『Isère, France. December, 2020.』のカバーアート

Isère, France. December, 2020.

Isère, France. December, 2020.

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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.Isère, France. December, 2020.The air grips the lungs from the inside, mountain-cold and surprisingly dry, despite the thick fog weaving tendrils down streets and throwing a blanket over the valley. There are snow-covered peaks in all directions, but I only know this through memory, they are lost in the darkening grey.Sound is deadened, snow and mist absorbing, a crow call might come from any direction and none, the alarm of the blackbird echoing off unseen walls. The air itself smells of snow: dusty and ancient.Here, a persimmon laden with bright baubles, there the yellow of a tenacious aspen leaf.I cannot see them, but I imagine the ibex and chamois on their ridges, digging down through the windblown drifts, finding the food to sustain themselves through the winter. For winter, this is. It began to snow the night before I arrived, which was kind of nature, as if she wanted the mountains to look their very best—once they finally reappear, foggy curtains rolled back and stupendous reflected sun spotlighting peak, crevasse and cliff.Time and distance are twisted and folded here, maps need expert contouring, the eye translating the lines into the three-dimensional. Nearby, wolves have again been sighted, returning to an area they left years ago. Where one wolf is seen, there are others, many others, and camera traps have shown this to be the case. Whispers of approaching brown bears, the hidden, practically-invisible lynx, the great earth-movers of wild boar, and even the spreading European jackal—all are close by, as the crow flies. As this Crow walks, however, the trails and tracks into the high slopes, cliffs and wooded valleys above, would take considerably longer, and much further.That’s not to say these creatures do not venture down—they do and, during the confinement earlier this year, some did so in numbers. I like this. It is oddly reassuring, how quickly nature fills a void.Snow is an incredible canvas, whether to learn to track, or to simply decorate with footprints or designs. It is wiped clean by melt, revitalised by fresh fallen crystals, ever-changing and, to me, always a wonder. Here, stories are told and retold, new ones recorded afresh, each mark is just a tiny portion of an incomprehensible whole, yet each mark is also crucial—the tale would not be complete without it.FinallyIf you can afford to, there are currently two direct ways to support my work here. The first way is to take out a paid subscription.The second way to support me here...
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