When the bloke I fancied told me he lived on a west coast island and ‘commuted’ to Aberdeen for work, I pictured Father Ted’s Manse and grimaced.
‘How can you bear it?’, I’d asked. ‘The flatness? The wind?’
He looked like I’d spoken in Spaniel. The following week I understood.
Sapphire sea in a white sand bay. The perfect cottage.
Mountains, seals, dolphins.
Sunsets, the Milky Way, mornings to make you feel reborn.
Him, in an Acid Croft T-shirt.
‘What about the commute though?’, I’d asked.
He put on Shooglenifity and drove.
More info on #52and40 here.
Late on Saturday afternoon a golden evening rocked up. The kids were elsewhere so a chance to venture out was suddenly there. We decided not to care about what we were wearing and hopped on the bus into town.
Later, on the bus home, just two stops along Princes St, the night was still young and warm enough to walk in. It was buoyant and busy, too.
So we jumped off again, watched and wandered.
That’s the thing about a city; it becomes your well shod backdrop and your rechargeable entertainment.
Spring’s arriving in Edinburgh.
It’s not coming all at once but rather in a series of packages that fight through the wind and the rain before bursting open. Little love bombs of colour and sunshine, drying things out and birthing newness that winter had put in a cupboard and told us to forget about.
Everyone seems happier, kinder and more open in the sunshine. The summer we arrived in Edinburgh was grim. The weather was awful and people were not for talking. I realise I can take that less personally now.