The morning is cold.  A light sparkly dusting of frost covers the ground and the clear blue sky reveals the stars and waning slice of moon above.  It is 8:30 and it is already getting lighter out, a rosy orange glow graces the horizon- evidence of the days getting longer.

I find the matchbox and notice there is only one match left, so I decide to use it to light a candle and bring some feeling of warmth to my indoor surroundings.

The last match in the box reminds me of my time of teacher training in an outdoor education programme in Northern Michigan many years ago.  One of the courses involved teaching ways of surviving in the snow, and what to do if we were stuck out in the wilderness with only one match left.  We taught the pupils to gather and light small branches and leaves to start it off, and gradually as the flame grew, larger branches were added until we (hopefully) had a roaring fire in the middle of the woods.   It was an interesting and sometimes painstaking challenge, theoretically a matter of life and death!

For another lesson we built a lean-to with our 12-year-old students and afterwards took turns going in and experiencing what it might be like to sit in such a frozen cocoon.  As it happened, inhabiting the insulated space meant that it soon became cozy and warm, not to mention very quiet!  A few of my colleagues took their sleeping bags inside and slept in it one night to test it out further,.  They woke up fully rested the next morning!

That particular winter in January involved a lot of constantly falling snow which accumulated to a height way over my head.  So the snowshoes and skis came out often.

When groups of children visited the centre for a day, we would take them out for walks in the woods, each with their own pair of snowshoes, and hunt for animal prints, or anything else nature had to offer.

We’d often see rabbit or deer tracks.  Though I remember once coming across a kind of brush mark in the snow.  Our professor at the time suggested that it was most likely a ruffed grouse or ptarmigan that had left the mark when it got up from its snowy nest and flew away.  I remember thinking how perceptive he was to spot that.

Another time, on my Saturday off, it was -25 degrees Celsius. I decided to layer up and stepped out of my wooden cabin accommodation to do a bit of cross country skiing through the woods.  I was very content, gliding through the snow, until an hour later I did not know where I was. I was starting to make circles with my ski tracks, unsure of what direction I was moving in, and stupidly had forgotten my compass.  It was another 2 hours before I came across another human being who pointed me in the right direction, and I made it back by early evening light, so relieved, and cold, and happy to see my friends.

…

A flock of geese flying overhead interrupts my thoughts….

…

Yesterday, here in the north of Scotland, I went out onto the frozen beach for a break from the day’s tasks and to get some fresh air, crunching through the frosty sand and seaweed.  Eventually I came upon some tracks that could only have belonged to a sea otter.  I had seen him from a distance in the late summer, a rare sight indeed.  I followed the five-toed footprints for a while, until they vanished and I found myself in a patch of low tidal rocks and egg wrack swishing this way and that in the rising tide.   I looked up to see how far I had gone, and decided to turn around and walk back, retracing my steps that ran parallel to the otter’s.

Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I spotted birds of black and white in the sky, flying in a flock and turning this way and that...

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At this late and magical hour, I decided to go out for a walk - something I used to do quite often when the moon was full and shining bright.  I would go out without a lantern, my eyes easily adjusting to see the way ahead and much more besides.

There was a rustling in the bushes as I walked past the house, a creature scuttling to a safer place.  Then a flutter of wings sounded from the tree branches.

Turning back to look at the house, I can see the indoor warmth through the windows.  The twinkling of the small lights that frame the window, echo the silent stars above, and the faint sound of music drifts through the still frosty air.

I continue my walk and as the music fades a flock of geese replace the choral tones with their honking sounds above and then flap away into the darkness.

As I follow the winding road I wonder why I haven’t done this midnight walk more often in recent years.

The burn is flowing steadily, cutting through the ancient land and rocks, carving its peaty path to the sea.

The incandescent moon shines full in the dark sky casting a bright light across the moorland. I can pick out objects, buildings and grasses in the night silence and tree branches and hills against the horizon.  The outline of the castle stands tall against the wide open sea and landscape, its shape defined by the blue glow;  and the waves reflect a momentary sparkle of silver white as they gently rolled into the shore.  And if I look out toward the sea, even in the darkness I can make out the moving lights of ships passing on the horizon.  The inkiness of the ocean merges with the headland, which merges with the large expanse of sky, hardly any distinction can be made between one and the other,  and therein sits a smattering of house lights - or are they stars?

These days are at their shortest, the nights long.

As the moon gradually waxes, the stars are still strongly visible in the dark sky.

The earth continues its usual rhythms and the world waits with anticipation. With hope. In stillness. Something is different. I stop in the sand on the beach and stand motionless for a time, awed by the silence and beauty and lulled by the incoming tide, the waves gently lapping the shore.

I look up to see the stars, outshone by the moonlight, but there nonetheless. There is Orion … and the Big Dipper, or the 'Plough’ as the call it here in the UK.

'Twas in the moon of wintertime… '

The lines from a song I learned in school back in Canada called ‘The Huron Carol’ comes to my mind.  I know we are all emerging from this past festive season, but looking back, it remains one of my favourite Christmas hymns…

'Twas in the moon of winter-time

When all the birds had fled,

That mighty Gitchi Manitou

Sent angel choirs instead;

Before their light the stars grew dim,

And wandering hunters heard the hymn:

"Jesus your King is born, Jesus is born,

In excelsis gloria."

It goes on, but I cannot remember all the words now.

It is the oldest Canadian Christmas hymn, written in around 1642 by Jean de Brébeuf, a Jesuit missionary at Sainte-Marie among the Hurons in Canada.

Brébeuf wrote the lyrics in the native language of the Huron/Wendat people; the song's original Huron title is "Jesous Ahatonhia". The song's melody is based on a traditional French folk song, "Une Jeune Pucelle". The well-known English lyrics were written in 1926 by Jesse Edgar Middleton .

As the song continues...

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Hello to all of you who are listening

This is a special short episode, different from the others,

for this Christmas Day.

I hope everyone is having a lovely time, whether with family

and friends, or if you’re self-isolating, or wherever you are.

For those of you who, like me, were unable to get back to have

Christmas with the family, I hope it is still a special time for you.

It’s Christmas Day afternoon now, and I’m sitting here all cozy

next to the Christmas tree, and the fire is glowing.

I’m raising a glass to you all and want to share with you this

poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow at this special time.

Enjoy the rest of your holiday, and Happy Christmas!

The Three Kings

BY HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW

Three Kings came riding from far away,

Melchior and Gaspar and Baltasar;

Three Wise Men out of the East were they,

And they travelled by night and they slept by day,

For their guide was a beautiful, wonderful star.

The star was so beautiful, large and clear,

That all the other stars of the sky

Became a white mist in the atmosphere,

And by this they knew that the coming was near

Of the Prince foretold in the prophecy.

Three caskets they bore on their saddle-bows,

Three caskets of gold with golden keys;

Their robes were of crimson silk with rows

Of bells and pomegranates and furbelows,

Their turbans like blossoming almond-trees.

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Before the windstorms recently, we had the good sense (or the tree surgeon had the good sense!) to come and cut the tops of some of the trees near the bungalow here.  They were growing too close to the electricity wires.

So the guys came in with their visor jackets and chainsaws, and gradually cut away the necessary branches. They chopped up the logs and stacked them in the shed for future use, and the branches were put in a separate pile underneath one of the trees.  At the time I was not sure what they would be used for!

In any case, it was a good thing those branches came down when they did, as I’m not sure they would have held up in the recent wind storms!

A few days ago I suddenly thought of those pine branches and how they would be perfect for my Christmas decorating.  Instead of going out and getting a Christmas tree, or enhancing my decor through store bought items, I decided to make my own garland and makeshift tree with the remaining pine.

On a still and clear, dry day. After a walk on the beach, I came back and went out to the stack of leftover branches to pick some out.  A crow called out and birds were twittering nearby, wondering about my visit to their territory.  I breathed in the fresh air…. It smelled sweetly of pine - a wonderful smell which always brings me back to the pine forests in Ontario, where I grew up as a child.

There were a lot of branches to choose from…. I picked out a few tucking them under my arm and walked to the house, plopping them on the porch where I could have a better look and trim some of the excess.  My boots were muddy so I stomped down a few times to try and get some of the dirt and debris off them.   A robin popped up on the outdoor wall to watch me inquisitively, or to alert me to its need for seeds, I’m not sure which!  But probably the latter!

I cut away a few bits of the pine branches and brought them inside, took off my boots and coat, and walked to the lounge with my stash, spreading them out over the floor.

Before continuing I decided to make it a festive occasion. In the kitchen I rummaged through the cupboards to find some spices, heated up some almond milk on the stove and made myself a spicy latte which I took with me back to the lounge.  Then I plugged in the small Christmas lights already framing the large window, and put on some Christmas music.  There, that was the right setting.

There was a perfect piece from the outdoor foliage to use as my small Christmas tree.

I found a terracotta pot and turned it upside down, inserting the stem of the branch in the hole at the bottom and placed it on a small tall table.  The makeshift tree was a little wobbly, but it would do!  Then I proceeded to trim up the other branches and lay them along the top of the fireplace mantle, tucking one piece behind another until they covered the stretch of ledge in a somewhat orderly way.  I put the leftover bits in a small pile to use for a fire later.

Moving around the room, I took other branches big and small and found places to display them, along with some of the ribbon and gold pinecones I had saved, nestling candles in where they could be suitably lit without setting it all aflame! There were so many branches to choose from!  But I chose carefully and before going over the top, decided to stop and stepped back to have a look. Feeling satisfied, I took the smaller pieces and put them in the fire, lit a match and set them alight, placing a log on top.  The fire crackled and spit, and soon was roaring away...

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It’s early.  A pigeon coos loudly outside my open window, bringing me to some level of consciousness.  As I struggle to open my sleepy eyes, I nestle under the warm covers and my mind slowly wanders from dream to practical thoughts about the day ahead.  I remember that I’ll be going into town later this morning, which spurs me into sudden movement and with hardly a second thought, I throw back the covers.  Shivering in the chill air, I put on some woolly socks beautifully knitted by my aunt, and shuffle over to the kitchen across the hall to boil the kettle and pop some bread in the toaster.

On returning to my room to eat my breakfast, I make up a short list of all that needs to be done today.

From the top floor window of the guest house where I am staying, I can see stately red and yellow brick houses on the other side of the street.  In my immediate view the branches of a large honey locust stretch out into the morning sky.  Having already shed most of its leaves, the remaining few dance bravely in the light winter breeze, still resplendent in their autumnal yellows, ochres and oranges.  An equally bright morning sun is rising against the clear late November sky.  I'm so enjoying the last of this autumn foliage and begin to realise how much I've missed trees and walking through fallen leaves, which is something of a rarity in the wild coastal landscapes of Caithness that I now call home. I gaze out of the window drinking it all in. The pigeon happily sits on its branch. Its calls are welcoming in the morning.

A bell begins to toll somewhere in the distance, along with the discordant sounds of a siren racing off to who knows where.  The world is waking up.  Sitting still for a moment longer, I watch the sun casting a shaft of light across my room, filling it with warmth.

It’s so good to be in the city again, especially here in beautiful, historic Oxford.  I gulp down the rest of my coffee, quickly dress and head out the door, eager to take in all this beautiful place has to offer.

Heading down two flights of stairs I push open the large wooden door to the outside and I’m hit by a cold blast of fresh air. I breath it in deeply and head my way down the street, towards Banbury Road and the town centre. Crunchy autumn leaves and long yellow pine needles are strewn across the walkway, and people are beginning to emerge from their homes. One lady sweeps the leaves from her porch.  A man dressed in a navy pin stripe and holding a brief-case strides to his shiny car busily pressing buttons on his keys.  The indicators flash and the car beeps as it unlocks.  He hops into the front seat slamming the door behind him and starts the engine.  Smoke billows from the rear exhaust and rises up into the crisp air.

I notice the white frost covering the edges of stone walkways, silver outlines the leaves, trees and houses, emphasising their shapes which glisten in the morning sun.

As I step into the main road, cars whiz past and I continue my walk towards the town centre.  It is a 20- minute trek at least, but I don’t mind.  I take in the late autumn sights and smells of this new environment.  A student pedals past me on her bicycle, her books filling a basket at the back. She wobbles slightly and maintains her balance on the road. Another bell tolls low in the distance and an elderly man walks slowly along the sidewalk, stopping at various points for his dog who shows an extreme interest in nearly all of the bushes along the way.

Eventually the light yellow stone buildings, spires and domes of old Oxford appear before me.  What a place!  Leaves continue to flutter across the street as people walk...

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Yesterday afternoon, at around 3:00, just before sunset, a friend and I made a spur-of-the-moment decision to drive up to the most northerly point on the UK mainland, Dunnet Head. It was such a beautiful, crisp, bright day, it seemed a shame not to get out somewhere before dark.

Many are under the illusion that John O’Groats is the most northerly point, as it is at the ‘end of the road’ from Land’s End and host to many charity walks, runs and cycles. However, it is this more dramatic and high moorland a number of miles further that can claim the true title of ‘The Most Northerly Point of Britain’.

When we got to the cliff edge, the mist was rising from the sea into the crisp air, creating an atmosphere of mystery and such beauty. It was all I could do to stop attempting to capture it with my small Leica camera. For a while I paused from taking photos to try and drink in as much as I could before my teeth started chattering and it was time to move.

My friend and I managed to make it up to the look-out point before the sun dipped behind the horizon and the moon took it’s place as star of the late November show.

We made it.  Just in time.  Sometimes it pays to be spontaneous.   It was 4:00 and we decided to go to the nearby hotel to have a bite to eat before making our way home to do a little more work.

By 5:30 the moon was very high in the sky and there were distant lights of ships out at sea on this clearest of evenings.

Then this morning I got up to witness the first real frost of the season - a result of yesterday's cloudless advent skies. I woke later than I would have liked to see the sun casting its light on the frosty landscape, but I slipped into my warmer clothes and boots anyway, and trekked out to catch the last of the light before the sky was covered in a blanket of cloud.

The early part of the day felt fresh and still. I managed to alert a group of lapwings as I came tromping down to the beach through the frosty grass. They immediately flew off in their usual erratic group flight patterns, out over the bay.

The ducks were the next to take note of my presence and quacked away in a noisy flutter.

Aside from the birds, and the steady movement of the incoming tide, it was as though the seaside was waiting with baited breath. For what, I don’t know, though I suddenly became aware that today is the first day of Advent - a time of anticipation and hope.

What are we waiting for?

...

Well, that’s the cloud coming in....

Time to head back home for a coffee.

As I now sit in my chair, writing, and drinking my coffee, there seems no better way to finish than with the following advent poem by Christina Rossetti,

'Having devout faith, Rossetti composed a great number of poems that celebrated the season including amongst others In The Bleak Midwinter, which we now know as a popular Christmas carol. This selection is one of several verses she wrote about the period of Advent. The themes of watching and waiting are revealed to have two meanings, as not only does it relate to the darkness of the long nights at this time of year, making things in the horizon difficult to be aware of, but also as Advent is viewed as a time to recognise the coming of Christ once more.'  Lisa Spurgin, The Reader

Advent

This Advent moon shines cold and clear,

These Advent nights are long;

Our lamps have burned year after year,

And still their flame is strong.

“Watchman, what of the night?” we cry,

Heart-sick with hope deferred:

“No speaking signs are in the sky,”

Is still the watchman’s word...

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If ever one needed to clear one’s head, the northeast of Scotland is a good place to come.  The wind will clear the cobwebs in no time!

This week I went down to Inverness to get an MOT (annual roadworthiness certificate) on the car as some things needed looking at and fixing.  It meant spending a day in the city, but I didn’t mind.   There was plenty to do.  Later in the evening, on returning to the northeast, the wind started to pick up and the rain was falling heavily.  By the time I got home and stepped out of the car it was all I could do to stay upright as I ran to the house, fighting the bracing wind.

On my arrival home, It was so dark, and I forgot about some of the paint pails left outside of the studio.  I got ready for bed and took a while to sleep with the wind howling around the house.  I imagine it was about 50mph gusts - the first really strong winds of the season.  In the morning, when things had calmed somewhat, I went out to check the state of affairs and was surprised to see that nothing had blown away — not too far at least.

This last week has definitely seen a marked change in the temperatures and wind - one is dropping lower, the other is picking up.  It’s time to pull out the woollies.  I need to invest in more woollies, that’s for sure, along with waterproofs.  Anything to make the coming months a bit more cozy, a bit more ‘do-able’.  I’m grateful to a local friend for the lovely wrist warmers she knitted so beautifully for me. Those will certainly get a lot of wear.  For some reason, any jumper I buy seems to have shorter sleeves for my long arms, and wrist warmers are just the thing to ‘mind the gap’ and block out further cold.

It's not always easy to capture wind in a 2D image, not least that your camera might be flown out of your hands while trying!  I took a photo a week or so ago, when things were still fairly calm. I love the copper colour of the long grasses in the autumn, and how the wind creates interesting waves and movement.

It is not until you see the effect of wind on an object that you know it is there.  Or it is a felt thing.

When it comes to a painting or photograph, wind is shown and known differently.

I’m paraphrasing an art historian here, but August Renoir’s aim in this painting, Gust of Wind, was not so much to create an accurate representation of the landscape, but to convey the sensual pleasures of the outdoors and to capture the most unpaintable element: air. Our eyes are drawn to the movement of the trees, bushes & the racing clouds in the sky, all achieved by the seemingly simple act of blurring the paint.

The Scottish painter, Joan Eardley, made a switch from portraiture to landscapes after spending time on the north-east coast of Scotland while recovering from an illness. 'On hearing that a storm was approaching, she would catch the next train from Glasgow to Stonehaven, and make the rest of the journey to Catterline. There she created her elemental panoramas of land and sea in thickly textured paint, working outdoors and securing the huge boards she used with ropes and boulders'

During these night winds, while lying in my bed, there is an initial feeling of nervousness.  It sounds as though the remaining northern trees might be whipped out of the ground or the house is going to spin away in a whirl like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz.  But to be honest, if anything was to blow away, it would have done so by now.

In the morning, after the wind dies down, having blown this way and that for some time, it is like the earth is on pause, and I get up to greet the new day.  I enter the studio and remember that wind is one of the most ancient and powerful symbols of inspiration.  I hope it can blow some new ideas into my mind and heart as I work...

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It’s morning.  I wake up slowly to the pitter patter of rain against the windows and slate rooftop and eventually make my way down the hall to the kitchen for a cup of coffee.  As I wait for the kettle to boil I notice that the rain has eased up and there is a small shaft of light coming through the thick cloud in the distance which lights up the winding burn, flowing at a full pace.

I go over to the front door and step out for a moment, enjoying the post-rain smell and the sound of the birds waking up with me.  I pick up the broom next to the doorway and do a quick sweep of the front porch where some leaves and debris have settled, and then step back in, closing the door behind me and make my coffee.

A lot of rain has fallen this past week. The land is saturated. After a night of high winds and the drumming of raindrops against the windows (plus little sleep!), I am amazed by the level of water, especially in the flowing burn, which is full almost to brimming. It is incredible to see the peaty water cutting its regular route through the land. It has always been there, but now it seems more noticeable than normal, even from the kitchen window.

Before all the water is about to be absorbed by the land, I gulp down my coffee, put on my coat and boots and step out to follow the burn’s winding route down to the beach, stopping now and then to marvel. The water is rushing at such a speed and in such a torrent. That would have made for a good dinghy run from the top of the road, something my friends would have done on a day like today.

Getting nearer the sea, the burn takes on a peaty colour, revealing ambers and golds as it winds its way past the stone bridge and hits the rocks in its estuary, where the ducks often settle on calmer days.  It’s the most beautiful and unusual colour - something I noticed after first arriving in the north of Scotland many years ago.  It is like pints of Guinness rushing down.  I know some might say ‘If only'…. We’d certainly be wealthy now if that were the case!  But it’s not Guinness.  It's something much more tied to the land, and a reflection of the non-renewable resources in the earth.  The peat in the soil creates that rich amber hue.   Perhaps I should try and make a paint with it.  Again, if only.

When it meets the saltwater it becomes brackish, and results in such a beautiful range and contrast of colour. The sea waves take on the tinge of gold as they roll in closer and burn and sea meet. The light breaks through the cloud and highlights the tops of the breakers and ripples.

The sea seems to be rising as the weather gets wilder, waves hitting the edges of bluffs and the grasses of dunes at high tide.

When I got down to the sea’s edge, I became enveloped by the light and a contagious energy in the salty atmosphere.  The force of the waves caused a  mist to rise up which could be seen clearly against the silhouette of cliffs in the distance.

It reminded me of Niagara Falls, in the Niagara region of Ontario where I am from and where my parents live.  We would usually go to the Falls when family from the Netherlands or other friends came to visit, as it was only a half hour’s drive away.   My favourite point to stand at the Falls is right where the water drops from the Niagara River into the abyss below.  The power and force, not to mention the amount of the water going over the edge, is incredible. The crashing sound drowns out all else and you stand there in a trance.

It's something about rushing water and mist - the feeling of movement and energy it brings, and being alive in that moment.

Back in the Bay, the oyster catchers feel it too and no doubt are delighted by the fish and crustaceans that are stirred up by the rough seas...

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Late morning’s pale blue sky is painted with sweeps of bright white cloud.  Or as Vermeer said, white is never really white if you look hard enough.  There are faint signs of yellow, magenta, blue, and violet that come through.

It’s a clear day.  A silent day.

Or is it so silent?

A caravan drives along on the top road.  I can see and hear it in the stillness of the autumn air, the sound traveling across the open landscape.  An airplane joins in the passing noise as it flies overhead.

The long rust-coloured grasses and rushes are hardly moving - such a difference to their constant sway in the winds the other day!

From the grassy field, heard but not seen, a pheasant makes its garbled sound, undoubtedly full of concern as it rushes across to another patch of long reeds, out of sight.  Pheasants don’t seem have the easiest lives.  They are rather clumsy birds.  And how do they end up on the road so often?  Saying that, they are beautiful, their colours blending into the auburn landscape in such a complementary way.

Ducks are chattering in the 'unofficial pool' that has been developing beyond the garden.  There are quite a few ducks here which surprises me when I think about it.  When I was younger I used to have to visit a farm to see the ducks, or go to the shores of Lake Ontario.

There are some beautiful varieties of duck here in the north.

Now they chuckle and quack as though responding to a joke.  When I step out two of them flutter and fly away with a start.

I marvel at the so-called silence which, in reality, is full of layers of tones and rhythms.

It is an autumn orchestra.

A crow calls from the tree overhead.

And a wren lets out its winding song, competing with another airplane flying above.

It’s lovely to go for a wander and spend time with the sights and sounds around me in this small northeast corner of Scotland.

Some birds emit small staccato chirps in a row - the accent comes closer…. What is it I wonder?

The crow caws again loudly from the top of a telephone pole.

Then I notice two small roe deer nearby.  I stop, motionless.  They are quietly grazing.  I move.  They stop.  Their ears up, alert.

When I try to step forward as slowly and carefully as possible, they immediately bound away, their white tails bouncing up and down over the fields.  I follow their graceful leaps with my eyes until I can’t see them anymore and they blend in with the copper and gold field-scape.

I look up from that point where I last observe the deer and see a kestrel hovering in the distance.  It suddenly swoops down, spotting its next prey.   Quickly proving unsuccessful in its hunt, it flies on over the moorland to a new place in the sky, hovering again as though hanging from an invisible fishing line fixed in the heavens, its wings flapping steadily...

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It’s the end of October and the weather is turning.  I stepped out and felt the blustery autumn wind on my face, still warm for this time of year, the rain was beginning to fall lightly on my cheeks. I walked down past the castle to the beach.  The tide was out and the water was crashing against the rocks on the lower shore, spilling over the shiny black surfaces, swirling and dancing amongst the kelp and wrack seaweeds.

Today is the day, 20 years ago, that I made my way over to Scotland for the first time. It was a spontaneous trip in many ways, full of anticipation for new adventure. I was young and trying to make a go of my art, learning to live and survive in the big city of Toronto.  But deep down, I was beginning to feel the urge for change and spaces faraway.

Sometime in early autumn I went to a talk given by a British film-maker I had read about in my philosophy course — someone who is now my good friend and colleague.  He was being hosted at the University of Toronto and spoke largely about film-making. Near the end of the evening he mentioned a place he had just bought in Scotland, inviting us all to come visit (this was to a crowd of 200+ artists, film-makers, writers, dancers etc.). My ears perked up at that and my friends, Rob and Marcia, two artists living in Toronto at the time, and I looked at each other. We were all thinking the same thing: ‘We need to go there!’. I left the university and walked home quite casually, but something significant had been planted in my mind that evening, even though I was hardly aware of this.

Soon afterward, I was up in Huntsville, Ontario, teaching watercolour painting workshops at Algonquin and Arrowhead Provincial Parks.   In my search for jobs on the local library computer one day, the idea of the north of Scotland popped into my head and I wrote an email to the screenwriter, never thinking I’d get such a quick and open response.

Some days, maybe even weeks later, I was sitting in a busy Toronto cafe with my friend, Andy, and I told him about this place in the north of Scotland that I was fantasising about. ‘Why don’t you go?’ He said. I said I’d love to, but included all the reasons why it might not be the best idea, the main one being the cost of getting over and staying there for a stretch. My idea, if it worked, was to spend some time there, painting.  He then told me that his Mom had some tickets to get rid of - Air Canada flights that needed using before Christmas. I could hardly believe my ears.  They were priority standby tickets and all I’d have to pay was a small amount of airport tax and travel before the end of the year.   What an incredible moment.  Suddenly my mind did a complete gearshift. It did not take me long to tell friends and family that I would be leaving for Scotland.  My plan was to go for 6 weeks.  Some were surprised, but supportive; others thought I was just crazy.

I packed my things into a large duffel bag and suitcase, taking along painting commissions I had in a black portfolio, and went to the Toronto Pearson airport for a 10pm flight to Glasgow. I waited in the main hall for my name to be called. Suddenly doubts poured in and I thought ‘If my name isn’t called for this flight, I’m not going.’ But it was 10 minutes before the departure: ‘Monique Sliedrecht, please go to gate for flight to Glasgow. Monique Sliedrecht, go to gate for flight to Glasgow.’ I had approximately 10 minutes to run to the other side of the airport with all my bags. Before I knew it, I was on the plane and heading to Glasgow.

I was in a bit of a daze when the pilot announced our arrival early morning the next day. I felt as though in a dream. Having landed and got my bags, I made my way to Queen Street train station and rang my host to let him know I was really on my way to the north...

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