When I opened the curtains I could have cried, it was beautiful. The wandering hillside greens, caves scooped out in blue before the length and breadth of the sea. The waves appear out of the mid-blue sea from nowhere, chased along the horizon to fade into nothing. In the evenings the sunsets glow pink behind the hill, tall ships in the bay altering time. It’s been the same sunsets here for centuries.
Howler monkeys whoop and clatter through the mornings, so loud they could be in the room. Fingers sneaking the sliding doors open like the capuchins on the balcony next to ours, reaching through the curtain for sugar sachets. They don’t seem scared in the least, of the heights, our presence, the cornices and curving pedestals they lower themselves over. Their little faces know so much.
a year in the garden 