Passing hills. Soft round mounds. Velveteen rugs with bread loaves tucked tightly, awkwardly, underneath.
The scene meets the eye soft and deep olive green: completely convincing; a faultless argument, made with ease; a serene and simple certainty, settled in a sea of convolution; an unconscious cradle that coddles, that cares, that comforts. Deep, soft, olive green.
But really it ranges from pale-grass yellow to glass-bottle green. Sun-bleached emerald to gunmetal-rock and countless shades between. Lonesome bushes of sage and sea mix with crisp sand and orange-sunburn-dirt. And charcoaled sections – spark-scorched – mingle with worn patches where giant knees and feet have scuffed and left their dusty russet mark.
Beware the perfect colour. The perfect colour is not one colour at all.