Day out: Dalkeith Country Park

I am sitting on the couch. Beside me Craig is reading Louis Theroux’s Call of the Weird. Outside the wind is pushing the rain drops against the window and it sounds like the clattering of tiny clogs.

Aside from his charming company, one of the wonderful things about having Craig for a visit is it gets me out seeing things that I haven’t yet seen. I think I assumed that some of the more beautiful countryside areas require a lot of effort and costly train journeys.
But today for just £1 we caught the number 3 bus all the way to Dalkeith, where we wandered off to the Dalkeith Country Park. Craig had been drawn to my wee guide book’s promise of a “Forest of Oak.” The park contains the remnants of the oak forest of Caledon, the kind of eerie woodland I read about as a child in fairy tales. Imagine gallant men on horseback braving the darkened tracks while the crows called ominously overhead.

The entire park is about 850 acres and was once part of the estate owned by the Douglas family of Dalkeith. In 1643 the Buccleuchs bought the land and is now one of four estates in Scotland owned by the Duke of Buccleuch. The park is managed by Buccleuch Countryside Service (It is a beautiful park so I will try not to complain about the many tax write offs available for wealthy aristocrats in Britain). Near the park's entrance also stands the grand 18th century residence of Dalkeith House, which unfortunately looks less than fabulous at the moment as it is currently covered with quite a bit of scaffolding.
We ignored the advertisements for the adventure park (perhaps I shall swing through the trees another time) and followed the trail along the river. We had to keep stopping because we kept finding glorious clumps of mushrooms for Craig to photograph. Said he: “Arboreal fungi -can never have enough.” We also paused often to watch the falling leaves and the way the languid river carried them softly along to some unknown destination.
Upon reaching to top of a long zigzag path we saw the first of the oak trees. But rather than stay to the path, which didn’t look like it promised enough tree gazing, we headed off into a field and ended up spending some time dodging cow pats and squelching mud before finally traversing the field and joining the path again.

The trail was perfect in so many ways. I helped Craig search for acorns for his beloved. I also collected a new feather, some small oak branches and some acorns of my own. Most of the trees were gnarled with age and many of the branches were bent in a way that made it look like some mysterious hands had wrung them out like a damp towel. We ogled deep slits in fallen trees where mushrooms were growing. Sometimes the wind kicked up and acorns would rain down on us along with the leaves. One leaf fell on Craig’s head but he decided to just carry it there until the wind decided to take it again, which it did not far down the path.

When we were out of the oak forest we followed a wider path and this is when the sun broke through and glowed through the still-green leaves of poplars and birch trees. We reached the marble basin dedicated to the memory of Jock Hunter, or as Craig put it, “a monument to a serial thief of men’s underwear.”

This really is such a lovely country. I think that so much of the time I have my eyes closed to the splendour that is everywhere, waiting for me to notice it. I go to work, I come home. I take the same walks and travel the same routes on my trips to the shops. I must miss so much.
I still feel a little stunned by today’s discoveries. Many of the oak trees I saw today began their lives in the 14th century. We saw one whose trunk has been severely split, but still it lives, its leaves fluttering above as if no wound in the world could keep them from dancing.
My collection of precious acorns are held inside a wine glass on my shelf, beside which is a larger glass holding two feathers. I shall add my little oak branches to a vase and consider my Halloween decorations well underway.

Once again Samhain is nearly here and I am already hungrily holding on to this, my favourite season. It is too gloriously eerie, too erotic, too sensual. My favourite moment of the day was when the wind pushed down a long, thin branch toward me. The tip of the branch came closer and closer to my neck as if to touch me, just lightly. A small gesture of perceived lust that made me groan.
But now I am nearly out of earl grey tea, so a trip to Sainsbury’s is required. Tonight’s special treat is chocolate bread and butter pudding with ice cream. Gooey good.

Aberlady Bay, Storms and Cake

“There will be less sand when we get to the beach.”

Of all the “it made sense at the time” moments in my life, this is my new favourite. I have tried to slot it into the full context of our adventure, but I don’t think I will ever do the moment justice.
Today’s escapade took in the Aberlady Bay Nature Reserve, which looks out to the Forth Estuary. We abandoned the village of Aberlady itself immediately after discovering that there is not a single café in town.
As we approached the long narrow bridge at the entrance of the reserve, the first flocks of geese flew overhead toward the place where the low tide was sucking at the expanse of the mudflats. Flock after flock rose from beyond the horizon and passed us, the sound of their honking bouncing inside the crooked Vs like pin balls. It was all so beautiful I couldn’t stop smiling and the cold wind made my teeth hurt.
The trail weaved some way off the shore, through grassland and then there appeared the most glorious woodland tunnel, a tunnel cut of out of the interlocking braches of dense growing trees and willows. I adored this place as it included so many of the things I yearn for at this time of year: dried leaves underfoot, erotic, deep shadows, creaking braches, mysterious rustlings from deep inside the surrounding thicket. I would love to spend my Halloween inside this broody cavern.

Outside again the light erupted from the hills to the right, but to the left loomed a bruised bank of cloud above the estuary. I was rushing about, so enthralled with taking photos that I didn’t really register that the storm would soon be upon us. Even though Craig was more prepared for this inevitability (he had his umbrella out and ready), neither of us imagined the lashing we then received. Laughing maniacally and running toward the only bit of shelter I could see - a small bank of shrubs, I had to hold my umbrella open as the wind and rain thundered against it. Within seconds we were soaking wet but having gone too far to turn back, trudged uncomfortably onwards.
Within minutes however the rain had stopped and soon the sun was out, just in time to see us through the sand dunes and over the crest of a hill toward the sea. The approach to the shore involved a descent down a steep path of loose sand that the wind seemed content to whip into our faces. I turned my back to the wind and started to walk down the hill backwards, but just before I did I mindlessly said the above fateful quote to Craig. By the time I stepped onto the packed sand of the beach, Craig had already been rolling the phrase around in his mind and was deeply amused.
We walked along the beach and I struggled to decide where to look. Toward the water and the waves, or to the bank on the other side where the wind was blowing the long grasses in mesmerizing, rhythmic waves. Before we left the beach we saw a peregrine falcon hovering against the wind and occasionally emiting a rapid flutter of wings, all the while peering ceaselessly into the grass, searching for prey.

Our plan was to follow the path to Gullane Point and onto Gullane itself, but we got slightly lost and ended up walking through a huge golf course. “This is the second biggest golf course I’ve ever walked through,” said Craig, as I repeated my fear of being struck in the face by a golf ball.
Finally, just as a new bank of cloud arrived overhead and began to belt new drops down upon us, we found Gullane. The sign above the first shop we spotted contained a most welcome word: delicatessen. I bought black olive paste with chocolate (I haven’t tried it yet but it seemed too beautifully bizarre to resist) and Craig bought treacle oat biscuits (lovely).
But then. THEN. Then we walked down the street and there it was. Falko, one of the finest bakeries in Edinburgh. With a location in Gullane! Who knew?! We had just walked for miles, been thrashed by wind and rain, and here at the end of our fascinating ordeal is a German bakery and cake shop. I was so excited I ran into traffic. Okay, it was only one small car and it was going pretty slow, but still. I had the Schwarzwalder Kirschtorte while Craig enjoyed plum and chestnut cake. They even served “milky coffee,” which is something I remember from childhood visits to Germany. It is a small amount of coffee topped up with steamed milk. “Kinder Kaffee” my great grandmother had called it. I remember feeling special to be allowed to be involved in the event that is afternoon coffee and cake.

There is so much more but these are the highlights I can recall at the moment. My favourite day out so far. Sun, sand sea. Mother Nature presenting a divine, changeable world so beautiful that all I can do is laugh into the wind while the same three words tumble around in my head: I love you I love you I love you.

Kate's Mill, mad dog and wasp stings

Today Craig and I walked along the canal before turning onto the path for the Water of Leith, heading towards Balerno.
One of my favourite spots - Kate's Mill near Slateford:
I especially love the curling stones on the dock.


Along the way we met this dog. His owners were throwing sticks for him off of the bridge. He would lunge after them into the deeper water of the river, the current sweeping him softly away for awhile before he managed to paddle out of it.
Today I was also stung by a wasp! I'm excited because I've been terrified of bees and wasps since I was about five, which was when my brother and I, whilst "exploring" the ground above the root cellar (we like to pretend we were aventurers), tread on a wasp's nest. We panicked and ran around in circles, becoming covered in stings. Ever since then the sight of a wasp or bee has sent me running to hide and it takes ages for me to recover from the shivers. But today I didn't even know the wasp was there and when I went to pull my hand inside the sleeve of my fleece, ZAP! it stung me on the fleshy bit near my thumb. It hurt, but not has much as I thought it would. And I didn't die. My hand ached and went a tiny bit numb, but nothing else happened. It's great when things turn out to be less terrible than I had feared.
This dog had nothing to say for itself. The barcode gave no clues.

These two photos are near the entrace of The Meadows, a lovely area near Edinburgh University with tall trees lining the walkway and big fields where locals play football or just run about for no reason (is there ever a reason for running?). More importantly, near here is Peter's Yard, a Swedish Cafe and bakery where we ate desserts after feasting on Japanese food at a nearby restaurant. I did not take photos of the chocolate mousse or hot chocolate, so you will just have to imagine what they were like.

Finally, I bought myself a wee Greenman candle holder for just £7.50. I am waiting for it to get dark so I can light the candle where his brain should be, and watch his eyes light up.

If you go down underground today...

So there you are, in the near blackness, following a small dark-haired woman in a red coat and a black top hat through the underground streets of Edinburgh. Streets which were blocked off and hidden from view for more than 100 years, until the early 1990s when a student knocked out a wall in his rented flat and found stairs leading down.
What makes the experience perfect is the sound of the water drops falling into small puddles, the plump echoes between the walls, which are oozing dampness. It is also the way Sheen (for that is her name) can mould her voice around the stories, as if she is stroking time. Moving back to when the merchants for whom these then-fashionable streets were built, abandoned them because they leaked. Back to when being homeless was made a crime punishable by hanging, and hundreds of the city's poorest people piled into these cramped tunnels and rooms at dusk, to wait out the night. Back to the night when the city burned and as the fire raged above ground and all those huddled masses thought they were safe, the entrances collapsed and together they were slowly suffocated and baked until they were nothing but a quivering cake of well-cooked flesh.

Later you join another small group and follow Martin into another section underneath South Bridge, and inbetween stories of paranormal reports he tells you of how the spaces that were originally used to store wine were later taken over by other entrepreneurs who would use them to stash the bodies they had just dug up (they would have to fold up the limbs to make them fit), before transfering them through the buried streets to Edinburgh University's growing medical department, where a no-questions, payment-upon-delivery service was in operation.

Martin will hand out the EMF detection meters, which are used to identify disruptions in the natural magnetic field. Ie - we're trying to swoop our hands through ghost bodies. You may wish to stay away from the tall man in the dark coat, because the tell-tale clicks of the hand-held device just seem to follow him. Perhaps it has something to do with how he boldly stepped into a circle of stones that local witches had abandoned after trapping negative energy inside. Perhaps the ghosts can smell it on him.

All you really want to do is just stay there in the dark. Just be left there alone for awhile, to let everything about the place seep into you. See if the little Jack or the one called The Watcher will pay you a visit. Or the peaceful cobbler, keeping one room safe from evil.
Who knows, maybe after you leave, the water drops will blossom into footsteps and the endless march will resume.

Falling into words

Ayub Ogada. The word Kenya printed in black letters on the green stripe of the Real World rainbow. The album is En Mana Kuoyo. I used to play it when I cleaned the cabin – I like the airy clean feeling of it – the bright spaces between the notes and the way the notes themselves topple over each other like children playing in leaves.

It is the album I play when I am stressed, when I know I need to relax. Much of the time my life feels like something foreign that I am trying to balance, like I am holding on to a falseness just so I can continue to function in the world. There are few times when I say “yes” to myself- to who I am. These moments come sometimes during times of solitude, when I allow myself to remember the wordless wonder of things. But it is getting harder to do as I get older – it is like I am going numb, the inner light dulling – scrubbed by routine, by stress, by fear and by a lingering sense of isolation that has been like a shadow throughout my life.

One of my self-guided therapies is free-flow writing. This is like stretching, like dancing and letting my limbs go all floppy. It is for when I recognize my need to find a place without barriers, a land where metaphors can travel and come back, springs and rubber bands returning with the clinging vines of wildness and the snagged thorns of other people’s memories.

I was going to touch down running to Ayub but it feels too fast now. I need to change. Something either earthy or ethereal, but slower.

Illumination is a cd Craig made for me some time ago – the lofty medieval tones of Hildegard von Bingen. I am drawn to mystic religious music – I don’t care what label the divine is wearing. It is the expression of rapture that I love.

There is a language pressing on me from the inside. I fear the flow of it, released through the sieve of my limited abilities, will sound trite, egoistic, flowery and pretentious. But the pressure doesn’t leave until I write, so I’ll just open the taps for now and say yes to what comes.

The only time your hands didn’t shake was when you stood naked beside the sea, the darkness draping over your outstretched arms like cloth. I want you to feel the sand between your toes, accept the fact that you might sink. And yes, you might step forward and walk on water, and yes, I might follow you. But for now you are looking into the gloom. Not just looking. Seeing. The air on your skin is warm and moving over you at the speed of a breeze and a wind, if the two were first cousins that had married. What I mean to say is everything about this moment is specific. Never to be repeated. Precise and beautiful, full but fragile. And I can offer nothing else but a leaf of understanding, that I have acknowledged this lovely moment. It is not framed solid in my mind, but still, on a cool day when the setting sun is warm on my chest like a curled cat, I can let it move over me like the darkness moved over you. And see you standing there again. Watch the fingers of beckoning water and your smile, pulsing with pleasure as you sway in the rhythm of it all.

XXAnd with that, I bid you goodnight.

Reine

After our attempts to rent a car failed, Craig and I took a bus to Reine. It snowed off and on and the wind was sharp. I think I am having difficulty writing about it because it all felt so familiar somehow. This may be as a result of having lived so many places. The mountains on Lofoten looked similar in many ways to areas of the Scottish Highlands -ancient and stoic. The slate grey of the rock reminded me driving north from Vancouver to Hope. The smell of the sea took me back to Tofino and Ucluelet. And the cold piercing everything. The memories striking like flint, but instead of fire, the sparks are ice crystals.

Still, I would love to see Reine in the lushness of summer. Black and green. I think I would wear a skirt of deep purple. It would only be right.

Another Inner World

Craig's beloved, Anne, is a painter. Her work adorns most of the walls of their flat. I love her paintings. They have an energy about them that reminds me of a language that I spoke as a child but which now rests at the very back of my mind. Faerie worlds, landscapes without barriers, stories that pour into rivers, which water strong trees which grow soft leaves that turn into tiny portals to further dimensions. A gentle curiosity dusts every surface.

One of my favourites is this one, called The Gate of the Spirits. She has a new Web site with many of her paintings and photos, which she has kindly given me permission to share:

http://ys.typepad.fr/inner_world/painting/index.html

If you look under pet portraits, you will meet their dog Loki, who I quickly befriended but then forgot to photograph.