『Cercal, Portugal, January, 2021 and Rendall, Orkney, April, 2016』のカバーアート

Cercal, Portugal, January, 2021 and Rendall, Orkney, April, 2016

Cercal, Portugal, January, 2021 and Rendall, Orkney, April, 2016

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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, January, 2021 and Rendall, Orkney, April, 2016Specks of seedlings are strewn across the empty plant pots on the balcony. The flowers or salad they held are now mostly long gone, with the exception of a single nasturtium and a sprawling and exceedingly hardy lettuce, reverted to its more natural self.These green shoots were not planted, but found their way to the available compost. Here and there they have already grown: sow thistle, nettle, dandelion and others, all ready for the coming warmth. Despite being on the fourth floor, on a protected, north-facing balcony, the seeds have found a home. Nature, remember, will always find a way. Brought by wind or bird droppings, each verdant, hopeful delight is a reminder that life continues, no matter how pressing or stressing the news.The seedlings wait, the air is too cold right now for further growth, frost wreathing patterns on the windows and dusting all with fine sugar icing. This may be close to as far south as Iberia goes, but that does not mean winter cannot wreath all in her chill embrace. Inside, with no heating, the air is 9°C (48°F)—even with a newly purchased oil radiator and a handful of candles, the single room we heat rarely hits 18°C (64°F). I knew this before we arrived in Portugal last year, that the colder months mean layers and hats, scarves, gloves and extra bedding are essential, yet to experience it is different. I am colder inside, here, than when I lived wild in a natural shelter, even when the Scottish winter hit hard, with temperatures far below freezing and soil like rock.Yet the green scatter on the balcony shows life, as do the owl calls in the cold night, or the clatter of the returning storks, or flurry of small birds in the orchard and orange grove. When the sun is not concealed, her warmth can be felt, strong, ready to work her magic once more. There is a reason all the old houses have stone benches outside. The line of frost on the rooftops moves rapidly with the changing light, wintry sundial marking the passage of the earth through space. It is possible to stand and watch it melt as the sun rises higher. Clouds dance across the blues and greens, reds, oranges, yellows and greys of the wide sky.Once, on a dog walk in Orkney, on an April morning—the first time I had returned to spend a night since leaving as an 18 year old—I stood and watched the sun rise, at the edge of a similarly expansive sky. This is something I have done many times, and it surprises me ...
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