A house on a hill has a view. In my case, even though it is surrounded by trees, it is in the middle of a small clearing which is enough to stave off the claustrophobia imposed by a house surrounded by trees on flat ground, or worse, in a valley. And because the clearing extends downward along the slope of the hill I am gifted a permanent yet ever-changing vista to delight the eye. The broadest vista available to me is off the the south and southeast because this is where the land drops off. Consequently I can see over the tree tops to open sky and yet more forest off in the distance.
...
But on a hill, aside from the view, there’s the effect of altitude on the very air itself. Clean and clear, invigorating, always on the move, a veritable travelling minstrel, carrying along with it the sounds of the immediate countryside, a barking dog, the low strident call of cattle grazing in a nearby meadow or, if one is exceptionally fortunate, the piercing bugle of a bull elk. The air also delivers a cornucopia of scents, borne on the wind across the tree tops, the sweet scent of wild cherry blossoms in spring, the pungent stench of rotting vegetation lying heavily upon the fall air. And the nights, oh the nights. Perched upon a rural hilltop far removed from the murky city sky obscured by smog and lights, how much closer and brighter seem moon, planets and stars filling that vast expanse overhead. An illusion, yes, but no less real because of it. And no matter the time of day or night, a hill provides a sentinel-like view from which to observe the approach of friend or foe, human or beast.
And what of the alternative in the extreme, a house in a valley? What is a valley but a hole in the ground? Hills are for the living, holes are for the dead. Dark and damp and closed, life itself having been sucked out of the very air, hanging there limp and acrid, bearing the stench of death. There’s a reason these low spots are called depressions. One may as well be in a grave.
No comments:
Post a Comment