A different way to enjoy my work, through the written words, notes, and poems that pour out alongside the artwork, and sometimes all on their own…
05/23/2019
When ones and zeroes
No longer add up
And the printing press
Runs out of flesh
And the headlines
Have nowhere to run
We’ll pick up the pieces
Build temples of song
Made of discarded words
Metal vowels and consonants
Foraged from fields
Like seed for migrating birds
And the truth that emerges
Will cut to the bone
Like mist
Like light
Like all that we are
And all that we’ve ever known
05/23/2019
Tomorrow, today, and to be honest, yesterday as well. This was painted a while back in 2019. Nothing too deep, just having fun with the painting and thinking of those moody stormy days when the sun breaks out and the rain is still falling and everything becomes crystals and prisms and beauty. ⠀
⠀
But today, let’s call it a prayer for rain. If the fire paintings I had done back in spring as metaphors for the hardships the world was facing have become all too much like real life now in California and all over the west coast, maybe we can flip the script and send it back the other way. Maybe we can ask for actual rain to put these actual fires out. And maybe the metaphor can work backwards from there and we can see some of these metaphorical fires in our world today quenched as well.⠀
⠀
Just maybe.⠀
⠀
It’s worth a shot anyway.
05/22/2019
I was supposed to drive a lot further up the coast on this day back in 2019. I didn’t get past this point though. After a few hours in the water, laughing as a handful of us rode these hypnotic little waves spinning down the point, I knew I was going to paint here as well. Made a whole day of it. ⠀
Passing showers were visible on and off in all directions as the sun took its turn occasionally sneaking between the clouds and showering the earth with light. ⠀
⠀
Every once in awhile a window of light would fall in such a way that made everything seem timeless- as though the surfers and the park rangers and the tourists and the railroad barons, and the cattle ranchers, and the Spaniards, and the Chumash who lived in a small village right here were all seated silently, just out of sight from one another admiring the same beautiful scene.
05/21/2019
A friend I had just met earlier at an event in San Diego invited me for a rare visit to this exclusive piece of California’s coast. I absorbed it with all my senses as we surfed all morning and I painted all afternoon.⠀
⠀
So what exactly does lie behind these locked gates? Here’s a few things that come to mind…⠀
⠀
There’s bamboo and nasturtiums⠀
Shelter from the wind⠀
The rich and the famous⠀
And a few of their kin⠀
⠀
They’ll question you silently⠀
Check who you’re with⠀
To be sure that you’re nobody⠀
So they know who to dismiss.⠀
⠀
There’s a boathouse on stilts⠀
A pretty woman walking down the street⠀
Surfers walking back up the beach⠀
Blood still dripping from the soles of their feet⠀
⠀
There’s yoga pants and selfies to shoot⠀
A slippery rock holds a sign full of laws⠀
Merely suggestions for the leashless dog⠀
That nearly got paint all over its paws⠀
⠀
There’s fires burning on the higher hills⠀
Smoke blowing out of the canyon⠀
Heroes and children stand watch at the gate⠀
With garden hose, bucket… and shotgun⠀
⠀
There’s black cars with blacker windows⠀
Caviar and music for the blind⠀
Leave your shoes at the door, my friend⠀
All this and more⠀
Is what lies behind
05/20/2019
I was thinking this would be a simple little painting to start my day. It was in some ways. But it was also a bit nerve-wracking. Nestled between boulders I painted the morning away, and marveled at just how quiet the trains that run this line have become. I barely heard them coming. The stretched cotton canvas hummed in vibration as they passed by just a few steps away. I was safely out of the way where I stood, but it was startling every time one snuck up on me. At one point I was visited by a security guard for the ex-president’s compound just behind me. I thought I was getting kicked off the tracks, but apparently he didn’t care much what I did. He had a call that some idiot was standing on the train tracks down below (I wasn’t on them, just near them) and he had to respond to it. He made sure I knew it was stupid to be there, and I assured him that I was smart enough to know just how stupid it was, and with that he was off and back to his tea and scones or whatever ex-presidential security guys do when they’re not investigating idiots on the train tracks. No harm, no foul.
05/20/2019
I’ve walked over and beneath this railroad line many a time. I’ve jumped from the tracks to flee the train. I’ve marveled at the burnt beams and wondered that entire trains could be held up by charcoal and memory. Apparently others wondered too, and decided on that eternal Roman upgrade- smooth concrete. Impervious to the hobo’s fire. It’s not the same, but nothing is ever the same. The quiet train, now electric, glides overhead. You don’t even hear it coming, you only feel the ground shake and then it’s upon you. Be careful out there. Write your name on the asphalt with surf wax. Write your name on the concrete with paint. Try not get your name in the papers before your time.
*btw, I didn’t paint my name on the concrete in real life. I’m not that cool. Not even close. But it’s a fun way to sign a painting sometimes.
05/20/2019
The beach wasn’t closed last May, it was a just a terrible run of surf and conditions that kept everyone away. I’d never seen this place so empty. It’s hard to believe this is one of the focal points of surfing in Southern California. But not this day. There was no one. Looking down the coast from here brings back a lot of good memories for me and after a long morning sipping coffee waiting for the last showers to wring themselves out, I’d wanted to come down and spend a whole day wandering and painting here, but the wind had come up and ripped the ocean ragged, making the chore difficult and the inspiration harder to come by. I’m not sure what it was that struck me about this little scene, but in spite of the flat midday light that sought to steal even the shadows out from under the rocks themselves, there was a simple elegance to it that caught my eye. Or that might have been a piece of windblown sand caught in my eye. Or maybe both.
05/19/2019
For much of this trip I faced inclement weather, and eventually made peace with it by embracing the moody darkness it often brought to a scene, punctuated by the bursts of light whenever the clouds would break. Kind of experimental, and kind of a lot of fun. I had no intention of creating these darker pieces to match our dark times. But as I revisit them, there is something in them that speaks louder to me now than it did at the time. But in spite of the intensity, it’s not the ominous vibes that come through, it’s the hope contained in the light. No storm lasts forever.
05/18/2019
It’s the end of the west
It’s the setting sun
It’s a train-wreck that’s only just begun
It’s a crowded bar
It’s the law of the land
It’s illicit activities obscured by hot sand
It’s a war at sea
It’s the first shots fired
It’s victory in sight, though not the one desired
It’s a shift in the wind
It’s an outgoing tide
It’s the last man standing as the captain died
It’s a history lesson
It’s the name of the street
It’s a blank stare from the strangers we will never meet
It’s childhood freedom
It’s only in jest
It’s just getting started but it’s the end of the west
05/17/2019
That title takes on a whole different flavor right now. At the time the world was buzzing away at top speed, except on a bad-surf day on the Southern California coast.
I had painted this scene a few days before (minus the VW), but I wasn’t happy with it, so I returned see a better sampling of local vehicular wildlife. Unfortunately on the day I returned it was so empty I had to wonder if I had missed a memo about a nuclear meltdown underway. But it was nothing like that, it was just a quiet Tuesday afternoon in May.
Everyone must have been busy keeping up with the hectic pace of their modern lives. Or maybe they just looked at the webcams streaming into their living room to tell them there was no waves, and just one van with a bearded dork sitting around on top of it scratching his head and drinking beer- sometimes at the same time even. No matter what the cause though, the effect was that there was no cars to paint at all. So I did the next best thing and painted my dad’s 76′ VW from memory.
I grew up in that van. I was one year old when he got it, and he’s kept it all these years in great condition. My wife and I drove from Long Beach, California to Long Beach, Canada and back in that van on our honeymoon. We lived in for nearly three months. I figured I could bluff a sloppy rendition of it just about as well as I could attempt to accurately paint something else if it had pulled into the lot. I took my time and enjoyed myself, reveling in the hectic pace of my modern life.
Also stoked about my van’s roof platform. Pretty fun to return to a very familiar scene but get to paint a bird’s eye view of it in plein air…
But now our modern lives ground to a halt.
I miss the old days, driving around the state’s coast, staying off the radar as much as possible, avoiding friends and family to focus on painting. What I wouldn’t give to roam freely and avoid you guys right now without this awkward distance being forced upon us. But what I miss more than avoiding you guys, is sharing beers and laughs with you when my avoidance tactics proved unsuccessful. I love you all. Stay safe!
05/17/2019
Written on April 3, 2020
You might think this empty parking lot scene is a reflection of our current times, but the reality is that I had planned to spend a day here goofing off after a busy flurry of painting on the road last year. At the time I thought, “I’ll just head down there today for a few waves, maybe see some old friends, who knows?”
But oh no, not today. It was the worst day of surf I’ve ever seen here. And I’ve seen some bad ones and surfed em anyway. I could always paint, but even that was tough. My usual approach to this place is to paint the bustling parking lot full of cars and scattered surfboards. It’s a living piece of California surfing history here. But alas, not today.
And so I present to you here this iconic mecca of carpark surf culture, absolutely empty.
05/15/2019
A further experiment in letting the paint run and not developing every part of a painting equally. In this case the showers in the distance were rendered by the unpredictable drips and runs of thin paint washes, with a bit of occasional help from the rain itself. With the exception of the yellow bloom in the foreground, I didn’t want to focus at all on the ground where I stood, and chose instead to put all the attention on the succession of points receding into the distance. An iconic view for those who know this coast. But most know it as a sunnier place. I was here painting in late may, almost summer, but the weather was decidedly winter. What could I do but embrace it?
05/14/2019
With my annual spring road trip season hanging in the balance as we all hold our breaths, I’m reflecting back on my tour of Southern California last May. Throughout the trip I was met with less than stellar weather. At first it was frustrating, but later it was liberating as I realized the opportunity that was presented. Even the smallest break in a darkened sky can illuminate the earth and her waters in an unspeakably sublime display of contrasts. A full sun blue-bird day for all the splendor and clarity they offer can never reach these notes. These are the deep notes, reserved for more uncertain times. They resound with humid tension in the air. They urge us to take shelter. I chose to paint this day although it was a struggle against instincts. My van was dry and warm. The edge of this cliff in a brewing storm was not. At each passing drizzle I braced for the deluge and scramble to the van that would follow. But the deluge never came. The forecast called for a hard rain this day, and indeed it fell all over the region, but here in the midst of it, at least on this day, I stood on the edge and sang along, finding beauty in this ominous song. There is always beauty. I pray we’d all find it in our own way as we face the current forecast ahead of us.
05/13/2019
After spending maybe too much time with the painting in my previous post, this was a reaction against that one’s slow and methodical recording of a very technical shoreline. I had to move fast with the setting sun as I tried to just focus on getting some sense of the crispness of color and light that saturated the scene for about 45 minutes.
The name of these shores translates to Beautiful Mountain. Every evening the sun sets behind that distant hill and on an evening like this it’s easy to see why the name was chosen.
As a steady stream of walkers, joggers, roller skaters and scooters buzzed on the path below, a similarly steady stream of characters passed on the path right behind me, some pushing shopping carts full of who-knows what, others pushing fancy baby strollers, and still others pushing nothing but wild ideas- all of them a reminder that this was indeed one of the more diverse and decidedly urban stretches of our coast that I had stopped to paint in recent memory.
A few conversations ensued as occasionally folks would stop to watch. One stands out in memory, a dread-locked fellow that walked past once, then again, then maybe once or twice more before stopping to chat. He’d seen better days, used to do some art himself before life happened to him. I have to say it was a relief to chat about art while painting with someone who didn’t want to know anything about whether the painting was for sale, how much, was this just a hobby, or a livelihood, what would I do for retirement, how could I be so dumb to pursue a risky life path like art, etc… Nope, none of that. He just enjoyed watching the colors move, reminisced about his past, simpler times, his mom, his grandma… but for now just enjoying the moment, watching a bearded painter at work in the sphere of his own world. I think we both left feeling a little better about humanity that day.
Life is hard, and getting a whole lot harder for a lot of us, but if we can slow down and really listen to one another I think we’ll always find that we’re all in this thing together. Life is a mountain we all must climb. And it is beautiful.
05/13/2019
This may look like social distancing in effect, but this was painted on a weekday last May. There were people, but they were moving and since plein air painting is in some ways like a hand-made photograph with a 3 hour exposure, the moving objects (people, cars, etc.) don’t always register.
I grew up near here. Technically in this city, though a few miles from this scene. It’s a very industrial coastline, and one I’ve mostly avoided throughout my adult life until this day. Folks come here from the hectic city to unwind on the beach, or eat at hip restaurants, or deal drugs, or mumble incoherent profanities at anyone within earshot. It’s decidedly urban, and at times urbane, at other times profane. It takes all kinds. Welcome to the beach.
I’d found this perch overlooking this beach bike/pedestrian path. Occasional walkers, joggers and bikers formed an infrequent stream of traffic on otherwise quiet day. But the real action came from the Birds. Not the ones in the air, but from the ones zipping along on this path, being ridden by folks of all feathers and stripes scooting from here to there. Those things were everywhere.
Right behind me, separated by a wall of plexiglass, were the well-to-do afficionados of a beach front craft brewery. I like beer. Standing in the humid sun, sweat beading down my face, lost in the minutae of industry in this painting. That thin plexiglass may as well have been a mile wide barrier of concrete and steel. I wish it had been. I tried not to look back at it, and all those cold beers being swished around. Mmmmm. Beers.
At one point there was a commotion on the nearby pier just out of frame and to the left. Cop cars came driving down the bike path. Dozens of them gathered from all directions. I still don’t know what happened out there. Later that day I saw a news report that a homeless woman was killed nearby, beaten by a scooter, quite possibly a Bird. We… people that is… we can be monsters.
I don’t have any moral to this story, it mostly just breaks my heart. But that is how the day went on this stretch of coast that I mostly only remember from childhood.
05/11/2019
Looking north from about as far south as you can go on the California coast. The showers that threatened and taunted all morning finally passed, the sun burned the darkened watery grays right off the earth, evaporating in a humid mist rising, an all-hands invite to the impending mosquito feast. Had to paint fast because we were all hungry- me for a sandwich, them for my blood. The showers would move through the city in the distance and even the warm concrete there would be dry again soon, cleaner than before, but still teaming with all the distractions ever designed to suck our blood on a sunny afternoon in paradise.
This was from a year ago… but it’s still true today. These dark times will pass… What comes next is anybody’s guess. I do hope there’ll be less mosquitoes out trying drain us dry though.
05/11/2019
Due to late season rains, the road here was closed so I had to walk in the last 2 miles to the spot. After tromping off in the wrong direction and ending up at the border about a mile from the coast under the watch of border patrol agents and confronted by a myriad of signs saying I wasn’t supposed to take a step further- the area between these two fences where I thought I might walk down to the beach was a definite no-go zone, I tip toed back to the van and tried again.
I noticed a lot of folks heading down the paths that made their way to the beach. The smart ones on bikes. Whole families. Abandoned scooters. Dead birds. Nasturtiums in bloom. Humid rain falling lightly at times. Mosquitoes that meant business. It was quite a scene down there in those wetlands of the Tijuana river- and it was even more curious at the border fence itself.
On the other side was a carnival of color. Ice cream trucks. Cotton candy. Kites flying. Flags waving. A swirling mix of humanity. On this side was gray. Border patrol SUV’s with armed agents keeping watch. An additional fence effectively creating a no-go zone buffer about 100 feet wide. Surveillance cameras. Concrete and weeds. No ice cream.
And no judgment. I’m sure Mexico’s southern border is a place full of its own contrasts.
In hindsight I should have probably painted the rainbows bleeding through the gaps in the fence, but as usual, I was distracted by the ocean’s movement. Another time, I hope.
And that no-go zone between the two fences? There was one exception to that rule. Right on the bluff overlooking these waves there was one small area where visitors from the U.S. side were allowed to walk right up to the actual border fence. Only 10 or so at a time were allowed in, and they were watched closely at all times by a dedicated border patrol guard.
Here is the one place that families and friends separated by our southern border’s geopolitics can see one another and speak – not by letters, not by phone, not by email, not by FaceTime – but truly speak face to face.
No matter which side you’re on, this place is all about the Other Side.
05/10/2019
Back when I painted this one and called it “Just the Basics” it just made sense. What I meant by that expression then seems today almost extravagant. Surfers generally tend to have a simple mindset. It doesn’t take much to make a good life, no need to chase money in circles if the good things are already at hand. A few friends and a few waves, and it’s all good. Throw in some burritos and beer and we are kings and queens in our royal court.
Now that we’re all mostly confined to our homes, watching the world crumble, it seems this episode we’re experiencing now is going to be hard on us all. For some it will bring inconvenience, for others desperation, for still others it may well be life or death. No matter where we land, I don’t think anyone will be unaffected. The world will never be the same. Looking back at all the art I’ve made over the last year and haven’t gotten around to sharing yet, it all suddenly feels out of date. From a different era.
I know the lock-down stay-at-home thing won’t and can’t last forever, but who knows what life will be like on the other side of all this? The new normal. It’s anybody’s guess.
But with all my road trips cancelled for the time being, and with all the places and people I look forward to seeing on my usual travels suddenly off limits, I look forward to the return of simple times like the day this was painted. Hanging on the beach on a long afternoon with strangers and friends alike sharing waves, food, high-fives. Just the Basics. The glorious, luxurious, extravagant basics. One day…
Be safe out there!
05/09/2019
I painted this one alongside my friend Norm Daniels on a wet, dark and gray day, that began with a lot of grumbling on my part. I didn’t leave the rain in Humboldt and drive all the way to San Diego for this…
Norm is a great artist and a great guy to hang out with under a shade palapa (good for rain shelter too) and paint a morning away. We ate donuts. We spoke with a Jewish couple who came down to baptize their new cooking pot in the ocean. Norm was also babtized in the ocean. Somehow this struck me as humorous and I blurted out that Norm and the pot were now brothers in the Lord… this was met with blank stares from all. Maybe it wasn’t that funny. Hindsight is 20/20.
I ended up really enjoying the painting after embracing the moodiness of the morning and working with it instead of wishing for something else. After painting, we had tacos and beers and I really couldn’t have asked for a better day, even though I grumbled a bit at the start of it. Out from the shadows, and into the light.
05/08/2019
Painted from the roof of my van. I put a platform up there just for this purpose. It’s great to return to places I’ve been before and see them from just a little higher up. To be honest though, I wasn’t all that into this scene at the start, even from my lofty perch. But when I am on the road, I am there to paint, so sometimes it’s just a matter of getting work done. Halfway through this one I really started to like where it was going. Funny how that works. Sometimes you can see a painting before even setting up the easel, other times you have to slog your way through the grays before something of interest emerges. It’s not always a picnic, sometimes it’s more like peeling potatoes in the galley. But either way the soup can be delicious if you’re hungry enough.
05/07/2019
In other times what appears to be an old road must have collapsed into the sea here, the slabs of concrete line the point and have been beaten and weathered into pieces, at times rounded smooth, at times broken and jagged. The locals here have gathered together some of these slabs and arranged them into a row of benches from which to sit and talk story, heckle visitors, drink beer, play music, or all-of-the-above. I’d seen this little scene earlier in the day and wanted to come back and paint it in the afternoon.
I’m pretty quiet about my whereabouts when I’m on a painting trip (it’s all too easy to get wonderfully distracted by even the best of friends sometimes), so I was thinking it was quite a coincidence that an artist friend of mine who lives in this area messaged me out of the blue on the morning I was heading out to paint here about what sort of plein air easel and setup I used. During lunch I told him it was primarily a self-built custom job, right before heading down to paint this scene, but never told him where I was or asked where he was that day.
When I arrived, I was a bit disappointed to see these makeshift benches in full operational glory by a small crew of locals. One had a guitar, there were coolers, they were clearly posted up for the time being. It would be awkward to approach a group like this and just start painting the spot where they sat, so I figured I’d have to have a conversation and see if they’d mind, fully prepared to come back another time if they weren’t into it. Not because they own the beach, but simply out of respect- after all, they were there before I arrived.
As I began to make my pitch to this crew, the one sitting closest to me looked up, and slowly pulled his sunglasses down to see me better, and I had to laugh as we both realized who the other one was. This was none other than my friend Paul Elder, who had just asked that morning about my easel.
A cold beer was produced, and a demonstration of my painting setup ensued as we chatted art and life nearly the entire time I painted this one. Not sure why I didn’t paint in any of the crew that were hanging out on the benches this particular afternoon- to tell the truth, I didn’t even think about it. We got to talking and somehow I just painted the painting I was thinking of back when those seats were empty. Only after I was done did I think maybe I missed an opportunity for a painting with a lot more… character.
Anyway, Paul is crazy good artist. You should look him up. He does all the art for Ballast Point beers.
Nothing but Respect for the Elders.
05/06/2019
With a long-term goal of painting as much of California’s coast as I possibly can, I end up all sorts of places. Sometimes it’s out on the edge of an offshore island marching off into the distance without a trail to follow, other times it’s being invited to visit some of the more exclusive and pristine stretches behind locked gates. And then there are times for more pedestrian locations like this working class stretch of coast punctuated by a landmark slated for destruction. It’s all part of the game.
05/01/2019
The third of three paintings from a quick trip last summer. The titles for the three are all chosen from Dylan tunes for various reasons. This one was chosen because the actual name of this creek comes up in the song. Also, as an artist I often do claim the right to freely edit a landscape if I choose. In this case I should have edited it further the first time around- when I got home and pulled it out I was shocked at the weird choices I’d made including trees to the left of the creek which effectively turned this idyllic beach scene into a fish-eye bubble of distorting confusion. Also the creek placement was technically pretty accurate but compositionally quite awkward. The painting just had all sorts of problems. But in keeping with my freedom, I just went ahead and fixed it all in the studio later. Open heart surgery to revive a plein-air painting from a near death experience. Thankfully, it now lives on to be enjoyed instead of relegated to the graveyard of painting mishaps. Artist as surgeon. Freedom and all. Why not?
And also a random poem I wrote later…
What do you see?⠀
A land taken by zeros?⠀
More zeros than you’ll ever know?⠀
By money changers⠀
That take all they want⠀
In exchange for their soul?⠀
If that’s all that you see⠀
You’ve only read headlines⠀
In the red letter press⠀
This isn’t your land⠀
This isn’t my land⠀
This is my father’s house⠀
⠀
Some small success⠀
Some chance at a dream⠀
A life built for two⠀
But what is life if not pain?⠀
A standalone shack⠀
In a narrow ravine⠀
All that’s left⠀
And it’s all that he needs⠀
But this isn’t his land⠀
And it sure isn’t ours⠀
This is my father’s house⠀
⠀
This land he travelled⠀
Paving the roads with his bike⠀
He’d led them all onward⠀
Riding further each day⠀
Riding for their lives⠀
Through sweat, tears, and smiles⠀
Roadside sandwich breaks⠀
He watched a wayward driver⠀
Drift out of her lane⠀
One from his flock⠀
Laid to rest that day⠀
It wasn’t her land⠀
And he wished it wasn’t his⠀
This is my father’s house⠀
⠀
A son that knows⠀
Too much about too many things⠀
Nothing to gain⠀
From his father’s love⠀
He’s moving fast⠀
And his dad moves too slow⠀
The son doesn’t see⠀
Just how much his father carries⠀
But one day he’ll know⠀
That his father’s failure ⠀
Was his greatest success⠀
And that he’s not the only one⠀
That was carried in those arms⠀
It’s not his land⠀
And it never will be⠀
This is my father’s house⠀
⠀
So get out of this house⠀
If you think you’re any better⠀
Get out if you think⠀
Your owed a damn thing⠀
Get out you bastards⠀
You never lived here⠀
You only came when invited⠀
To feast on his generosity⠀
There’s no gates of gold⠀
It’s worn down and rusty⠀
Broken and dirty⠀
But we’ve kept it clean⠀
It will never be your land⠀
It will always be his⠀
This is my father’s house⠀
04/30/2019
The second of three paintings from a quick trip to this slice of California paradise last summer (I posted the first a few weeks ago with no commentary). The titles for these three are all chosen from Dylan tunes for various reasons. In this case it’s a double-meaning referring to the occasional cattle roundup on this working ranch that sees horsemen (and women) leading herds of cattle down the narrow roads, like holiday parades but with more leather and fresh pastures instead of presents. Also, it’s a fine place that has been used for many a fine wedding ceremony over the years.
What you don’t see in this painting is the two figures painting away in the shade of the tree closest to the water in the middle of the painting. If one could zoom in to the scene in real life on this day one would see none other than Wade Koniakowsky and Jose Emroca Flores painting this iconic headland from one of it’s most easily recognized vantage points. Part of me really wanted to join them and crack jokes in the cool shade, but then I am always a sucker for an elevated point of view. And there is just something about standing out on a hill in the wind that makes me feel alive, so up that hill I marched. One and a half hours later I came down with this painting (that needed a bit of touch-up later but was more or less all there).
03/21/2019
This is the view from the top of a hill that overlooks the entire crescent of this coast. Though there was no trail up here, and no clear signs of humanity in this refreshingly pristine landscape, I know I wasn’t the first to stand in this exact spot. The way the peak looms over the landscape beckoning the human spirit to ascend, it’s only natural that others have heeded that same call- both in our times and long before them. From the peak, you can feel a human presence. An old presence. A place where eyes kept watch. There is an ancient history here that doesn’t belong to our age, but to a people that did not believe they migrated here, but were rather created here (or at least just across the channel). Sure the volcanic rock where I stood is full of holes but there’s more to this title than that. Just a feeling really, but some places seem to carry a significance all their own. This is one of them. Holy ground indeed.
