I am one of those people for whom a vista – a distant prospect – is of considerable import, whether I be in my own home or off traveling. For as long as has been possible – in other words, ever since I could afford so to do – I have chosen to live in a domicile with a view.
I feel sure that someone, somewhere, has written a learned treatise on just why human instinct seems – for most of us at any rate – to be thus inclined. I would be surprised if this disquisition did not posit the survival instinct as probable cause – the desire to live on a hilltop that one might better recognise approaching danger.
The poet’s cynosure might lie elsewhere – perhaps on the notion that gazing upon a distant panorama is in fact emblematic of our longing for the unobtainable – for that which is beyond our reach – and that the resultant wistful longing tugs at our heart-strings in a manner that we find strangely gratifying.
As I say – I am sure that there have been studies of this phenomenon. I – however – could not find one and you will have to make do instead with one of my favourite poets…
Into my heart an air that kills,
From yon far country blows.
What are those blue remembered hills,
What spires, what farms are those?
That is the land of lost content,
I see it shining plain.
The happy highways where I went,
And cannot come again.
A. E. Housman
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