sometimes dark grey, and from town, or from high enough, you can see all the small fishing boats anchored in the bay. I remember one scene I never took a picture of – the little boats silhouetted black against the reflection of the full moon in the water.

The other day, Kelly and I were returning from counting eucalyptus flowers, walking along an uninspiring red dirt road leading towards the town dump, when I saw white spray sparkling in the sun out to sea. Then there was a half-familiar spurt of white mist. “Look!” I exclaimed to Kelly as I fumbled in my backpack for my binoculars, while responding to her complete confusion by repeating “There! There!” in an unhelpful manner while pointing towards to the now flat blue sea. Suddenly it seemed as though, far away, a great white fish had leapt out of the water; somehow I wasn’t sure if I had imagined it. The second time the whale breached we both had our binoculars pointed at the right spot – it leapt completely out of the water – its glistening white belly turned towards us with a glimpse of its grey sides. Then to one side appeared a dark dorsal fin, so small that it almost looked like a dolphin’s. For ten minutes we sat in the dirt on the hillside watching and we caught splashes of tail and fin and blow-spouts and three more times glorious breaches. Kelly tentatively identified it as a humpback – a mother and child said one of the fishermen when we asked later. The splashes stopped and I was able to drag myself away just in time to run up to Plazoleta for an afternoon behaviour session – but it was so beautiful I wanted to stare at the sea all day in the hope of seeing it again.

The mountains, like the sea, are constantly changing in the light. My favourite times are when the tops disappear and you can see the clouds pouring down and swirling in the valley. There are times when you go into the forest at Rabenaal with a view of sun-lit hills, a sparkling sea and the buildings and boats of the town visible in the next valley. Then when you come out onto the cliff again the whole world has disappeared and all you can see is a narrow path floating in a great white space. Of course this means rain and dangerously slippery mud path on the way down, but it stills feels thrilling to be in a cloud – I wish it was solid so that we could swim home through the sky.

I love the forest at Rabenaal – it’s an hour and a half walk into next valley, far enough away from town to feel like you’re the only people for miles. From the ridge above, the Luma trees are a beautiful patchwork of colours from greens to reds. Under the canopy is a dark cool space stretching into the distance, carpeted brown with fallen leaves; The ground is smooth so you can run through the tree trunks, and there is such silence – all the wind and sounds of people and birds and all the sky and sea and sun blocked from entering. It feels like a great empty room, but endless and unexplored – just for you. It always makes me want to run. I always want to run when I am happy.