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Posts from the ‘Beach’ Category

Finding home

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There’s the view from my windows …. and the compensation when darkness falls. Home, at last.
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Recce-ing the Fife Chain “Walk”

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Chain links zig-zagged up, across and over the top of the  rough cliff face,  pristine steel glinting and signing the way.  I tugged hard: the bolts didn’t budge. So no excuse.

“Suitable for children aged 9 and over,” the internet had reassured. But the sign low down on the path was less gung-ho: “Beware of being trapped by the incoming tide; of being struck by falling rocks and stones; and of falling from steep rock on hazardous coastal terrain.”

And this was just the short recce ahead of the full-scale birthday adventure planned for later in the month. So many thrills still in store. Eeeek.

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Catch a hurricane by the tail…

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… and hitch an effortless ride on the swings.

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You’re never too old for a play park or climbing trees. Right?

Sounding out autumn on the Solway

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It’s quiet for now but the waves of Barnacles are close. Thousands of geese are migrating from the Arctic every day, settling on the Solway to escape the harsh Svalbard winter. The skeins speed overhead in a cacophonous cloud, swirling, unsettled, mad.  And when the deafening sky fades and the last outliers pass, an expectant stillness settles on the sands, fields and rivers. The next invasion is imminent and compulsively you scan the empty skies and listen for the elemental sounds of autumn. The long, languorous summer is over.

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Beautiful barefoot summer

I’ve spent most of the last three months barefoot. And the simplicity of not wearing shoes feels like the ultimate freedom. Invariably I park up near beaches and work then spend my downtime in the water, wading through the waves, paddling and swimming.

My doubts about my lifestyle only surface on days like today when I waken in a city to the sounds of a helicopter and traffic rather than the murmur of waves or wind. That’s when nothing feels right and I start to question the decisions I’ve made and directions I’ve taken.

A run through the sea on St Andrews’ fine sands this evening restored my equilibrium and reassured me that the conversion to nomad is almost complete. Time will tell if my iphone’s unscheduled salty dip has an equally happy outcome.

 

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On the edge of the Atlantic

 

Hill lochans, peat bogs and wild flower machair stretch out behind me; I’m on the white shell sand at the edge of the Atlantic, gazing out at hazy St Kilda, forty miles away. Beyond that it’s Canada.

I’m just the latest to stare out from the western shore of North Uist across thousands of miles of sea to wonder about friends or family on the “other side”. Hundreds left from here in the early 1800s, bound in the main for Cape Breton, Nova Scotia. Desperation drove them on perilous one way journeys because they couldn’t afford to pay high rents on their small crofts and there was no mercy from the landowners who effectively “cleared” them from their land.

Maybe that’s why this feels such a fragile, poignant place; it’s haunted by the memories and the longing of families who’ve gazed for two centuries from either side of the ocean. You hear ancient whispers in the western wind and sense a long sorrow for the loss of homeland.

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Point the way, beach sentinel

On lightening blue days it kicks and dances or reclines to soak up scarce northern rays. When the storms come I watch it shiver; exposed to the blast from the sea. And once the sun fades low, it turns mellow in the glow of our soft winter light. Bare beach tree, I love your moods.

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