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 were 20 minutes previous slamming her for stopping a days trade and curtailing their profits.
             As I moved incessantly from the docks, my eyes were drawn to the sight of rising smog escaping from the buzzing town streets. Wilmot on a Saturday afternoon was Pandemonium. Thoughts of bursting tills and the sound of impatient shoppers brought a cheeky grin to my face. I was free and they were trapped. As I sunk deeper into my daydream, an abrasive yet throbbing stamping noise was apparent around me. A little group of swans were trekking across the hill to their final destination of Chillington Lake. The leader of the pack was like the angry sergeant shouting at his soldiers as they drained. The...