Was it a defining moment? Maybe. Probably not. But one thing's for sure, they are words that have stayed with me for a long, long time. "If a man's job is his hobby, then he's a very rich man indeed."
Wise words, and softly spoken as Willie was thawing his feet against the chugging, steaming, Rayburn. A welcome break from tending his sheep and working his land, his very poor, frozen, infertile land. A harsh existence, but a distant look in his calm, clear, blue eyes showed contentment. A man with very little, but a man with so much.
And so now we find ourselves creating a life that is our hobby. A life of simple pleasures to be shared with others. A life where our food is homegrown, baked, roasted, potted and preserved. Where our olive grove is dotted with tents, long grass and wild flowers, no uniformity, no marked out plots, no satellite dishes, no TVs.
Just the sounds of children playing by day, the chickens scratching for bugs and the goat waiting to be milked.
People coming and people going, taking bikes out, going about their campsite chores, picnicking, exploring the mountains and crags, on foot, by bike or with rope and quickdraws. Off to the beach, into the village, discovering a waterfall, stumbling across a monastery, drinking with the locals.
By night as the sun goes down, smoke from the barbecues and the smells of cooking fill the air. The sounds of chat, laughter, clinking of glasses. Someone softly strumming a guitar, the stars are bright and the children, one by one, slowly fall asleep.
To create this will be a wonderful hobby indeed.
