The air is still this morning, as though waiting with baited breath. There are shoots of growth popping up and the days are welcoming in more warmth and light.

It is Easter time - a moveable feast based on the lunisolar calendar which reflects the ongoing cycles in our world.

Soon there will be a burst of bright colour and a flurry of activity as lambs are born, rabbits scoot across to their holes in the ground, seabirds populate the cliffs, and the swallows swoop down after their epic flight. Meanwhile, the thrush is now singing its lilting and varied tune, an overflowing melody.

When it comes to perseverance and sheer determination, I never cease to be amazed by the tiny swallow. While small, it has a larger than life journey every year. The task of flying from South Africa to Scotland is no simple feat, and they battle to survive an incredibly treacherous journey over sea and desert, through all weathers. I have kept their wonderfully made mud nests in the porch, and am looking forward to when they fill them with some new broods this summer. On the property here at Freswick a space was cut in the wooden garden shed door, some years ago, so the swallows can always return to their beautifully built nests of previous seasons.

As friends in South Africa have observed, they wistfully say goodbye to the swallows around March 10th. Between then and late April here in the far north, the tiny but agile creatures are spanning huge distances, traveling over 200 miles a day at low altitudes to reach their destination as quickly as possible. It has been amazing to witness their arrival in these gardens on exactly the same day, for many years (April 24) although last year they came two days early. Migration is a truly hazardous time and many swallows die from starvation, exhaustion and in storms.

In TS Elliot’s ‘The Wasteland’ he writes ‘April is the cruelest month’. I have often wondered about that seemingly harsh view of Springtime, with all its life and energy. As time goes on, I’ve come to understand this poignant phrase of poetry more deeply.

“April is the cruelest month, breeding

Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing

Memory and desire, stirring

Winter kept us warm, covering

Earth in forgetful snow, feeding

A little life with dried tubers.”

No doubt the poet is evoking that familiar feeling of comfort, self-protection and hibernation, which is familiar from the winter months, which can be so easily disturbed by sudden and painful change.

But T.S.Eliot was writing in a world that had seen the literal 'Wasteland' of the First World War, only a few years before he wrote his epic poem. The whole world was still emerging fearfully from the darkness and horror. There were huge challenges, economically, politically and spiritually for Western civilisation.

Springtime in 2021, in a world devastated by the pandemic, has some of this mixture of desolation and hope, of hiding away yet longing eagerly for a good future.

Growth does not come easy. Transition contains its own struggle - of breaking ground and travelling long distances, literally and metaphorically - in order to birth new life and create fresh pathways. The swallow shows us that growth, birth and all good hopes for the future cannot happen without taking great risks and persevering.

I look forward to when their swoops, chatters, and twitters become part of this northern Scotland tapestry, lifting all our hearts...

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I just finished doing some morning stretches for the first time in a while!  Oof.  My muscles are certainly tight.  To be honest, they are the complete opposite of flexible. However, doing the exercises and full breathing felt good and made me wonder why I had not gone back to doing that on a regular basis much sooner!   I guess there is a new start for everything, even if we lapse. Is Winter a time for lapsing? I don’t know, but I seem to do it, despite best intentions and resolutions made in January (resolutions that only seem to last 3 days!). But now it is officially Springtime. Yesterday was the Spring Equinox, a marker announcing longer stretches of daylight, something that is very noticeable in the north of Scotland. Aside from the extended hours of natural light, it does not really feel like springtime here in the north of Scotland right now. I suppose I was unrealistic, willing the buds to suddenly burst open and the sun to shine, and all things to look bright and green and vibrant on the first day of Spring.  Instead, the wind has been blowing and the landscape still looks rather washed out.   And yes, I've grown impatient. Saying that, when I look more closely, I see the buds forming on trees, snowdrops are out in hidden places (others not so hidden), birds are carrying bits of grass in their beaks to create nests, and the sea is slowly forming a rich tapestry of new seaweed growth.  All things to be celebrated. Last night I saw a frog on my doorstep, huddled in a corner trying to remain inconspicuous.  A frog!  That seems to be a rare occurrence in Caithness, or at least I have not seen many frogs here. I was glad I saw him, and by the light of the porch lamp, I nudged it onto a dustpan and brought him to a more ‘safe’ environment. Frogs are one of the main indicator species for changes in our environment.  They are organisms that can tell us about an area by their presence or absence.  It may indicate a developing pond ecosystem, as well as increased protection nearby. Aside from all that Spring entails, I wonder what changes lie in our path. I put a green cloth on my table and bought some tall irises yesterday, to enhance the feeling of Spring and perhaps coax it along. In a way, Springtime sometimes feels like a more fitting season to make resolutions which could have greater potential to stick. There is more energy working in our favour!  With the brighter days comes a widening of perspective, where prospects and hopes may widen too. After what we’ve been through this past year, it may be hard to open ourselves up to creative wishful thinking.  It can be tempting to pull back and hide, in an attempt to protect ourselves and to avoid disappointment.  However, as the birds and buds are flourishing, we too can take one small step at a time, and resolve to pursue two or more hopeful thoughts. It is okay to prepare ourselves for various outcomes, but it is also healthy not to focus on what might happen negatively or what new restriction will be put in place.  Instead, let's open up our hearts and minds to new and surprising possibilities. We can start with what is in front of us.  There is always an open door somewhere.  People who have existed in the tightest of circumstances have been living testaments to that in history (like those who have been unjustly imprisoned or have faced severe illness or disability), still choosing to step into the pathway of love... www.moniquesliedrecht.com

The north of Scotland is generally very sparse when it comes to trees.   Being so close to the sea make this a landscape that cannot sustain their growth so easily due to the wild winds and salty air. However, I am fortunate to have a few trees outside my study window where I often sit and watch the birds flitting to and fro.

March seems to be a month of birthdays for lots of my friends, which reminds me of a celebratory hike though a wooded glen near Edinburgh for a friend’s 60. I had never been out to this spot before and, to be honest, I hadn’t hiked through a forest in a while - perhaps not since a trip to Algonquin Park in Ontario, Canada a couple of years ago, which feels like oh, such a long time ago now.

While the varieties of trees and undergrowth are different from the Ontario forests that I grew up with, the feeling in the glen was the same in early Springtime: new life, fresh smells, muddy paths, uphill climbs, soft mounds of moss lit up by golden shafts of sunlight, and a sense of other-worldliness.  Woods and forests always seem to be bursting with life, whether it’s birds in trees, or creatures rustling deep in the undergrowth.

That particular day there was quite a group of us.  We ended up taking a wrong turn on our way back, and had to turn back onto the woody path, adding another half hour to the trek.  We all took it in our stride, lured by the thought of hot mugs of tea and homemade cakes at the end of a long day’s hike.

There’s something about walking with others in nature, a place where conversations are bright and perspectives are clear.  Sights can be restored.

All of this makes me think of music at the start of a tv programme I used to watch as a child called ‘Fables of the Green Forest’:  ‘The green forest, the green forest, the laughing brook chuckles all day….’

(Immediately following this show, the theme music of Dr. Who would start up, which really frightened me as a child, so the tv was immediately switched off. Lol.)

Interesting, these associations with music and memory. Just as interesting is the connection between nature and familiarity or sense of place.

I was reminded of how much I love the forest. For me it is a kind of haven, reminding me of good long walks with my Dad and brothers into unknown territories. It always felt like an adventure with Dad, and he helped us notice the small things on, or off, the path.

I’m glad to have had my eyes opened in this way, and continue to enjoy that restoring of sight and perspective when venturing out into unknown, but familiar, woodlands.

Here is a poem by former poet laureate, Carol Ann Duffy.  It really encapsulates that feeling of being surrounded by woodland in all its foresty goodness.

Forest - Carol Ann Duffy

In fact, the trees are murmuring under your feet,

a buried empathy; you tread it.

High over your head,

the canopy sieves light; a conversation

you lip-read. The forest

keeps different time;

slow hours as long as your life,

so you feel human.

So you feel more human; persuaded what you are

by wordless breath of wood, reason in resin.

You might name them-

oak, ash, holly, beech, elm-

but the giants are silence alive, superior,

and now you are all instinct;

swinging the small lamp of your heart

as you venture their world:

the green, shadowy, garlic air

your ancestors breathed.

Ah, you thought love human

till you lost yourself in the forest,

but it is more strange.

These grave and patient saints

who pray and pray

and suffer your little embrace.

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The Pentland Firth in the far north of Scotland is known to be one of the roughest stretches of tide in the world.  There have been many a shipwreck in these terrifying cross currents, with very few unable to survive the frigid waters.

I remember a trip across the Firth once.  It was to the mainland from the island of Stroma in a fishing boat called ‘Boy James’.  The person driving the boat was experienced and familiar with that passage of water, having made the trip many times, and suggested that we would have to take the long route back as the tide was turning.  It was early evening and the light was lowering.  So a boat journey that normally took 10-20 minutes took us an hour and a half.  I didn’t mind.  The light was stunning and birds were flying around the boat, active in their pursuit of fish.  The swell of the water was powerful and the smooth surface areas indicated a strong whirlpool-type undercurrent.  I just sat at the back on the floor of the boat, exposed to the open sea air and wind, and drank in as much as I could, hanging on tightly to the side when the boat lurched and rocked.

That journey became the inspiration for a number of paintings, including ‘Sea’ and ‘Stroma’, and it had an impact on me for years to follow.  It was one of the most memorable sea-going adventures for me. Crossing that great expanse of ocean, where Atlantic meets North Sea currents, created an impact that I’ve only experienced standing behind the Niagara Falls.

The hidden depths of the sea are so unknown to us, the life it contains yet to be discovered and explored.  It has a power that is mesmerising and stirs up fear at the same time.

It is a wildness that cannot be reigned in or controlled.

I’ve been noticing the sea swell in the last few days as the wind has been constant.  Yesterday, late morning, on a very cold February day, I went out to look over the bay.  The waves were rolling in, fast and strong.

Later, I drove out to Duncansby Stacks a few miles away and stepped out by the lighthouse to get a panoramic view of the Pentland Firth which was wild and threatening.  Light snow was blowing and when I got to the lighthouse a pinkish glow infused the murky sky.

The island of Stroma sits in the middle of this rough stretch of water.  Some say the name Stroma means ‘Island in the Tide’.  In days before lighthouses, whenever there was a storm, the island community would hang a large lantern from a tripod to warn the ships passing by.  But as one could imagine, it did not prevent every boat from hitting the rocky shore.

In ancient cultures, the sea has often been used as a symbol of chaos and darkness.

Poets and writers in later times refer to the sea as a vast space reflecting the grandness of nature, drawing a person beyond the troubles and concerns of everyday life, and serving as the ultimate inspiration.  I must say, a walk to the seaside along with a blast of wintry air certainly does help pull me outside of myself, allowing nature to seep in and re-enliven my senses.

Kathleen Jamie says it so well in the first verse of 'Poem' which, seemingly casual, reflects some of my feelings of yesterday

John Keats wrote the sonnet, 'On the Sea'.  A sonnet is often a love poem, so we can consider this a love letter to the sea.  When caught up in concern and worry, creativity and the flow of words can be stifled.  Ideas and inspiration lie stagnant, unmoving, like the smallest shell that sits still in the same place for days, despite the motion of water all around it.  The moment we step out and consider something as vast as the sea and its depths, we are taken to another place, and perhaps that unleashes a new impulse to create...

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It is 25 years ago today that my friend and colleague confirmed the purchase of the historic Freswick Castle in the far north of Scotland, the place where the Wayfarer Trust was born and my life took on a whole new trajectory.

And it was supposedly on this day in the 5th Century that Saint Patrick of Ireland died.

Today, while in lockdown, Ireland is celebrating virtually. Families and communities around Ireland and abroad improvised their own parades, some of them indoors using toy tractors and cars and any old musical instrument lying around the house. Others ventured outdoors practising social distancing while they marched up and down their streets.

Green is the colour associated with St. Patrick’s Day, maybe for the shamrock that Patrick was known to use to illustrate the trinity in his sermons.  Maybe just because, well, he was from Ireland.

It seems a fitting colour for this time, especially as it is nearing the official start of spring, and the colour is starting to show itself more in the natural surroundings.

I stepped out into my natural surroundings today, just to get some air and a blast of wind to clear the cobwebs and stretch my mind and scope beyond all things corona for a while.  It felt good.

Another treasure of Edinburgh that is not quite as hidden as the Lane Sale on Jane Street are the Salisbury Crags. I walked there in the blustery weather in the early afternoon. There is evidence of the landscape moving from being wintry and washed-out to waking up and reaching out.

Some years ago, I remember my painting teacher suggesting that people weren’t really attracted to paintings with a lot of green in them. He said his ‘green’ paintings didn’t really sell. I wonder why that is. But now that I think about it, I’m not sure I would be drawn to largely green paintings, except to maybe match the green pillows on the couch.

Just kidding!  Ahem.

(Right now I can imagine one or all of those pillows being thrown at me by some artist friends in the wake of that comment!)

It is a strange time.

However, it couldn’t be a better time to eke out creativity and life in new ways from the hard places, just like Moses who was told to strike his staff against the rock, producing a spring of fresh water.

In this challenging season, new life can emerge and grow, even from the dry and seemingly dead places, and as a result of the losses. The freshly created things will bring a re-shaped perspective to the reality of our circumstances, which are certainly serious, but not without some hope and light.

After getting some necessary groceries at Easter Greens and making my way across the empty streets without much help needed from the green man, I picked up a hyacinth bulb that I saw for sale outside one of the shops further down the road.

When I got home I put it in the green ceramic goblet that I had picked up at the lane sale the other day. When I looked at it, sprouting so confidently, the hyacinth seemed to be saying, 'For now, I'm proud to be green!'

Proud to be growing, hopeful, ready for spring.

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A small orange yellow light blinks it’s way along the top road, across the open view of the living room window, distinctly noticeable in the blackness of the early morning.

The sand truck.

It must be icy out there.

I’m certainly feeling the chill in getting up, and have wrapped myself in the Icelandic wool blanket some friends gave a few years back.

Geese clamour their way through the dark sky.  I can’t see them, I can only hear them.  I wonder what they are thinking right now.  Maybe that clamour is them muttering to themselves as they tumble through the air:  “ *&%$! cold….”

I’ll go out to greet my robin friend when it gets lighter. Or rather, she will come over to greet me, as seems to be the case lately, the prospect of seeds being a strong motivating factor.  The robin is gradually building a trust in me, as she seems to get bolder and closer every time I see her.

Yesterday, I was down on the shore for a short walk, bracing myself against the damp frigid wind, to get a dose of the fresh air.  It was a point in the day that called for clearing the cobweb of taxes and other business.   When I got down to the beach it was low tide and I noticed that some of the water between the rocks and seaweed had frozen. It must have happened because of the fresher water trickling down from the old mill, merging with seawater, or temperatures have dropped lower than usual.

My coffee has got cold, like the weather.  Time to make another.

I don’t like cold coffee, especially on days like today.

When I get up to switch on the kettle I’m struck by the warm bright colours reflected on the far wall.

The sky is getting pink, very pink.

Orange light + pink sky in the morning = shepherds (and pedestrians) warning.

Are we to be ready for rough seas and wild weather?

I’d been planning to go out for a drive this afternoon, but we shall see. Things are turning bleak and somewhat wet.  I think instead I’m going to choose the guilty pleasure of staying firmly inside beside a warm fire with a book.

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On the plane at London Gatwick, I mentally prepared myself for the long flight ahead, sending final texts to people in the UK, and making a call before putting the phone into flight mode. A woman came and dropped down in the seat beside me, shoving her full rucksack into the space in front of her. She seemed agitated, hasty, as she rummaged around for her headphones. We settled into our seats, me by the window, she in the middle, and a Chinese man in the aisle. She immediately directed her attention to the screen in front to look at what films were on offer. I started reading my book.

We didn’t talk for the first half of the flight, but we had 8 hours ahead of us, so plenty of time to connect if we were meant to. I slept a bit, which was a welcome relief after a very short night before leaving for the airport on the shuttle bus early in the morning.

Midway through the flight, both my neighbour and I took the opportunity to go to the loo when the guy in the aisle seat got up. On returning to our respective places, we started talking, first about the length of the trip, then where we were from, and what we did to fill our days. Soon we were moving onto deeper things -- life decisions, relationships, cultural differences….  We ended up talking for about 3 hours!  It certainly made the time pass quickly!

Her name was Erica. 'With a ‘c’ . When she said her name it made me think of my childhood friend who now lives with her family in Seattle and spells her name with a ‘k’.

Erica was from Brazil, but had been living in the UK for almost 2 years. ‘How have you found it?’ I asked her. ‘Hard’, she said. She missed her country, the warmth of the climate, as well as the people and strong sense of community.  She missed hugs and personal touch.  She was finding it a challenge to make friends in her new home in Guildford.  I wondered why she wasn’t in Brazil anymore, but she said there was really no future for her and her partner there, and he liked it in the UK.  We talked about deep things, some personal.  It surprised me, in a way, yet at the same time it seemed a very natural thing.

After our snack lunch and notification of our landing in 20 minutes, Erica and I both commented on how fast the time had gone. I mentioned how nice it was to meet her and that she was welcome to get in touch if she had time to meet in Niagara on her week-long work trip.

‘That was a bit of a soul-bearing session, wasn't it!’ I said as I got up to get my bag.

’I've missed that, to be honest,’ she said.  That really struck me.

I stepped into the aisle with my coat and bag and we quickly got swept along towards passport control, and I reminded myself I must pull out my Canadian passport (not the Dutch one!).

I was thinking how interesting it was that we tend to share openly with people we don’t know, and sometimes more than with people we do.

I walked out of passport control still thinking about it, feeling I had learned something about myself, the culture I come from and find myself in; I felt a sense of my worldview having expanded just a little bit. Had I kept my nose to the window, or in the book, I might not have experienced the greater space beyond culture and comfort to which my mind and sensitivities had been directed.

There are these little glimmers into people’s lives. Deep things come out in the literal space between places. For a while our feet are off the ground and there is a kind of freedom to speak, to share.  Why do we do it?  Maybe it’s because we know we likely won’t see the person anymore, it’s less of a risk, and in an odd way, that makes us feel ‘safer’.  Maybe it's the anonymity combined with the need to talk and for some kind of connection...

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It’s a new week and the beginning of a new month.

As I sit here and write, I have a clear view out of a large window onto a frosty landscape. The sky is bright blue and the sun is spreading a golden light over the frozen earth. The tree branches in front of the window are soaking up the suns rays and some birds are fluttering back and forth, nibbling at the seeds I put out this morning. My robin friend has had some competition lately, with a blackbird and sparrow having discovered the seed, plus a stoat who made an appearance the other day!   I’ve been wondering where these creatures reside. I haven’t detected any nests, but maybe I haven’t looked carefully enough. The stoat has evidently burrowed a little tunnel next to my studio wall. The birds suddenly seem to appear from secret places in the trees or long grasses.   The other evening I went out to watch the full moon rise over the sea. I layered up with woolly clothing, trekked down to the beach, and waited. I ended up waiting longer than planned and was chilled through to the bone on my return to the house. Stepping into a small pool of North Sea water at low tide did not help. When I got inside, my boots were the first things to come off and I lit a fire to ward off the chill, changing into dry socks. It is moments like these when I appreciate the place called home.

While standing out in the bay on that wintry evening, I thought about a couple of radio interviews I heard a few days prior, with UK’s astronaut Tim Peake, and Canadian Space Commander, Chris Hadfield. Both of them expressed their awe and excitement at seeing the world from space, acknowledging the immense privilege it was to experience such a life altering journey. They developed a new and deeper appreciation for earth and all it’s complexity; and along with the practical and technical considerations, a reverence and wonder filled their voices as they shared. While in space they started to think of this earth, our home, and the people in their lives, with a new sense of love and gratitude - and throughout this dangerous adventure, they had to maintain the delicate and complex world of the International Space Station.  Their task was to make a very special, temporary home for the limited time they were in space, a unique environment where they could safely live and work.   What makes home home?  Is it merely a roof over our heads? Certainly that is a thing to be thankful for, no doubt. But I think we can all agree that home is something more, and it extends beyond the idea of shelter.   Here on earth we’ve been plunged into a rather sudden and unexpected isolation. If there’s anything this pandemic and the subsequent lockdowns have taught us, it is how to be ‘at home’ in our own skins and in our own company, or in the company of very few others. We’ve had to tap into inner resources we never knew we had, and re-establish boundaries and set new routines.

The artist, Grayson Perry, hosted a programme on Channel 4 last spring, called ‘Grayson Perry’s Art Club’. In it he invited members to submit artwork based on a theme. One of them was on home. He said ‘We carry around with us this emotional map. When we’re part of the world out there, our map expands because we meet people and they reinforce who we are. In lockdown we are forced to close down, pull back from that world in some ways. Our home has become the boundary of our extended sense of self. Even more than ever, we need to take care of this environment because it’s affecting who we are.’   This silent path through the pandemic has shaped us in ways we cannot yet see or imagine.  If anything, it subconciously or conciously invites us to consider how ‘at home’ we are in our own skins...

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Some snow has finally fallen - enough to satisfy this Canadian-born woman’s heart for now.  The distant homes look like house-shaped igloos against the horizon, their roofs blanketed by the white sparkling powder.

We’ve gone through a range of weathers in the last few days — a bit like my emotions lately.

A few times this week I stepped out to get a blast of air after full hours of taxes and figures, needing to clear my head.   Numbers and I are not close friends, as I told my sister.  If anything, we are more like distant acquaintances.

One evening, when my head reached its limit with sums and lists,  I decided to step out into the bracing weather, regardless of the decreasing light. The wind was howling.  I stopped for a while to look down at the full burn rushing into the sea.  When the winds became too strong and the hail started to pellet down, the darkness descending further, I went home, feeling more settled in myself and ready to make the transition from numbers to cooking.

Yesterday involved a longer walk on the beach during one of the clear intervals between blowing wind and heavy rain.  The clouds had cleared one section of sky, revealing a patch of bright blue where the half moon was hanging.  A ‘day moon’ as my friend called it.  A beautiful image.

Day moon - that fingerprint in the sky and a lovely companion as I made my way to the shore.

At the sea I took my time and walked as far as the tide and temporary clear skies would allow, collecting limpet shells and washed up bits of buoy, stuffing them into my pockets.  I reached an outcrop of rock and realised it would take a little more effort to find my way across the slippery stone surfaces in order to get to the other side of the cliff, so I decided to save that for another day.  The prospect of what is around the corner always intrigues me and tends to lure me further, but not this time.  The wind was starting to pick up again, and I noticed my day moon companion had vanished behind the cloud.

Yesterday evening there were sudden bolts of lightening revealing the shape of the landscape for less than a second,  followed by immediate darkness and the rumble of thunder.  Thunderstorms rarely happen in the north of Scotland, let alone in winter!

There are strong associations between thunderstorms and a restless spirit.  I remember in my days as a teacher in New Mexico how the pupils would become hyper on the day of an oncoming storm.  It was all I could do to keep their attention.  I don't know if my memory is playing tricks or not, but I also found my classes very jumpy on the day of a full moon!  Perhaps there's something in that ancient tradition of moons and madness (hence the term, 'lunacy').  It is true that my emotions have reflected the instability of the thunder recently, but for me, the day moon is now bringing a sense of calm and light.

High above, in the vast blue sky, the moon is still reclining in it's first quarter.

I look forward to when it reaches it's fullness on the 28th of January, which is just around the corner...

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I was travelling to Thurso with a friend (we’re in the same bubble), to pick up a prescription.  It was a nice enough day.  No wind, no rain.  Clear and cold.  The drive to town seemed normal enough, though I sensed something felt different about the car. I wondered if there was a problem with the steering, but quickly dismissed my concerns. My friend was driving and I didn’t want to bother him.

We managed to pick up the prescription and drove back through Castletown, stopping at a shop on the way.

However, as we headed back towards Freswick I could hear a very faint ‘wobble’ noise, but figured it was just the cold or the rough road.   Gradually the vibrating wobble sound became louder.  Initially my friend thought it might be a door that hadn’t been shut properly (although privately I thought this interpretation might be a fatal miscalculation), so I turned round to check the rear doors, but there was no problem.  There was, of course, a worse problem.  The realisation hit us both at the same time - the back tire had blown, the smell of burnt rubber quickly filling the air.

We pulled over into a narrow lay-by in front of someone’s house and got out of the car.  My friend sighed and quietly pulled out the safety tyre from the back of the car along with a rather pathetic looking jack.  ‘This is never very efficient,’ he said dryly.  Fifteen minutes later, when we were both frozen to the bone, he had successfully established that point.  He had not successfully changed the tyre, of course, but had managed to wedge the jack awkwardly under the car and was unable to retrieve it.  He murmured to himself ‘I knew I should have called in at Halford’s last time I was in Inverness to get a better jack for an occasion like this.  However, annoyingly, I couldn’t be bothered at the time.’

Bowing to the inevitable, we called the local garage, which - as luck would have it - was less than half a mile away and (amazingly in these times) was open.  They were incredibly helpful and sent their mechanic to us within 10 minutes.

He pulled over, cheerily greeted us with a muffled hello behind his face mask, and went straight to the car, crouching down beside the wheel.

At first we didn’t recognise him in his orange overalls and because of the mask that was covering half his face.  My friend chatted to him for a while without realising that he knew him. Such is the weird world of masks and disguises in our Covid-19 existence. The mechanic was in fact quite shocked not to be recognised because he had often come down to Freswick and helped his brother with mowing the fields.  All three of us laughed about this occupational hazard of the lockdown, a world where friends and even relatives can sometimes pass each other unawares in the street.  However, I found it very heartwarming that in the tight-knit community of Caithness, even the local garage mechanic turned out to have another connection with us! 

While he pulled some tools out of his car, a pedestrian was approaching on the other side of the road.  As he came closer, we saw that it was someone else we knew.  He stopped and chatted from across the road, soon to go on his way again to keep warm, but not before saying a few words to the young mechanic who (you get the picture) he clearly knew very well…

It was a very cold day.  I was moving around and flapping my arms to ward off the chill, whilst waving oncoming cars past as the little ‘pop-up community’ conversed.

My phone 'tinged'…. a message.  Another friend, had recognised us moments before, noticing the soft tyre while driving behind us on a stretch of road near Dunnet.  He had tried to get hold of me, and eventually turned off the main road to go a different way, hoping that all would be well...

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