Wednesday, 10 March 2010

Every now and again a sign of life. There, a boat low on its keel, haunting sideways across mountain misted lakes. Now, seven deer, plump and dark brown with sharp eyes. A roadside bar, hostile glances offered through the windows, banners exclaiming anniversaries and offers, the rising clouds of debate and drunkeness. Six motor cars parading slowly in a row, indicators flashing, limp ribbons attached, tired children slumped in the rear seats, drivers hunched with urgent stares over steering wheels, will staving off tiredness. What is this place?