Tucked away between hills that seem to hum with old secrets, Isla’s Ridge is where time loosens its grip. It is the kind of place that does not beg for attention; it invites you gently, like a whisper through trees or the soft clink of porcelain in the morning.

The day begins with the breath of a view point of the valley below. Not silent; but a kind of hush. Morning light pulls you outside, stretching over long shadows across floors. You wrap your hands around a warm mug and step out, feeling the chill and the promise of nothing urgent. You enjoy this while sipping on strong coffee, sourced locally from a nearby estate. 

By midday, the ridge is bathed in a warm, golden shine. The light pours in unfiltered, draping the villa and everything it touches in a soft, languid glow. From the porch, you might catch a glimpse of the big Indian squirrel, its russet tail flashing through the trees as it leaps from branch to branch with playful confidence. The hillside trails, wild and fragrant, are speckled with wildflowers growing exactly where they please. Walk below the cover of trees between silent peppers and loud cicadas or just stay in doors while the sun wanders towards the west.   

In the living room, books rest in small, scattered stacks, some cracked at the spine, their pages tinged with the scent of time and memory. The kind of books that ask you to slow down. Maybe you read a few pages and then decide one book cannot do justice to your erudite curiosity. Maybe you simply lie back and let the hush of the day carry you into a soft, unhurried nap.

In the distance, you spot Isla’s two ponies, Blue Diamond and Potluck; grazing lazily near the pool. Their quiet companionship is comforting, like watching an old scene play out with no need for drama. Just peace. Monkeys swing overhead from one jackfruit tree to another, a quick blur of mischief and movement in an otherwise still world. You smile, because everything is alive in its own way and yet nothing demands your attention.

The kitchen smells of comfort. You hear the steady, soothing rhythm of a knife against wood, vegetables being chopped for a salad, each slice crisp and deliberate. There is the muted clink of glass as your chef mixes the dressing: a dash of mustard, a swirl of vinegar, the slow pour of olive oil. The kitchen holds space for everything, for conversation, for tasting as you go. You might steal a small piece of cucumber or mulberry. It is allowed here. 

The evenings do not announce themselves with urgency; it arrives quietly, slipping between branches and across the veranda, casting long, golden shadows that stretch like sighs. That is when the stories wake up. Someone lights a candle, just one, and the room begins to glow from the inside out. Another hand reaches for the deck lights, pouring some warm and amber glow under the trees that overlook the now lit valley. A merry feeling emerges from below the lit trees that showcase a dinner table. The clink of glass on wood, the flicker of flame is all part of the ritual. No one calls it that, but everyone feels it. There is laughter, the kind that starts low and easy, rising like steam from a cup. Someone hums a tune their grandmother used to sing. Someone else tells a story that bends with every telling. And then comes the quiet again, not awkward, not empty; just full. Full of presence. Full of the knowing that nothing else is needed.

The stars arrive in clusters and are unhurried. They hang heavy over the ridge, as if they have made the journey just to show you where they exist. You wait impatiently expecting a move somewhere, but sloth is welcome; surreal is the sight where the valley of night light meets a horizon created by a blanket of shining stars. The only noise here is light and laughter and the fading glow of a shared meal. We must have a sumptuous meal but as fast as we eat, time stays still and we only say night when all else has ceased to inspire us to lay awake.