The sun rises over Glover-immortalised hills, beckoning me along the dirt road to Deddington, land I have yearned to walk upon for the past year. I approach the property of 'Marathon' with excitement, wanting to immerse my self, to feel a sense of place. A new story I am writing belongs to this land, in the nineteenth century, newly colonised. I was not born here and I have not walked the land enough to know it better. I am conscious of my privilege in being here, grateful to the current stewards of the land and their commitment to conservation. I am also conscious of who are not here. I feel it powerfully, later, in my response to walking the land, to travelling up into the forest, onto Stringy Bark Tier, where, in a grove, the stillness leans in. And again, the following morning, under an old tree down on the flats, where the light, the colour, is so rich I can almost taste it. I am moved and I want to write.