The mountains I know are quiet. Often the loudest sounds are the those of the mountains of the mind. A deafening peace only rarely broken by the tumble of rock, wind scour, and the clatter of chain slap, tire roll, and brake squeal. The silence magnified by the mass of space between the peaks.
The Blue Mountains differ greatly. Their sharply towering bushy slopes contain all sorts of sound. There is the symphony of bird calls, the chimming of bamboo pillars upon each other, the meek throaty clcuks of the lizards, and the calls of more domesticated animals like dogs, goats, and donkey.
But these peaks would still retain a peaceful murmur if it were not for the many noises of human inhabitants from their precious perches on the hillsides.
Music is poured into the valleys by many and all. It seems as though the people require a constant soundtrack to accompany their lives. the boisterous sunday football match is bolstered by a wall of speakers that can be heard clearly wherever one may be in the valley.
Rather than seen as a neighbourly nuisance many houses omit a constant barrage of sound as if it is there neighbourly duty to provide the music. Even the workers attempt to compliment all these tunes with pocket stereos. twittering tweeting miniature boom boxes from cellphones or personal music players sound from walk to work to the walk home.
The valley is alive with the festival atmosphere no matter what time of day or night, whether it is monday, a sunday or a friday, the sounds echo in the valley.