Walking, writing, healing
This is a story of gales and sea, of shipwrecks and mountains of sand: a true Wild Soul Walk. It began with a glimpse and a promise of wild water from the window of a bus.
We arrived in Gullane, a small town in East Lothian, on a blustery March afternoon in search of another beach. We consulted our maps, and headed seaward, leaving the gastro-pub and vintage tea shop behind, meandering through lanes lined with early blossom and birdsong, and past a green spotted with blackbirds and magpies.
One of winter’s last days was passing. It was a smudged world of rain and dusk. I walked along the shore under raindrops as fine as dust. They clung to my skin like dew, and formed clouds when I breathed. Before long I was coated and slick, like a seal pup. Smirr, we call it here.
One of winter’s last days was passing. I trudged past streetlamps and sodium lights gleaming in the haze and mirrored on wet sand. The smirr muffled the sounds of faint sirens and engines, hushing the peep-peep of oyster catchers and cries of gulls. The waves were softened. Looking heavenwards, all was tinted cobalt, around me was horizon-less. The night’s stars would soon come.
