The stillness. The quiet. The leaves fluttering gently in the breeze. The little bit of sunshine not taking away the bite of the chilly air. The chilly fresh air.
The old white-walled buildings that look like they grew out of the ground. The aged rust coloured mabati, ceramic tiles in some places. Scattered throughout the compound.
The hand pushed cart; a wire-basket made from chainlink fencing and straddling an axle between two bicycle wheels.
The bare mobile network pylon at the top of the hillock that rises behind the houses looking anachronistic and out of place.
The lush thick carpet of grass that seems to flow; that seems to have been painted in long gentle strokes rather than grown.
The smoke trailing out of darkened chimneys, promising a crackling fire within. every building has a chimney, every building has a fireplace, every building a promising a safe haven from the bite of the chilly air.
The twitter of birds. Within them, the haunting call of a bird I cannot identify
A gardener tenderly, almost caressing, clipping the hedge, whistling jauntily; a man at ease. A happy man.
The guest strolling along the cobbled and paved paths that meander through the buildings, nodding politely at one another. The walk is leisurely. Relaxed.
Park benches, aged, chipped, the paint peeling, creaking under the weight of lovers gazing tenderly into each other’s eyes.
Lying on the grass, watching the clouds, white earphones trailing from my ears to an iPod lying on my chest. Peace