The house at the
end of the land.
Rammed earth, glass and a pool on the cliff edge, alone above the Tasman. Sleeps eight. Yours entirely, staff included if you want them.
Up the path,
as the light goes.
Limestone through the grasses, the earth wall warm from the day, and the door already glowing. Leave the cars — and everything else — at the gate.
Fire on one side.
Horizon on the other.
Six metres of glass holding the last of the dusk, a concrete hearth that stays lit all winter, and nothing on the walls to compete with the view.
A table for ten,
an island for one.
Cook, or have it cooked — the house comes with a chef on request. Either way the pool keeps the dusk going outside the glass while you eat.
Walk beside
the sky.
The pool runs the length of the glass, holding whatever the sky is doing. At dusk you'll stop halfway down. Everyone does.
The sea gets
the last word.
A frameless glass corner past the foot of the bed. Fall asleep to the dark water; the sunrise arrives exactly where it should.
And then the house
lets you go.
Out through the glass, over the pool, up over the cliff — the whole house glowing alone on the headland under every star there is. That’s the photo you’ll try to describe to people.
