The days immediately following the road trip were spent with Kerrigan in Findhorn, near Forres, on the stretch of coastline between Inverness and Aberdeen. She lives in an eco-cabin in The Park - land owned and run by the Findhorn Foundation. It is a surreal and beautiful place, somewhere between hare-brained commune and a clearly better way of living. Later middle-aged women saunter around on push bikes like winsome Parisian Mademoiselles, couples silently lead each other blindfold through the streets and woodland and tourists encroach onto lawns to catch a glimpse of the inside of Foundation properties and their largely normal inhabitants.
Kerrigan's cabin sits on the edge of pine forest which, in turn, backs onto protected SSSI (an EU Site of Special Scientific Interest) sand dunes and then, the beach. The shoreline stretches for miles in both directions and is virtually deserted for most of the time, birdlife aside. The weather here was glorious...maybe not quite as hot as down south...but fine for exploring the dunes and coastline while Kerrigan was at work.
I should mention the cabin again. It has a wood burner to heat all water and, when electricity is required, is powered by four great wind turbines at the edge of the Park. The Foundation generates its own power and sells back to the grid any excess it creates. The cabin's garden and immediate surroundings are ripe for foraging: nettles, wild garlic, mustard garlic - how these things have passed me by until now is a mystery.
After a week of cooking, eating, naked hot tubs with strangers, running along the beach and swimming in the sea, I set my sights on Ben Nevis, the biggest mountain in the UK. Budget allowed for the hire of a modest little car with a slick little gearbox and Kerrigan joined me for the swift jaunt round the country - we'd incorporate a visit to Edinburgh for the weekend. The trail up Ben Nevis isn't the most inspiring, but the views from it were. At times we could count almost double-figures of overlapping peaks and saddles retreating to the horizon, sea lochs snaking between them. From the top, the view was unfortunately obscured by cloud, but we did find small patches of snow, perfect for tobogganing down using our waterproofs. The drive south to Edinburgh the next day was just as spectacular as the Nevis views, Glen Coe especially conjuring memories of Iceland and dreams of the mid-west United States.
We stayed with Paul again in Edinburgh, and spent an afternoon in the Pentland
Hills, about ten minutes drive from Paul's flat in the south of the city. It was here that perhaps the saddest moment of the trip took place. I had brought with me my boomerang, but was too hasty to try it out in the gusting winds. I flung it at an angle to the breeze, but it dipped and caught the side of the hill before arcing wickedly across the face of the wind. Open-mouthed I stood as the little fella spun downward out of view, past the crest of the hill. I bounded after it, but it was nowhere to be seen as further crests obscured the panorama. We formed a search party to make a sweep of the hill, but to no avail, the boomerang now committed to the moors forever. In 2000 years time, historians will mistakenly surmise that, during the 21st Century, Aborigines lived just south of Scotland's capital.
Having got over my emotional loss, the evening was spent at Beltane Fire Festival, a drumming and performance extravaganza to usher in the summer as the Celts of old would have done so. It is a place of wild revelry, processions and epic bonfires that are reportedly seen from as far away as Fife.
As I write, I am now back up north in Findhorn, preparing to head towards Glasgow - via the West Highland Way - in time to see Little Dragon and Crispin on 12th May.
Disclaimer:
For the sake of Kerrigan's good name I have been urged to point out that nothing untoward took place in the back of our Honk camper, should anyone have gained that impression from my previous update. There definitely wasn't any form of menage.
Disclaimer:
For the sake of Kerrigan's good name I must point out that nothing untoward took place in the naked Findhorn hot tub either, should anyone have gained that impression from above. There definitely wasn't any form of menage.
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