I am tired. Muscle, sinew, bone: I am depleted to my core. I am tired. This time last year, I was tired too. Reading back on my diary tells me so. It helps to remind myself this is a patten, not a symptom. I am nature. Although not rooted, I am plant in human form, … Continue reading Night Night, Sleep Tight
The light slips here, it moves subtly but dramatically, as did the slide of snow from the cottage roof earlier. When we arrived, I saw it as a slipped blanket soon to fall off the bed. Helen, who lives next door and is looking after us during our stay, told us to walk close to … Continue reading Hownam, Scottish Borders
Set off from Eóin’s about 11:30 to walk a section of the John Muir Way, said we’d meet him and the child at Smeatons for tea and scones at 2 o’clock. Surely we’d have the short distance covered by then. From the end of the High Street, we bear west along the coast the high … Continue reading John Muir’s Long Shadow
It shall be my fifth consecutive evening swim in the harbour. Spring tides are here. I’m togged up. I head down to launch myself when the water is high, but the spirit is low, weak. Not this evening, I decide. There is no need. Why put yourself through this torture? Nobody’s forcing you. You’re a … Continue reading The Contented Loneliness of the Cold Water Swimmer
XV. Bruntsfield Each Tuesday, I wait for niece and nephew by Gillespie’s gates where flocks of youths migrate. A flow unstoppable, torrential surge of students off to colonize, with laughter, leafy laneways of this southside’s suburbs. In pairs, in gangs, chatter erupts, calls of, ‘wait up!’, ‘see you, Cam’, ‘call me tonight’. A lucky dip … Continue reading Bruntsfield, Blackford Hill
XI. Holyrood Park Freedom reigns in Holyrood behind the Queen’s big house. Wide-open space, grass to roam barefoot, feed ducks, kick balls. A woman in a leotard – small waist, wide hips – attempts to wheel a hula-hoop along her arm across her clavicle and back along the other arm. Every time, she fails. I … Continue reading Holyrood Park, Arthur’s Seat
I slipped off to Clifden to find the west is not only awake, it is burnished in gold. Deep into autumn and a summer’s day emerges so warm and still that my swim across Dog’s Bay feels semi-tropical. Our host is pleased we are seeing the west well dressed and prettily turned-out. No, I am … Continue reading The West’s Awake
III. Bonaly The wind is up on my drive to Bonaly past cherry tree trunk soldiers lining Redford Barracks. Fallen leaves St Vitus’ dance in the gutter. At Colinton, I turn towards the hills and take a narrow, pitted road down bumps and bracken-broken verges. Slower now, a herd of alpacas graze the Pentlands’ sheltered … Continue reading Bonaly, Capelaw Hill, Willowbrae
Alone in the conservatory, house full of people, none yet risen, is the feel of Portrush in the summer. Half an hour’s serenity before sixteen hours of clatter and movement. For now, all is still and quiet, but behind the silence is a mix tape soundtrack of the day wakening. Back door ajar, I hear … Continue reading Morning
I didn’t know burial grounds were so full of life. Cemeteries filled with crumbling stones dating back one hundred, two hundred years, hidden and forgotten places known only by lonely dog walkers, head-dwellers, and retirees, places like Warriston Cemetery where the dead sleep while new growth teems with life. My friend took me there earlier … Continue reading Warriston Cemetery
My Edinburgh Press 