I don't think that life is easy anywhere.

The things that frighten you follow you wherever you go: boredom; the terror of your own ambition; desire you can't fulfill.

My emotion hinges delicately between awe and curiosity, and a thick lethargy which feels like the cold. The two change rapidly, like the weather, and are impossible to control.

The environment is astonishing; the colours extraordinary. In the morning light, the sky is a bright, light, towards-turquoise blue. Clouds rise in minutes and cover the sky to make an unbroken line of white from the snow on the mountain, upwards. You are astonished by all this.

You enjoy the easy aesthetic embodied by the coloured fishing boats and the reflections of their hides in the still, mirror-like water. You are irrisistably drawn to a long empty walkway into the water. You walk down it, conscious of your own image of yourself doing so, of yourself as the inevitable tourist. And as quickly as you were astonished, you become sick of this picture postcard scene and your own complicity in it. Then, as you are despairing of how you could possibly make anything meaningful in this place, you hear the tune of popular song, and seeing a group of smoking, lounging youths, impossibly bored, your faith in the reality of this place is restored.