There must have been hundreds of sculptures over those grassy hills. Some with intricate moving bits, some 20 feet tall. Others tiny. They all looked straight out across acres of bright blue ocean with a willowy wisp of a distant horizon. My thin cardy slung around my throat like a scarf, the sun was thumping hot.
My hand tight in his big furry paw, we clambered along the edge of the cliff until we found a spot just right. Out of sight, made private and shadowy by thick flax and brambly bushes. We laid out the yellow blanket and sat in silence for a moment. That was a view. He passed me the pipe and started unpacking our picnic. Savignon Blanc, check. Cigs, check. Crackers, cheese, check, check. Watermelon, strawberries, sunscreen, magazines, checkity check. We'd eaten the ice cream on the way. Well, you know, it would've melted.
Mid lunch, something shiny and black cracked open the surface of the sea. It leaped out, and twisted so we could have a good look. The orcas had arrived, babies in tow. Rising high out of the water and crashing back in, a hundred metres from the shore. They put on a damn good show.