I sat on the rim of an ancient volcanic crater and stared down into the depths. Where once magma had bubbled to the surface, now a pen was built to hold stock. But what animals had been farmed on this barren surface strewn with loose shards of volcanic rock I could not tell. I guess though that the bowl-shaped hill acts as a natural sink to collect what little water exists here. The seaward side of the volcano had eroded, giving views onto the flat plain and on to the coastal town.
On an earlier cycling trip, I had forgotten to take brushes. Painting with paper towel in a small notebook is not delicate.
This coastal mound had the feeling of a vast slumbering dog, head on outstretched paws. In my first attempt I lost the proportions of the rear, fore-shortening what should be an elongated hill.
I redrew it in pencil, but painted it later when I had brushes once more.