The best things, as they say, come in threes. I followed the well trodden path, Three Creeks to Three Kings. Rising sun on one harbour; lowering sun by the time I gaze over the other. That little boat that caught my eye had her usual berth, shimmering. I wandered on, Patrol Road, past the Fishermen's Memorial, gazing out over the Three Creeks. From the edge of the village my path took me round the clifftops, meandering through the whins, barely a glance at either Bow or Fiddle. Other things on my mind.
The low road on the outward wander, down the steps to Jenny's Well, the shore path, high tide still some time off. The Indian Balsam has died back, leaving the various watercourses exposed to winter erosion. Taking to the sands, given the tide, I left the golfers in peace.
Windrush in the ears, the sound of the surf on one side; the yelp of the whelp on the other. As is often the case I felt a bit naked absent the seemingly compulsory hound at foot. There were only three others in the same condition, two joggers and a surfer. The latter found his balance, rolling in to shore arms outstretched. Sun, sand and surf.
Also sans dug was an escapee from the beach sauna; intent on drowning smuggled budgies. Tattoo'd torso glistening, stark inks over skin pinks, heading for the ritual cool cleanse. As he dived beneath a curling wave, his good lady smiled, doing her own post-sauna cooling in the air, waiting with a warm towel. Seemingly unconcerned that the budgie may not recover.
The path across the sands took me to the Three Kings, those great red sandstone monoliths that guard the fairways and the sandways. Lingering thoughts of the 7th Cavalry in competition with the bareback skills of First Nations, or the Hole in the Wall gang on the run. Movies from days gone by, before Odysseus sailed across the bay to Findlater Castle.
I had been of a mind to take advantage of the beach facilities, splendidly maintained by volunteeers. However, with the Tattie Holidays behind us we are into weekend only opening hours. Being of a certain age, and with the thought already in place, the wander through Seatown and climb up from the harbour, under the arches to the square, was not without moments of some angst. There the facilities remain open, and I was delighted to leave a donation in the hope that the volunteers can continue their fine work. Essential.
An al fresco lunch in the square, sandwich and a packet of gluten free pretzels, a sweet treat too, whilst jotting down some notes. I had thought of a browse in the Antiques Centre. An unfortunate padlock had me crossing the road to the excellent Beinn bookshop, which I know to adopt a similar hand-picked stocking policy to the Biggar Bookshop in which I'd been forced to spend some time, sheltering from the rain you understand, the previous weekend. Sometimes you just have to give in. They also do a fine mint tea. Rest and recuperate. Still a bit of walking to do.
The estate grounds, birdsong in the woods. On to Castle Hill. Another rest. With sun on the bay it would be hard not to. In late autumn, golden stubble fields, the full panoply of autumn colours in the woodlands whilst the golf course stands out bright, fed and watered. Terracotta roofs down below. Glories in the bay, tide at the high point, little sand remaining. Blue-bright waters, turquoise and shifting. Calm. And it all just drifts over you.
The high road back, over the viaducts, past the upper fairways. Sheltered from windrush where once the embankments rang to the whistle and the steam, the permanent way is now one of tarmac, verges trimmed, little lights embedded. Windfalls, and birdsong.
I followed the cliffs back round to Bow Fiddle, and those Creeks, sheltered seats along the way to rest and muse as the mood takes you. A skip in the step; oh it was no trudge at all. And completely unaided, once again.
