Yellow flags and banners, printed in black, with simple, short messages, dripping slightly now with the mizzle that came with the dawn. Many arrived with the early morning street sweepers, the old guard, he knows most of them. There is Polly, with the cropped hair, talking to the media. Safe pair of hands, she’d not … Continue reading Freedom and Democracy
Before the world became the precarious place that it has reverted to being, I used to think, upon arriving or returning from a journey, long or short, how much of miracle it is that civilisation works so well. I play an Irish jig on the fiddle called The Wheels of the World, which is a … Continue reading Precarious
I visited Heaney’s grave with my friend last week. First, we went to The Homeplace, the arts centre in Bellaghy that celebrates his poetry. I’d been before and I love it. Loved seeing how a poem moves through multiple iterations of scoring and scribbles and shifting around before he gets to something he’s happy with. … Continue reading Seamus Heaney’s Grave
He has learned my name, he says it over and over, calling me, his new playmate, to attention. If my name were the clutch of a car you would smell burning by now. He puts one hand on his hip, like a supermodel who has reached the end of the runway, and thrusts the free … Continue reading A Lesson
I write this propped up in a strange bed. Four days strange, but welcoming, comfortable, quiet, and enveloping with its yellow sunflower bedcover. It’s my holiday haven. I look around and try to notice everything about being here, as it will soon be over, these moments gone, unlikely to be repeated. I still myself to … Continue reading This Moment
“Could you send me the name of the wine you brought when you came for dinner the other night?” Ping. Back came an immediate response: “Canny Mind.” Gone are the days of wines being named after the vineyard, the land where the grapes are grown or the winemaker himself. Château Des Maures, Cloudy Bay and … Continue reading Canny Mind
He had a coffee; I had Earl Grey. His was frothy and a bit cold, he told me; mine was too hot, so I blew on it, not that it made a whit of difference. “From England? You’re walking the whole way from the North of England to Santiago?” “Yes. The one in Spain, … Continue reading There’s a Hole in my Bucket
In both the religious and the secular world, November is the month of remembering the dead: the ordinary dead, the glorious dead, the forgotten dead. Remembrance Sunday fell this month and people are still wearing their poppies (a smattering of white now joining the red). They are probably worn for different reasons: to respectfully call … Continue reading Past Glories
The way through the forest to get to the cottage on Crosby Lake is definitely not a road, but it’s not quite a dirt track either. Whatever you might call it, it has ‘gateway to wilderness’ written all over it in the form of chipmunks scurrying across the path, the hindquarters of deer disappearing into … Continue reading Gratitude
The world seems like a precarious place right now. It feels like we could jump very quickly from slinging mud to slinging missiles. Or, I should say, more missiles by more people, and for a very confusing array of reasons. It is hard to know where the truth lies; a sentence that can deliberately be … Continue reading Repeating Cycles
My Edinburgh Press 