The Roads and the Miles

 Edinburgh.  After negotiating traffic to the Park & Ride and enjoying the tram ride to Princes Street, it's out into the throngs.  I was tight for a time, and faced an uphill slog, The Mound, North Bridge.  As ever Edinburgh hummed with visitors, usually stopping front of you to take selfies just as you try to make onward progress.

I had signed up to a short session with Christina Riley, writing and zines.  The latter was a new skill to learn.  I had picked up a zine when I met Christina at The Nature Library in Irvine, a production she had put together to showcase the work of Holly Nicholl.  Interesting.

Christina has produced some fine work; her very useful An Index of, The Colour of Water (I think she has a second variant due out soon which I must watch out for); and her close seeing skills brilliantly set out in Looking Down at the Stars.  She is involved with both North Sea Poets and Paperboats, and thus has much to teach me.  Not sure if I'm up to the tactile side, which kind of takes me back to the days of Valerie Singleton and rubber-solution glue.

It was Christina who introduced me to Werner's Nomenclature of Colour, which had been used by Darwin in documenting his travels, and which remains a vital resource to this day.  Always to be kept in mind as an aid in putting words to pictures.

Two minutes - how fast does that go -  to get some words down; then scissors and coloured paper, glue sticks and magazines to cut up.  Yes I could cut and fold an A4 sheet, glue the right bits together, and come up with a 12 page zine.  I could put words on some pages, leaving others to be decorated.  Collage and creative thinking may not be my natural skillset; I'd rather use my own photos to illustrate the words.  That might need a template, and keyboard wizardry.  More alien concepts.  But to what end?  

These things and more I pondered as I left the National Library of Scotland, no rush needed, through the throngs heading back to Princes Street, and the tram back to the car.  Much to chew over as I drove north; a much-needed return to Portknockie.  After the storm.  Check for slates down, pick up the bins.  More importantly see if I could arrange the fitting of the new front door, after the salty sea air and infrequent use saw the ironmongery on the old door seize completely.

Health issues came to the fore, a chest infection spreading to a head cold, passed on from son to father on a rare trip home for Boy Child.  Other issues, under investigation by Traditional Chinese Medicine, made an untimely entrance, laying me low for a day or two, and more than a bit concerned.

I did manage to get out for an hour or two, and survived.  With little to see at Spey Bay, other than torrents of water, a river high and fast hurtling to the sea, in the manner that may have inspired Khalil Gibran.  I braved the roadworks at Fochabers Bridge, well into their fourth month now, and took a walk in the woods at Loch na Bo, that favoured spot where mute swans nest and whoopers visit.  Tension on the water.  For the first time since that arthritis attack back in March I didn't even think of the need for a walking stick.  It was still a slow dawdle, but being able to do it unaided fair lifts the spirits.

The woods were in after-the-storm mode.  Still and calm; eerily quiet.  The paths were deep in leaf-litter, feet scuttling and shuffling.  Autumn colours all around, umbers and ochres in the canopy and on the ground.  Bracken turning from verdigris to amber gris.  So good to get out, and to breathe, long and deep.  Woodland smells overpowering throat lozenges.

A bike ride.  It was one of those late autumn days when you could almost hear the bike pining in the shed.  Sun rising in clear skies, barely a breath of breeze to ruffle the bushes and the trees.  A few miles on the roads and the cycle paths.  

A brief stop at Portgordon, where the seals were resting, hauled out, in their usual spot.  Those with energy bobbed around yet in the water. 

 The River Spey, swollen, running fast.  The old viaduct drew me,  but only so far.  Through the barrier I glimpsed the carnage, the fallen spans after the shifting currents had hauled a couple of the piers.

Some of you may recall I had written about the Garmouth Viaduct previously, a much-favoured walking and cycle route across the river, utilising the railway viaduct which no longer rang to steam and whistles.  The swelling of the river may reflect the tears of those of us distraught at the loss of this amenity.

There was a time when it may have been possible to secure EU funding for essential bridge repairs.  That however died in the wake of the worst decision, by a neighbouring country, in the history of decisions.  Having promised that I would not sully these pages with commentary on the rancid state of Scottish politics, I'd best say no more.  The Garmouth Viaduct may reflect the current state of Scottish politics all on its own.  And it saddens me greatly.

I pottered on, up the riverside, a section of the Speyside Way.  Muddy, bumpy paths; and a happy face.  Honest, there was, even a smile.  Sunlight glistening on gossamer spider threads across the path.  A brief stop for lunch at a bend in the river.  Onwards until passage was blocked by a fallen tree.  Perhaps just as well, being aware that every mile outward had to be repeated on the return, and these old legs had little mileage in them this year.

Whilst the low sun had been a bit of a problem on the outward leg, before long it began to recede from its zentih, with the air temperature noticeably following.  Once back at Spey Bay the road home was a familiar one, mainly traffic free, sun at the back and dreams of a very special spiced-berry tea from Tiree to warm the weary bones.  A fine few hours on the bike.  Must do it all again soon.