There are no mountains here, no narrow valleys that rapidly take you up, higher and higher, towards the snowy peaks. There are no tumbling waterfalls or bears looking on. There are no eagles soaring high above the world, watching for rabbits. There are no wide slopes of swaying conifers moving gently in the flow of cold air that drifts down from frozen summits, for here is a world that is flat and stained and spoiled by human arts, a place of dark tarmac and roaring engines and belching fumes, and sometimes of people shouting in the street about God knows what. And this place where humans are, has been dehumanised by them and made a place that makes people miserable, that sunders us from those mountains where we would rather be. Even the rabbit in his burrow, who must watch out for the eagle every time he ventures forth, cannot for a moment imagine the desolation and despair of this flat, flat place, with its grey roads, grey roofs, grey walls, grey hopes, grey desperations, this flat, flat place that like an ocean awaits the coming storm under grey, turbulent clouds.