The Mountain Garden

Morning arrived smelling of resin and warm dust. Polly picked her way through the low, silver-green scrub that clings to the mountainside, a carpet of leaves toughened by sun and salt.

Rosemary and thyme brushed against her as she passed, releasing their scent in waves that trailed her along the slope. Botanists speak of this mountain as one great garden, and it was beginning to earn the title.

Hundreds of wild species crowd these slopes, and a handful of them are found almost nowhere else on Earth. Every crack in the rock seemed to hold something quietly thriving.

A dwarf fan palm had wedged itself between two boulders, and pines leaned out over the pale stone as if peering down at the sea. Polly settled into their shade and let the wind in the branches do the talking.