『Cercal, Portugal. February, 2021. Pt. 2』のカバーアート

Cercal, Portugal. February, 2021. Pt. 2

Cercal, Portugal. February, 2021. Pt. 2

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今ならプレミアムプランが3カ月 月額99円

2026年5月12日まで。4か月目以降は月額1,500円で自動更新します。

概要

 (After you have read these introductory paragraphs once, you can skip to the new/old content below. If you are listening, then the time stamp is around the two minute 45 second mark.)IntroductionThe word settled, to me, carries connotations I am keen to avoid. I have never felt settled or, perhaps, I cannot recall a time I felt settled. I do not feel settled now, writing this, and I’ve lived in the same house for three and a half years. Without even discussing the obvious issues of colonisation, I just don’t feel like I could, or should, settle; better to keep my constituent parts shook up, agitated perhaps, rather than separating and stagnant.Instead, I feel as though I have been travelling for years, maybe because I have not lived in my ‘home’ nation of Scotland for eight and a half years, perhaps because I know I won’t stay here forever, or maybe because I carry that concept of home in a way which differs from many?More precisely, I still think of myself as a slow traveller, globally feral. Recently, I have been revisiting places through the photographs and words I recorded when my feet crossed their soil. This is a way of reminding myself of where I have been, not just in space and time, but in mind, too. It is a wonderful thing, to come out of a low and rediscover myself through words I crafted, through the lens of a camera, when memory has wandered in the fog for too long. Thank you, past me.When I first started sharing letters with the world in this fashion, six or more years ago, I usually began them with a vignette of where I was, a sort-of travel diary, mixed with nature observation, locking in the setting for the reader, before I spoke of other things—and, by so doing, ensuring that place fed into the whole. It was a useful device, for reader and myself both but, as these letters were sent to so few readers, and now languish archived behind a paywall, I thought it a shame not to share these snippets again.As such, I am going to share a short series of these sketches, accompanied by a photograph from that time, sent to you in date order.I shall include the above paragraphs in each of the letters in this series, but I shall also include a link at the very start, so you can skip ahead once you are familiar with the above words. If you are listening and similarly want to skip, then the timestamp you want to navigate to will be in the same place.Taken without these paragraphs, each is a short read, and I hope you enjoy them.Cercal, Portugal. February, 2021.The bedroom—my office—window is open, despite the downpour. At this side of the building it mostly flies beyond the eaves, lashing into the orange grove and obscuring all but the nearest hill.Such is the threat of nest theft, a single stork stands guard, head down into the wind and rain, sodden and bedraggled and clearly remembering a time when its ancestors all left for Africa every winter, before the lure of landfill scavenging and warming European winters meant some chose to stay year-long.When there is a break in the rain its partner arrives and, after a brief clatter of beaks, display and reaffirmation of their bond, they switch places. In my mind’s eye I suddenly suspect whichever partner is no longer on the nest is under a bridge somewhere, standing around with his or her friends, chatting idly, complaining about the rain, talk of tasty insects, and whispering of Africa, as they all wait to switch positions. Maybe they loiter together in bus shelters, or beneath the same ancient, spreading cork oak.Today, the wind and the rain are back, piling in from the Atlantic to crash into these hills. It is hard to remember how dusty and dry it can be in summer, or how last year there were months and months with no rain at all, and barely a cloud to be seen. This direction may bring water—lots of much needed water—but thankfully it doesn’t bring the cold of January. The days are warming, the nights too.A few days ago, the sun appeared: sun and showers, rainbows and warmth. The clouds were majestic galleons, sailing across the blue, the rain sporadic, excitingly fleeting, pouring fast and true, before retreating in a gentle, misty steam. I stood in the kitchen, making a cup of tea, when a movement caught my eye. When you have watched birds and animals (and, indeed, trees and flowers and butterflies and…) for as long as I have, you sometimes only need a glimpse, especially when there is movement involved. Something ancient in my head, something instinctive kicks in, linking the pattern with memory, with knowledge.Swallow?I turned to check and, sure enough, my instinctive, sideways snatched glance was right. The first swallow of the year, on February the 7th. The following day, another snatched glimpse, another check, two house martins, chasing insects. Summer is whispering to the birds too.Now, as I redraft this piece, it is again raining, hard, harder than before, and has been for many hours. This morning, I heard a huge ...
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