I am going to unforget my dream. I’ll tell you. I dreamt I was with my female relatives sitting astride a swing-like ski-lift that rose slowly up the snowy slopes of a mountain. I perched precariously, swaying without holding on until finally, and with fear, I slipped backwards and fell into the snow. At the base of the mountains lay a strange town, I found myself deep within its streets and squares. The area was dark, shaded, as if in a deep rift between hills and every square was surrounded by stone walls higher than houses. I passed from street to street, climbed from square to square, through beer gardens and arcades filled with quiet people. It appeared that I was looking for my coat which I had dropped and which I knew I must wear on the cold, snowy summit of the mountain. And I had to hurry, I wanted to catch the others up as the reason for our ascent was a desire to see my mountains. Climbing finally to the top of a fern-topped wall, broad like the ramparts of a castle, I stumbled across my coat and hurried back to the ski-lift, anxiously. There I met my family returning unsympathetic from their trip to the mountain top and I felt a sudden sense of acute pain that I had not been able to be quicker. I managed to whisper a polite and quiet explanation of my need. I voiced my upset gently as if from under water and just as gently my father appeared, as people to do in dreams, and took my hand – as one would a child’s – to lead me up the mountain.