Terapagossa

Cobbles slope downhill through the market square of an old foothill town, uneven and worn pale along the cart ruts. An ancient lime tree spreads over the middle. Beside it stands a covered well with a shingled hood, its rope coiled on the rim. Houses of warm limewash line every side under steep grey shingle roofs, their dark timber beams left bare to the weather. Behind each one runs a narrow strip of plum and apple trees, and racks of drying purple plums fill the yards. A wooden church with a squat tower faces the square across the stones. Above it, at the top of a long flight of worn stone steps, the gatehouse of the old school sits on its rise against a pale sky. One empty cart waits in the shade of the lime. Low sun comes over the orchards from the east and lays long shadows downhill. Quiet, ordinary and a little sleepy, it smells of ripe fruit.