Forest as it should be, deep, dark, moist, unperturbed. Even he sections with trails often have the trails disappear into the undergrowth. Natural stone obelisks in hidden locations, the sense that these are somehow spirit guardians, from the dreaming, or like the Shinto spirits in a Miyazaki film. Places like the forest in the hill in Murakami’s Kafka on the Shore. You get the sense that this is how it was when Cook sailed up the coast. Imaging what it was like then, with no cities, everything strange and foreign. Then a tunnel, slammed under another piece of earth, ears suddenly struggling to hear the sound of the music. Then no more the forest one one side, but the coast, yellow bays of sand in between cliffs jutting out into the ocean. The knowledge that this is the largest body of water, nothing between here and the Americas. The rhythm of the rain and of the tabla. A buzz in my pocket as I get reception, and therefore an email. Back to work.