I haven’t really been on WordPress, which means I have fallen behind on the wonderful blogs I follow – I have missed reading peoples work, thoughts and seeing their creative endeavors. Other peoples creativity is inspiring.
Anyway … tonight I report back to Janet and Shabs on my attempts to counter my writers block. I was tasked to undertake something new. I really struggled with this. I felt like I should do something massive, perhaps bungee jumping or skydiving. But lets face it, those things are not me.
So I started with mindfulness. Again something that isn’t me. Like many people I have a racing mind and I struggle just to be. So I set off to Dr Neil’s Garden which is close to my house and is often pretty quiet. I found myself a bench with a view over Duddingston Loch, put a ten minute timer on my phone then hid in my bag.
It was a drab day, but the view made up for that. It took me a while to settle, but I did in the end. Its such a peaceful spot, not even ruined by the hum of cars in the distance. I loved watching a heron flying past (I associate herons with my dad) and I enjoyed the wren who was hopping around. When my timer went off I was surprised by how quickly the ten minutes had gone by.
I headed home, made a cup of tea and actually cracked on with some writing, adding another couple of thousand words to a longer piece I have on the go.
So mindfulness gets a thumbs up from me, though I think in reality I would struggle to do this regularly … especially with the colder months setting in. But who knows!
Second Attempt – distraction
Next I allowed myself to do what I wanted … not to force myself to sit at the desk, but to just go with my mood. This was a far less successful strategy and it turned out to be expensive. On the plus side I made a cute ghost, got lots of lovely new books to read, finally had tasty food from Toast & Tea at 63 Holyrood Road **total yum alert** and I got a betta fish. I loved setting up his tank, filling it with plants and I’ve always wanted one, so Wren joined the family. For the sake of my bank account … this is not the go to strategy for me, I have little self control.
Third Attempt – getting out and about
My third attempt was by far the most successful. This week the Scottish weather decided to give us all a break from the endless grey! So I abandoned my desk and just enjoyed some much needed vitamin D. Running has always been a great way for me to overcome a writing hurdle, it clears my mind. Walking also works wonders, with and without my dogs. I took them out into the woods and fields near us, we sat in the meadow just enjoying the sunshine. Then I went walking without them, wandering through the Edinburgh Old Town, before sitting at the parliament and listening to music. It was blissful. I felt much better in myself just for taking some downtime, I came back to my writing in a much better state of mind.
I can’t say I definitively found a method to cure my writers block. However I think just taking a break from berating myself about my lack of creativity, allowing myself to enjoy simple things like the sun and being less harsh on myself helped. I am keen to find out how Janet and Shabs fared!!
It’s funny how life likes to close circles Auntie thought as she tipped backfill into Maurice Turners grave.
She had been at his birth, his mother had gone into labour during his father’s funeral and Auntie had been in the wings waiting to fill the man’s grave. His birth had been quick, Maurice had seemingly been in a hurry to get at the world.
Auntie knew most people who rested here, bar those who had passed long before her time and Maurice was no exception. A nice boy, quick, slight and into everything. He’d had a hawkish face, which suited him as he bobbed and dashed around the place. Smart and likeable, mostly. Maurice had done well at school, earned a scholarship and had even managed to get himself all the way to university in neighbouring St Almany. At this point he had dropped off Aunties radar for she seldom left the cemetery let alone Kilder.
It wasn’t until her niece, Lolly had gone to St Almany to have her wisdom teeth pulled, that Auntie heard of Maurice again. Lolly met him by chance in the street, and he had taken her out for a fine dinner, then to the theatre. Not used to being around people with coin to splash Lolly had been very taken by him. She remained in touch with Maurice when she returned to Kilder, writing to him and seeking opportunities to visit St Almany.
Once done with school Lolly pursued a stage career, which took her back to St Almany and Maurice. Lolly had been beautiful and wasn’t short of suitors, but it was only Maurice that she had eyes for. It wasn’t long before they were engaged, which Lolly’s mother thought a good thing, as the girl couldn’t act and clearly wasn’t going to make her fortune on the stage. Better that she marries and perhaps start a family.
Maurice had become a wealthy young man, having started a successful shipping company. With his wealth he bought up land around Kilder including the old Rhodes estate. The estate had once been a grand residence, with extensive orchards and grazing. He intended it to become the family home and set about returning it to its former glory.
Lolly and Maurice’s wedding was an extravagant affair. Their guests were treated to a lavish feast, dancing and performances by friends from Lolly’s theatre days. Auntie had been invited, but had not attended, she didn’t go in for crowds or the formalities of the living.
For the first year of their union, they lived in St Almany, but when Lolly fell pregnant, she returned to Kilder taking up residence in the Rhodes Estate. She had an easy pregnancy, glowing throughout. At weekends Maurice would come down from the city and they would entertain guests. The love and joy of the young couple seemed to flow from their home and out into the wider community, rippling out like a flame. For the first time in years there was a sense that great things could happen in Kilder.
The night the baby arrived was still and calm, except the sky which had been lit by the burning debris of a passing meteor. Auntie had watched the flares of light and energy in wonder from the cemetery. When she heard Lolly’s child had chosen that night to be born, she couldn’t help but wonder about the nature of this omen. Good or bad? Whichever it was there was power bound into it.
A month later Auntie dug a new grave. She chose the spot carefully, on the edge of the cemetery, near the riverbank among a cluster of mayhaw trees, which would cascade with white blossoms in the spring and flame red with rich ripe fruit in the flowers wake. Lolly’s child was laid to rest here, amongst the trees. The funeral had been short, the parents were statuesque in their grief, and that night Maurice had returned to St Almany.
Lolly remained on the estate and for a while Maurice had travelled between the two homes, but storms, rival firms and even pirates had meant that his business was in difficulty, and he couldn’t be spared. Eventually he stopped travelling between his homes and stayed in the big city leaving his wife alone in her grief.
The pain of loss changed Lolly, she was no longer a bright and beautiful creature. Her mother and friends tried to provide her with solace and comfort, but she would take none. She blamed herself for what had happened and Maurice’s absence only reinforced this.
For a year Lolly kept to herself and was seldom seen in the daylight hours. On the anniversary of their child’s birth Auntie found flowers at the child’s grave, a bright cluster of asters laid neatly before the headstone. Soon after the estate which had been in deep mourning along with its mistress returned to life. The gates reopened, the household was restaffed, the orchard workers returned, and livestock brought to auction. A shroud had been lifted.
However, Lolly remained largely unseen by those who knew her, reclusive, she communicated with notes and letters only, but that winter things changed. Invitations came out, inviting the whole town to a New Years party.
The event was extravagant, and it was only the first of many. Soon it was not just the Kilder folk who were invited, but also those from distant regions. Each party grew in scale and expense, and Lolly was the queen of excess. When she started to invite theatre groups to the estate to entertain people began to talk, for everyone knew about Maurice’s money woes, but Lolly continued to spend, and they continued to attend. Maurice remained in St Almany, he didn’t come to chastise his wife for her spending and their credit for now remained good, but everyone noticed the growing rift between husband and wife.
A particularly famous troop of performers came over from Europe that season and they brought the roof down in every town and city they visited. Lolly just had to host them, she pulled every string and spent a royal fortune to get them out to the Rhodes Estate.
The troop arrived under the light of a full moon, in carriages pulled by fine black horses. Auntie watched them pass through the town and believed she recognised them for what they were. The following morning, she went out to the estate and asked to speak to Lolly, but she was turned away. Undeterred she had found another way in but was sent packing when she reached the house. Still, she tried again, asking a maid to take her niece a letter, the girl promised she would.
That night all the towns folk were invited to the estate, except Auntie. An elaborate production of Midsummer Night’s Dream was put on by the Europeans and the next day it was all anyone spoke about. Auntie felt slightly calmed as nothing untoward had happened.
Another night, another performance, the comic opera Princess Ida, this time with guests from all over the county not just Kilder. Auntie watched the fireworks that concluded the party from her bench at the cemetery. As the coaches rolled back to town, she began to wonder if she had been wrong about the performer’s nature.
The third night was the troops final performance. Kilder buzzed with excitement and gossip about the extravagances Lolly had planned.
A knitting in Aunties stomach set her worrying. She decided to seek her niece out, she needed reassurance that all was well. It was easy to slip into the estate this time for every tradesman and his dog had business there that day and she was just one of many people arriving. She let herself into the house, slipping past the maid she had previously asked to deliver her warning and made for Lolly’s bedchambers. She found the curtains drawn, but the bed had not been slept in. It was at this point she was discovered and was escorted from the property. As she was roughly handled down the drive, she caught a glimpse of Lolly emerging from one of the large carriages in which the performers travelled. Even from this distance Auntie could see the radiant glow about the girl, they locked eyes, then Lolly turned her back on Auntie.
Auntie watched as carriage after carriage rolled past her cemetery on route to the estate. The hum of the party could be heard over the cicadas, music and voices rising and falling. Later when she retired to bed Auntie noticed an orange glow on the horizon, she opened her window and the air that crept through carried the scent of smoke.
The fire had started in the kitchen, spreading quickly, trapping many of the guests inside. By the time an organised response was underway it was too late, forty-four souls had perished. When the news reached Maurice, he rushed back to Kilder and it was he who pulled Lolly from the rubble.
His wife was utterly unscathed, her clothes were burnt, but she hadn’t a bruise or singe upon her. She was hurried back up to St Almany for medical treatment, but it was unnecessary, and she was discharged into Maurice’s care. Once back in their town house she took to the bedchamber and wouldn’t leave.
Auntie interred the locals over the next few days and helped arrange for the final passage of the deceased who had further to travel. The cemetery had been a busy place, busier than Kilder which was now much reduced and deep in mourning. Though behind closed doors and in quiet places whispers began, had Lolly had started the fire.
While his wife refused to be part of the world and remained locked away in her bedroom Maurice’s money woes came calling. The estate had been mortgaged to cover his business debts, and with the fire the debt had been called. His remaining assets were seized, the business foreclosed on, and the estate sold.
Months later on a moonless night Maurice and Lolly returned to Kilder, taking up residence in their only remaining property, a small house near the forest. Nobody saw Lolly, but Maurice was seen pacing on the porch or walking in the woods. He came to the cemetery daily, placing a single lily at his child’s grave. Where he got the coin for the flower from Auntie didn’t know, but she never asked about it. However, at her sister’s behest she did approach him to enquire after Lolly. His voice was slow and heavy, his answer short – she was recovering.
The weeks passed, the seasons changed, Lolly remained an unseen entity while Maurice became wraith like in his demise.
One morning Auntie found fresh flowers at the child’s grave, not the singular lily she was used to but the purple blue asters. The following day Maurice’s body was found. He had been brutally slain. The coroner concluded it was an animal attack and when Auntie was called upon to prepare him for burial, she agreed that something wild had ended his life.
Of Lolly there was no sign. The house had been vacant when the sherif went to inform her about her husband’s passing. A search had been conducted but nothing turned up, she had simply vanished.
So here was Maurice, resting in a shallow grave just yards from where he had been born, thirty-one years ago. Funny how things worked out. Auntie pulled her pipe from her pocket and settled down to wait. Not long after sunset a shadow came creeping. Lolly. She approached and paused by the shifting soil in the grave before her. A hand clawed its way through the dirt, an arm, another hand, then Maurice’s face, filthy and feral. Auntie sighed, tapped out the pipes embers and picked up her shovel. Duty called.
Image – Bing Microsoft Image Creator – Mississippi estate
Mind Burble
This piece was originally much shorter and was written for a workshop. I wrote it following a trip to New Orleans which should tell you were all the ideas came from, least surprising of all the I guess would be the appearance of vampires. It was a lifelong dream to visit New Orleans and I did hope it would inspire a story.
I enjoyed leaning into the tone and the tropes in this piece. It was nice to come back to it, to make changes and finish it, as lately I am really struggling to finish anything and I don’t feel like I am making any progress with my long term projects. So yes a box ticked, a story finished and a vague sense of achievement, even if I am not wild about the story.
Tricked by the sun into setting out on my run wearing shorts and a vest, I push myself to move faster. I never know what to wear when I go running at this time of year, the joys of British weather.
A kilometre into my run and I no longer care about what I am wearing. The first kilometre is always the worst, it takes a while for my body to remember that it can do this, and I am not going to die. Probably not.
Today’s route takes me along the Innocent Railway Line, which cuts behind Duddingston Loch and some posh golf course. It’s a hay fever hellhole at the moment, but it’s nice to be off the roads. A man comes into view and at once my woman’s radars squawks.
(Women will know the radar I am talking about; we all have one, it alerts us to potential threats and dangers. These radars start to develop when we reach our early teens, sometimes when we are younger – the when doesn’t really matter, it’s just a sad fact that all women have one. There comes a point when being female has its disadvantages.)
He’s squatting at the edge of the path, facing the wall with his hood pulled tight around his head. It isn’t warm, but there is no reason for his hood to be obscuring his face. He’s half hidden in the bushes – everything about him seems off.
He’s on my side of the path, so I cross to my right and speed up, not wanting to linger near him. I check behind me to see if anyone else is around, but there isn’t. It’s just me and him. I turn my music off and keep running.
As I pass him, he slowly turns and rises to his feet, casting his eyes over me. My skin crawls, I feel like meat. I force myself to move faster, not liking the look on his face. Five meters grow between us, then ten. I keep glancing back. He hasn’t moved, but he’s still staring at me. I don’t turn my music back on, I need to stay alert, I don’t want him suddenly sprinting up behind me.
I turn again and he’s smiling. There’s an edge to that smile, its cold, blade sharp and it doesn’t reach his eyes.
‘No need to run so fast love, I wouldn’t touch you,’ his voice is coarse, thick with threat. ‘You wish I would rape you.’
I’m sprinting, my feet pounding the tarmac, and he starts to laugh, enjoying my fear.
‘You wish I’d lick …’
I’m done. I stop. I turn to face him, red faced, sweat stinging my eyes and with a flick of my hand I send him spinning up into the air. Not gently, his arms and legs flail wildly. He shouts, not words, just noisy barks of fear.
This feels good.
I slam him against a huge oak tree, he smashes his way through the branches and thuds meatily into the trunk.
‘Fucking bitch!’ He bellows.
Again, I batter him into the tree and this time something cracks, it’s a moist sound – his ribs perhaps? A smile sweeps across my face. He’s making a lot of noise, so I spin him like a Catherine wheel. He vomits, bile and blood splatter the ground narrowly missing me.
‘Please,’ he sounds piteous now. His earlier menace is gone.
I stop his head long spin and he hangs untidily in the air, like a puppet whose master doesn’t quite know how to pull the strings. I savour the moment nibbling the inside of my cheek as I consider him.
‘Please,’ he repeats his plea.
No. Not today. I shoot him up into the air, higher and higher and just when I am about to lose my control over him, I snap my fingers. His body rips apart. I fling my arms wide and his remains fly in opposite directions, one half landing in the loch with a splash, the other somewhere out of sight on the golf course.
The sweat has cooled on my body and my muscles have begun to stiffen. I turn my music back on and restart my run.
I wrote this piece a year ago after bumping into the gentleman who ends up all over the local landscape whilst out on a run. I decided to share it today as on my run this morning a cyclist felt the need to pull his bike into my path, forcing me to a stop whereupon he inform me to get a better running bra.
By the time I had processed what he had said he was on his way. Firstly I was wearing my best bra, secondly he had no need or indeed right to approach me like this. Anyway, it made me want to share my I Wish piece again.
This short story went into the anthology that Janet Armstrong, Shabs Rajan and I put together. Which is available in print from Amazon or on Kindle Unlimited. We hope to put together another collection at some point its fun to do and a good way to use stories that otherwise seem to end up sitting in a folder on our computers.
I first noticed I was missing on a Thursday. It was coming up for lunch and my stomach was nagging, demanding I eat the soggy egg mayo sandwich I had stuffed in my handbag this morning as I hurried out the front door. I was standing in the corridor by the stationary cupboard, waiting for Brenda to unlock it. If I ever find out who put Brenda in charge of office supplies all those years ago when she started here, I will kill them. She takes her role as overseer of pens, paper, paperclips and staples insanely seriously. Honestly, I think the world would be a better place if when she finally gets the cupboard open, I snatch the keys from her hand, shove her into her precious cupboard and lock the door.
Brenda mumbles in a gripey manner as she places the key in the lock. She has a way of speaking that suggests the whole world is a disappointment to her and my need to replace my missing pen is just one task too many. I nod and make preprogrammed noises that I have learnt over my years working here at Duns, that I know will appease Brenda without further entangling me in any form of conversation with her.
Out of the corner of my eye I see something move. I turn and look out the window, the something is pretty large, and it lumbers between the chimneys on the roof opposite. It hops like a crow, but it’s far too big to be an average corvid.
Black and brown feathers.
Brenda tuts, she has realized I am not listening. I smile at her apologetically and wonder when I became an appeaser of such people. She opens the cupboard door, pulls the light chord and strides into the tight space of the stationary cupboard like a queen inspecting a parade. The walls are stacked high with carefully organized boxes, this place is a treasure trove of office supplies, there’s enough in here to see out the end of days filing needs. She is still tutting.
Tut, tut.
I twist my hair between my fingers, looping its dull brown strands round them. Brown, my sister got our mothers beautiful golden locks while I got our father’s boring brown ones. As soon as I left home, I got rid of them, chopping my hair super short, and dying it a different colour nearly every month. I was a rainbow. Now I’m something else, I have shed my rainbow plumage.
Drab little bird.
Brendas pudgy hand is offering me a box of clicky tipped pens, there’s five in there, rattling around. She watches with beady eyes as I take one, determined to make sure that I don’t try and sneak an extra pen. Heaven forbid such a wanton act, these supplies are for hoarding, not using. I wonder what she would do if I did take an extra pen and for a second my hand havers. Brenda’s eyes narrow, her shoulders tighten, she is tensed, coiled and ready to strike at my hand should I take more than my allotted one clicky tipped pen.
Click, click.
The thing on the roof opposite moves again. I sense it’s trying to get my attention. I pick a pen and look up at Brenda, smiling my thanks. My smile isn’t real. It isn’t my smile. It’s one I paint on when I am here, when I am on the bus, when I am doing the weekly shopping and all the other hundred little things that make up my monotonous life.
It isn’t my smile.
I glance out the window. The shadowy thing on the roof is now leaning against a red brick chimney. Casually, with a coolness that reminds me of James Dean, thanks to the nonchalant slope of its wings and the cock of its head. I was right it isn’t a crow. I am no ornithologist, but I think it might be a vulture. Like the ones from the film the jungle book. I hated that film, it terrified me.
King of the swingers.
It notices it finally has my attention and with flippant ease it holds up a sign. Brenda asks me if I am ok. I ignore her, and squint through the grey rain outside trying to read what the sign says.
‘Do it.’
Do what, I wonder. Brenda shuffles closer trying to get past me to lock up her precious stationary, she presses against me, and her breath smells like stale laundry. The vulture holds the sign up higher. Then turns it over, revealing that the other side also has writing on it. Brenda has turned her back to me and is about to close the cupboard door.
I read the new message, ‘You won’t regret it.’
I don’t even think about it. I raise both my hands and shove Brenda into the cupboard. It’s not an easy thing to do, she’s a powerful woman. She squawks as she trips forward, but again I don’t really hear her. Her voice has become a static buzz. I close the door as she tumbles into a towering pile of boxed A4 paper and turn the keys that she helpfully left in the lock.
Clunk
Outside the vulture has shuffled to the edge of the roof. It’s busy writing on another large piece of card. I wait for it to finish. Beside me Brenda is banging on the door, I can tell because its lurching in the frame, but I can’t actually hear anything, it is as if cotton wool now swaddles the world. Everything seems distanced and softened. Somewhere deep inside the office a radio is playing, its faint and the tune is familiar.
The vulture holds up its sign.
‘Feel better?’
No. I don’t.
I shrug at it helplessly and the bird begins to write again. As I wait for it to finish its scribing the radio grows louder, but I still can’t figure out what the tune is. But I know I once knew it. Word for word in fact.
The bird holds the sign up.
‘Call missing persons.’
What? I gesture with my hands. The bird smiles knowingly at me, flaps its wings and takes to the air, dropping its signs upon the street below. They scatter as they fall, twisting in the wind. The radio plays on and Brenda’s protesting bangs upon the stationary cupboard door seem to track the unidentified songs rhythm. So, I first became aware of my missing persons status on a Thursday thanks to a vulture, but if I am to be entirely honest, I’d had a sneaky suspicion something wasn’t right for a while.
Image from Microsoft Bing Image Creator – Do it vulture
Mind Burble
This piece was written as a timed exercise during a workshop. We were given the prompt I first noticed I was missing on a Thursday, which comes from Calling Invisible Women by Jeanne Ray. I hadn’t read the book at the time, but went on to do so. I really enjoyed it, its a quirky look at the experience of middle aged women, told in a thoroughly relatable manner! I enjoyed the feminist undertones of the book and often found myself nodding along in agreement.
Productivity strode into the room. Great Idea, Inspiration and Research all cheered. Great Idea turned the computer on and hovered excitedly next to the empty chair waiting for her idol to get down to business.
On the other side of the room Distraction hurriedly picked up her phone and tried to open Facebook, but Diligence was onto her. She snatched the phone and changed their password, ensuring doom scrolling couldn’t commence. Grateful that Diligence had her back Productivity gave her friend a snappy high five as she took her seat, flexed her fingers and opened a new word document.
‘We’ve got this!’ Great Idea declared.
Inner Critic pretended to vomit, but nobody was paying her any attention. Great Idea and Inspiration both started talking at once, gushing with excitement, while Creativity began to hum. The room quickly divided, half of the occupants bubbled with anticipation, while the remainder were an agitated mess.
Great Idea and Inspiration called Research over, they conferred, and Research opened a search engine, they needed to know more.
Distraction zoned in on Research, slinking across the room seductively. ‘What are you looking at?’ She purred smiling sweetly at her target.
Research blushed, Distraction had a lovely smile, and she was looking rather attractive today. She started to explain what she was investigating, but Distraction interrupted her.
‘Ohhh,’ Distraction sighed disinterestedly. Then she leant in close to Research, ‘I like dogs, dogs are cute. Maybe we should check the adoption sights?’
Research havered, they all liked dogs. Inspiration floated over, she forced herself into the narrow space between Research and Distraction deliberately jostling the would-be tangent off the bench.
Fear of Exposure had overheard what Research was looking up. She started huffing and puffing, pacing back and forth across the room. Finally, she could take it no more.
‘That’s a controversial topic Research. I don’t think we are qualified to write about it. We could upset people.’
Inner Critic agreed while in the corner Stuck in the Middle started to cry. She wasn’t close to being needed yet, but she had a sixth sense for knowing when things could get messy and she had a bad feeling about this story already.
‘We haven’t had a cup of tea in ages,’ Distraction grumbled.
‘Or a biscuit,’ Can’t get in the Zone added. ‘I wonder if we have any biscuits, maybe we should go to the shops?’
Productivity, Inspiration, Great Idea, Research, Creativity and Diligence shared a look.
‘Get them!’ Productivity shouted.
There was a passionate tussle, but Diligence won over and soon Distraction, Can’t Get in the Zone, Perfectionism, Fear of Exposure, Inner Critic and Stuck in the Middle were all tied up in the corner of the room. For a while they mumbled and grumbled, but it was no good Productivity was on a roll.
My grandmothers family are from the Orkney Islands. If you haven’t been – go!! There is something magical about Orkney and its not just because I am an archaeology geek – there is something in the air.
Orkney is one of my most favourite places and I have been writing about it, in particular about the island of Hoy.
Lately I have been writing about Hoy, its landscape and the feeling I have when I am there, these things are being woven into my writing. So far the island, acts as the backdrop for a few pieces I have written and I have several more stories planned which are set there.
I exaggerate aspects of Hoy in these stories, but it is the inspiration. And the nature and geography of the island has definitely helped shaped these stories.
And I mean look at it? How could such a place not inspire? Rackwick Bay is dramatic, there is a stark contrast between the soaring red sandstone cliffs, the soft green grass, the pristine beach ringed with beautiful coloured stones, the endless sky and the ocean.
For me there is a sense of connection, a link to my family. My grandmother used to come to Rackwick Bay to camp, my mother did and now I do when I can. The layering of my families history feels heavy in Orkney, but for some reason here in Rackwick Bay the layers feel a little thinner, like I could reach out and touch the past.
A family camping trip to Rackwick Bay, the building in the back is the Bothy which is open to all – predates my time picture taken by mother when she would have been in her late teens
Landscapes naturally inspire the art world, touching painters, poets, writers, comedians and dancers. I love when I read a book which has a deep sense of connection to the place where the story is set.
On our last trip to the island, in 2022 my sister and I spent a couple of nights camping in Rackwick Bay. The Bothy was pretty quiet, other than ourselves the only other campers were two women, both travelling alone. We went our separate ways during the day, but at night we gathered by the fire, shared wine, food and we talked and talked and talked. It was special to be able to share that time with those women, to hear their stories, to get to know a small part of who they were and what brought them to the island. For me after the isolation of covid, the loss of my mother and several hard years this was a truly magical experience – just being able to connect to others and share. I think I healed more in those couple of days than I can explain.
So yes it was probably inevitable that I would begin writing about Hoy and the women we met that weekend will be featuring in a story that I have planned. Though I suspect they may not recognise themselves if they were to come across the story! This morning I felt a sense of urgency, a need to return to Orkney, it’s been two years, which feels far too long. The best I can do for now however is write about the islands and look at photos I have taken on trips there over the years.
A Year of Time 