horizon lines
on want, need and loosening up
“Lindsay is actively creating a soothing and supportive space, not just for her own writing but for those charting midlife with all its challenges and uncertainties. Covering topics such as mental health and the writing life, with glimpses into her memoir, her Substack is a valuable read for anyone negotiating similar experiences.”
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horizon line
We are just home from three nights on the east coast of Scotland where we’ve been conducting a recce of sorts, getting to know the van that – this summer – will be our home-from-home as we travel around northern Europe for the guts of two months.
So far, my own personal discoveries include that overnight storms, an exposed aspect and forgotten pillows do not make for restorative sleep; that the previous owner was a bit of a shyster thinking we wouldn’t notice that loose mouldings in the shower were stuck back on with bath sealant; and that even though I’m the second shortest person in my household, I’m still bumping my head on things above me with annoying regularity.
There’s much more to learn and we’ve returned home with a snagging list but, in truth, I was less co-pilot and more passenger/third child on this maiden trip. I know I spent less time on my ‘duties’ and more time than I should’ve in my own head, alternating between cab and beach both of which afforded me versions of my favourite view of the isles of Fidra, Lamb, South Dog and Craigleith as well as my longtime fave, Bass Rock.
I needed this though, because I’m tired. March was intense and busy, and despite things becoming quieter over the school holidays, I’m not sleeping well. This is unusual for me. Luckily, no one seemed bothered that I was only loosely available. If I wasn’t out on another beach walk, I was to be found sitting in the cab with my noise cancelling headphones reading or knitting. Or – abandoning the reading or the knitting – looking. Writing. Or simply thinking.
I think I got away with it because they all know how much I love Bass Rock. I have a stone on my bedside table I once found on North Berwick beach that looks exactly like it and if I search ‘rock’ in my Google photos there’s a lot of Bass, so when we first pulled into the campsite and discovered we had a dead-on, unremitting view of it my younger daughter got excited for me. And she was right to. I could look at it whenever I wanted, she said. I didn’t have to make a trip to the beach to see it, or work out if there was a slice of it from the high window of a rental cottage or go to the cafe made of shipping containers that faces it.
Why am I so obsessed with it, you might ask. Maybe it’s in part because of the mythology of its former function as a 17th Century Scottish version of Alcatraz owing to its position in the choppy waters of the Firth of Forth and the relative difficulty of getting on or off the island. It might also be because I love that a jail is now a place of sanctuary, its steep sides home for many protected species of seabirds including a large colony of gannets. Or it might be because it can look so utterly mundane one minute then the next, transform miracle-style as a certain quality of light strikes. It glows bright white for a time then you blink and it’s black again.
Or maybe I just like it and I don’t need a reason.
Anyway, I should have been happy staring at that favourite steep-sided volcanic plug of mine, but instead (and perhaps because it was now just there) on the first afternoon, I noticed my gaze seeking novelty in the horizon line. From my vantage point it was otherwise uninterrupted, the next bit of land the too-far-away-to-see Isle of May where the Forth spills out into the swell of the North Sea.