Sunday, February 6, 2011


A few months ago i visited my housemate Paddy's farm. It was a small place, nestled in a small valley, surrounded by green hills and paddocks. On arriving i noticed a long grassy hill with a water tower at the top. Seeing a rusty mountain bike in the shed, i set off for the top, with the eagerness of a ten year old who's just learnt to skate.

The weather that day was perfect. About twenty four degrees, without a breath of wind, and not a cloud in the sky, the countryside shimmered, green from the rain, not yet brown from the summer.

Bombing that hill on that rust bucket, my hair whipping around me, dodging near invisible potholes, was the closest i have ever been to perfect happiness.

There is a theory in the philosophy of mind, very controversial, that memories and thoughts don't belong entirely to the brain but, rather, too the place where they were conjured as well. I'm pretty quick to scoff at ideas like that, but that day on the bike, on that little hill on Paddy's farm, I could have sworn my happiness belonged, not just to me, but to the valley as well.


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