Months ago, husband and I scoured our west coast map for unseen places, zoning in on Glenelg. We went last week, exhilarated by the drive over The Ratagan Pass which had us whooping, awe-filled and delighted about the backseat being uncharacteristically empty so nobody was chucking up.
It was a flying visit, but a great place for orientation with Skye as the Arnisdale shore’s just 600m across the water. Glenelg’s history’s fascinating – and prescient. We’ll be back in future to bag the ferry crossing and drive up to Elgol (and whoop more).
What’s that? You need more #52and40 goodness in your consciousness? Clickety click here then, you brilliant, curious soul.
I first knew it as the name of a free operating system on a PC my husband built to prove to himself that no matter how hard Apple and Microsoft tried, they couldn’t catch his maverick ass.
Ubuntu’s also something pre-dating computers and globalisation. It’s something more important. It’s an ancient African word describing a humanist belief: a philosophy that humans are connected by the bond of a shared story and the power in openness to one another, like in a marketplace.
You can find out more about Stockbridge Market and its traders here.
I’ve been trying out listening to classical music after enjoying the dancing fingers of piano playing guests this summer. I wondered out loud what it was about classical music that makes it so relaxing. ‘It’s the lack of beat’, answered my husband, ‘it’s arrhythmic’.
I think there’s a surrender and engagement with classical music when you’re hearing it for the first time; a bit like watching an unreviewed, intriguing performance.
Maybe when time’s unmarked by a beat I keep myself uncharacteristically still, so I can mentally lean in a little more.
I’ve come to acknowledge I have an unhealthy relationship with competitiveness. It lives inside of me, waiting to jump out of my shoulder and be hideous to people or show off and maraud around like an ape on steroids.
I’ve become the patient, hippyish parent of this hyper, pulsing alter-ego. My body is its Steiner School. It’s treated with love and its bad behaviour is ignored.
I use distractions to lure it from evil. I praise it when it is contributing to positive outcomes that make the whole class feel good.
For clarity and cake hunting sanity, the interior cafe & cake shots are taken at Pentland Plants Ltd.
I love the first hour of full light on a summer morning.
It seems a secret time when anything is possible; when birds are busy and a handful of people quietly share the world with more space and air between than is normal.
I wish I could stop the clock and sit holding a mug of coffee at my chin, knees pulled into my chest. I like staring through a window, waking slowly as the gears of the day slot one into the other, pulling tiny seconds methodically away from night.
I’ve been reading a book and listening to a podcast I wouldn’t normally choose. Both stories are crime based; one’s real, the other fictitious.
Both stories are painstakingly, expertly told.
I’ve been intrigued by the acute effects of this different ‘entertainment’ material; I’ve been more alert and somehow quieter. My dreams have gone mad with threats, high risk puzzles, gasping pursuits and hiding.
Paranoia snuck into a dark corner of my mind like an oily gangster, lent on a lamppost and exhaled cigar smoke among my neurons.
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.