When we first landed and began our drive through the Alps, Keira observed how she both loved and feared looking up at the mountains, and how it made her tummy stir and heart beat faster. I told her I knew exactly what she means. It's a tingling, an adrenaline rush just looking up, up up.
I went on a walk around the lake, which was perfectly gloomy and mysterious. I loved being there in the "wrong" weather, it inspired some more silly poetry!
Wanaka is lazily lapping lakes and boats abandoned, overturned in the grey
it is fiery trees protesting hotly against the mist, willows and pines gazing up at
wrinkled mountains
it is blue horizons calling back a long lost heritage:
lochs and Celts and the Motherland's love
and tussock-ridden peaks insisting No, this place is its own-
determinedly forlorn at the end of the world