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
It’s coming on Christmas. The days have crossed themselves off the calendar, and here we stand at the year’s tipping point of light into darkness into light. ’Tis the season for enfolding, being quiet, doing less. Instead though, the season demands a deluge of doing, much of which is enormous fun – should one have … Continue reading It’s Coming On Christmas
I wonder how many people are doing it, sending photos of the temperature gauge inside their house, snaps of thermometers plummeting to single digits, sharing images of themselves on their laptop wearing fingerless gloves and bobble hats, swaddled like a dead Viking about to be pushed out to sea. For some it’s an act of … Continue reading Cold
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
I came away thinking: how can I convey in words what I have just heard? For someone who’s not been here, how can I describe it to them? If felt impossible to recreate that sound in writing. I’ll try. St Giles’ Cathedral, just after dusk. A short concert of choral music, a programme entitled Glimmering Light. … Continue reading Glimmering Light
XXIV. The Meadows A storm is blowing through. Aidan. Huge gusts shove children in the playpark, they stagger – little sozzled people – then regain their footing, run. Shouts can’t be heard above the blasting storm that rips through trees, strips boughs, steals hats. The pink curly wig on the girl with fishnet stockings is … Continue reading The Meadows, Kitchen Table
XXII. St. Stephen Street Here men wear trousers chosen for the fruit they eat – cherry, lemon, plum, and apricot. Stock fashion. Plaited belts, hair that tickles silk cravats (in paisley print) tucked into shirts (two buttons open), gold rimmed spectacles, pocket squares poke from Harris tweed. Men who say, ‘brisk breeze today,’ buy croissants … Continue reading St Stephen Street, Water of Leith
XIX. St Cuthbert’s My plan: to gaze on David glazed in glass bejewelled, a rarity from Tiffany’s. Slingshot held low on pebbled shore, he glances over, searching for Goliath. In the background, flags wave triumphant, God’s inspiration, a spur that we can conquer, vanquish beasts. But today the church is locked to keep at bay … Continue reading St Cuthbert’s, High Street, Lawnmarket
XVII. Old Calton Burial Ground Ensconced behind a ferned wall, moss clad and lichen laden, lie this city’s ancestors. Tombs, mausoleums, marble headstones, monuments in granite obelisk, all stand – or slump – in terminal decline. They tilt and lean, bereft of those who grieved them. No solemn mourners now, they’ve been forgotten. Slaters, snails … Continue reading Old Calton Burial Ground, Princes Street
XIII. St Andrew Square Bring back Highwaymen! Have them roam the streets. Have them pistol-pin us with the order, ‘Stand and consider!’ Pay close attention to the open sky. Never lie. Sit on the stone benches bordering St Andrew Square. Mull, ruminate, notice the steel-toe-capped booted, yellow-vested builders eating sandwiches under high-plinthed Henry Dundas, ‘Grand … Continue reading St Andrew Square, Eyre Place
My Edinburgh Press 