View from the Hill
Old Peakster hill sat ruggedly between two cliff faces, directly facing Wilmots new town and just bulging out behind the 18th century "Old" village. Rain, hail or shine it sat proudly, promptly minding its own business like a gratified child with a new toy. Nothing disturbed it, nothing bothered it. It was the perfect place for thinking, the perfect place for relaxation. Beneath the monumental vertical drop lay the "Mouth" as it was called. This huge hole in the cliff happily gulped the greedy waves like a thirsty fish, always hungry for more, always ready to consume. Whether it was the smell of the farm-fresh tulips or the distinct noise from the crashing waves as they hit the grand rocks, Old Peakster hill got me thinking. It got me thinking about my life, about me. As I looked down at infinitesimal Wilmot, I noticed things that I had never saw before. My eyes were drawn to the splashes of colour oozing from the docks. Even if it was only the sunlight reflecting off the trawlers diesel it was a grand sight. The Golds and Blues shone out in particular giving the docks a majestic feel, for a few moments I was expecting the Queen to stride off her yacht, only to receive a rapturous applause from the antisocial fishermen, who we
The freedom somehow validated my existence, the trees held out their branches helping me in the bad times. It was nature which brought me back for more. Once again the trees bore fruit, the birds sung and the grass swayed. Summer brought about the prime of Old Peakster, carnivals of colour washed the fields as tropical flowers pushed back and forth, fighting for space as the stampede of children's feet filled the terra firma. His farm was mysterious and inspirational, it had a strange vibe about it. The primary reason I always retreated to Old Peakster was for the quiet. re 20 minutes previous slamming her for stopping a days trade and curtailing their profits. A smell of crispness and freshness filled the air, as the once coated sun raised its luscious head into the azure sky lighting the once smoky forests and revealing their undistorted colours. In winter it seemed stripped and bear, cold and lonely like a lost child. Everyday dozens of ripe apples dropped from it's shaded branches like a shower of rain. They cheerfully sighed as their podium approached as I waved farewell and watched them ponder into the horizon. The rattling of the cow bells gave it a gospel feel, a remembrance of sleepy summer Sundays and church bells. The leader of the pack was like the angry sergeant shouting at his soldiers as they drained.
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Acceptance Essays
