Cappuccinos at 3500ft? Oh, yes please.
The frothy powder was the propellent that spurred my wearying legs up the fourth mountain peak of the day. We sheltered behind peak three’s cairn to munch doorstep sandwiches and chocolate while the chill wind blustered, numbing our hands and cooling the drinks.
By evening the day had mellowed to sun and long autumnal shadows when whole hillsides moved with herds of red deer and bounding mountain hares. Occasionally a ptarmigan dodged between the rocks while, high above us, skeins of early geese wheeled in from Scandinavia.
Spot-on map reading was provided by my son (who didn’t inherit his navigational skills from his mother).
For sure, a day to remember.
I was having a bit of a wobble; a bleak, dark November crisis of confidence and positivity. So I went for a walk around the seaside town I’ve made my home for the winter (probably: the jury’s still out). And that’s when I stumbled across the Scallop Shell House.
It sits on an unprepossessing corner of a busy road, but it’s a work of art. And it brought an immediate rush of powerful Camino memories from the happy weeks I spent walking across Spain, following the scallop signs. At that time I had no doubts; it was enough to just follow the shells on the roads, the pavements and on the backs of my fellow pilgrims.
Earlier this year I discovered a rough track in the north of Scotland that was spread with thousands of scallop shells and took some comfort then that I was, just maybe, following the right road. I’ll do the same again tonight, and place my trust in the crazy little house of shells just along the street.
The Findhorn in spate was a childhood highlight. We’d hear the river roaring and go down to watch the flood squeezing through gorges. Then we’d jump with excitement on the bridge, following the branches passing below us and popping up at the other side. It felt dangerous and dark and we were exhilarated by the power.
“Water’s a good servant but a bad master,” my father always said.
And we’d nod but not really understand. It was only a half spate today but I was right back in my childhood.
The river paths are a bit neglected these days; wooden bridges hang by a thread, fallen trees need to be scaled and the bracken and heather have started to encroach. But I’m drawn to that sense of decay, the knowledge that they’re slowly being reclaimed by nature.
There are no barriers, no signs, no people; just generations of history and memories.
The autumn migration is under way; the geese are back and filling the skies above me, wave after wave of dark wavering skeins, honking and hooting as they search out and settle in to their winter quarters around the Cromarty and Moray Firths
I’ve been on Nairn beach every morning and evening this week, powering along the sand as my new dogsitting customer, Harley-the-Golden-Retriever pounds through the waves; crazy-happy, beautiful dog
And I’m not alone in stopping to admire the synchronized flight.
“Save your energy for flying!” One woman called out as the sky grew dark and the decibel level intensified above our heads.
They sound excited to have arrived after their journeys from the Arctic Circle, Scandinavia, Greenland and Canada and use their vantage point to scope out the roosts and fields – where they’re not always welcome.
They pass over, still bickering and swerving, swapping places to avoid fatigue among the flock. Here it’s mainly Greylags but there are Pink-Foot, White-Fronted Geese and Barnacles – over 700,000 of them migrating to Scotland every autumn. Last year at this time I was wandering among flocks of Canada Geese on the shores of Lake Ontario, the water sparkling in the autumn sunshine. Great memories.
Whatever the species, they represent the most exciting time of year. October has always been the month of new beginnings; leaving home, starting university, beginning new jobs, embarking on big travel and adventures.
It’s the month when anything might happen.
Sparkling Lake Ontario