First, check out this recording: It's of a piece I composed for the New Brunswick Chamber Orchestra. I recieved the recording the other day.
The school at Llifén has but one small problem: the view out the classroom windows. For the majority of today, and this week, my job is to observe my head teacher and assist where needed. As soon as I sit down , I look outside and my mind fast drifts to the forests of the distant steep mountains I see out the window. The view is incredible. The school sits on a small hill, and in the immediate foreground there is a fenced in courtyard with stone pathways. The ivy on the fence obscures the houses immediatley beyond, but farther on, one can see the corrugated metal roofs of homes on the side of the hill, and the tops of trees that mark the summits of hills.
Looking farther still, about 2km ahead lies a deforested hill with light green grass and sparse patches of dark green trees and shrubs. Sometimes it looks like there are cattle on that hill and I wonder what the cattle do when they are on the other side of the hill. How large is their pasture? I cannot see the part that lies beyond the hilltop. On all sides of this small rolling hill are steep and tall hills...to me they look as small mountains...with vertical rock faces scarred from years of erosion by hardy scrubs and running water. These small mountains roll on and on as far as the eye can see, high enough to stop low clouds.
Most tremendous of all is the mountain on the immediate right view of the window, which towers over the town such that it is impossible to see in its entirety from any window in the school. Though some trees in the foreground block large areas of the mountain, there are still so many precipices populated with singly visible trees, vast rock faces, and thick sections of forest, that it constantly draws my eye. I wonder if I could climb up it. I'm sure I will try before the last exhale of summer passes in the coming weeks. The view from the top--of the town, other mountains, the lake, is sure to be breath taking.
Yesterday Matio, the youngest son in the house, walked with me to the shores of the lake. It was a long walk but on the way we passed abundant blackberry bushes and apple trees. My left hand was filled with mushy blackberries whose sweet juice stained my hands and slipped between my fingers to land on my left pant leg. I was wearing white pants but I didn't care. The berries were too sweet.
The road we walked down curved and the pavement stopped. A sign notified pasajeros that the beach was not safe for swimming. The dirt road meandered down the side of the hill to the beach and on both sides of us there was a tall iron fence that clearly demarcated the land of one of the town's affluent seasonal denizens.
The dirt road terminated at the rocky shores of the lake. Sun was setting on the horizon and a slight breeze pressed water against the shore. Mountains are all around, and to the left a cliff meets the lake. We walk to the right. about 50ft into the water there are delapidated wood pilings that may have been a dock some years ago, but the water is shallow and they are too high to be a dock. Perhaps there was a house here that fell into the lake. The shore is also littered with small wooden boats, green, white, and yellow, chained to rocks. With the sun setting, it is beautiful. The beach is also a sentimental place for Matio. His cousin is the reason for the sign at the dirt path. On the day of his cousin's 15th birthday, he swam too far into the lake. He never came back. My spanish is bad, but it doesn't matter. All I can say is sorry.
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