Unearthed from my old hard drive, and worth posting, I think
Fraser has spent his pennies wisely.
Copper disks, given up to the soil, have bounced back as blue flowers, heads as big as mine, unnatural to the clay, but beautiful.
They line the banks of the canal, between his caravan and the line of his canoes.
The door is closed, and I hear his voice booming over the water, as I cycle past.
Is he corrupting local youth, I wonder, or Skyping all the way back to Canada?
Whichever, I wish him peace, and many years of swimming naked, and making prints, of fishing without a rod and painting without a net.
I’m chasing my shadow along the tow path, langoustine from the loch still making my fingers smell, still tasting like velvet in my mouth. Landed this afternoon, cooked a few minutes ago, chased with wine and then coffee, and fuelling my dash back home.
Ducks at Bellanoch (“Hit your brakes, not the drakes” is the warning to motorists on the road across from me) making fussy ‘v’s out across the water, away from me. Another painter lives to my right, and to my left the Add adds itself to the sea.
Faster, as the coffee hits my caffeine-stream, and the wind is at my back. Wild garlic and foxglove, long leaves in the water, rushes laid out like arrowheads. Faster, and six miles to Ardrishaig.
On my left, now, the Great Moss. Watched over by the fort of Dunadd. By the hard rock which submitted to the feet of kings, but which kept their footprints for its own, holding the shape of those feet centuries after their bones became dust.
A sign, briefly glimpsed “Holding Back The Tide”. No time to read the small print, and find out how Thomas Telford out-did King Cnut. But on my left the tide is held back still, and on my right the canal, unmingled.
Pausing, briefly, to open a gate, and enjoy the light. A voice - “Get out, get out, I told you to stay out.” It’s coming from a cottage on the other side of the water, and I’m on my bike again before I know if it’s dog, or wife, or midges he’s casting out.
The path is suddenly paved, and I know I’m coming up on Cairnbaan. So soon? Dawdling in front of me, three teenagers on their own bikes, trying to set their own pace, defying the future rushing towards them by idling away from it. Good luck.
But the tarmac is smooth, and I’m picking up speed. Up and up the speedo goes. Dare I go over 20? I dare, I dare. The road tries to pull me left, but I resist and slow on to the tow path again. My bike grumbles, keen for speed, then chuckles on the gravel.
On the flat, now, the path overlooking the ghost of a rugby pitch, reeds marching from try-line to try-line. I wonder how long it will be before the posts get claimed by creeper. I want to come back and find out.
A glimpse of Arran, and then the path cuts beneath trees, winds in shadow. Let my thoughts be my own, for a while, in shadow. For a short while, and I know the sun lies ahead, but for a short while, my thoughts are dark.
And opening again, to the water, the canal dark on my right, still, and Loch Fyne improbably glinting. Arran so close, so clear, and, picking up the dying sun, a last ferry making the crossing from Portavadie to Tarbert, 15 miles away.
Oakfield Bridge now, and the deceptive cottage, one storey at the front, three at the back. It has more stories than meet the eye. Like most of us. I ignore the road on the left, the smooth path on the right. Straight ahead. Rougher, higher, the view is better.
A moment of sadness, as I see that the new owners have left the petanque court to be overgrown. I give room to another sadness, and wish my dog was running ahead of me, jogging alongside, walking behind.
Copper disks, given up to the soil, have bounced back as blue flowers, heads as big as mine, unnatural to the clay, but beautiful.
They line the banks of the canal, between his caravan and the line of his canoes.
The door is closed, and I hear his voice booming over the water, as I cycle past.
Is he corrupting local youth, I wonder, or Skyping all the way back to Canada?
Whichever, I wish him peace, and many years of swimming naked, and making prints, of fishing without a rod and painting without a net.
I’m chasing my shadow along the tow path, langoustine from the loch still making my fingers smell, still tasting like velvet in my mouth. Landed this afternoon, cooked a few minutes ago, chased with wine and then coffee, and fuelling my dash back home.
Ducks at Bellanoch (“Hit your brakes, not the drakes” is the warning to motorists on the road across from me) making fussy ‘v’s out across the water, away from me. Another painter lives to my right, and to my left the Add adds itself to the sea.
Faster, as the coffee hits my caffeine-stream, and the wind is at my back. Wild garlic and foxglove, long leaves in the water, rushes laid out like arrowheads. Faster, and six miles to Ardrishaig.
On my left, now, the Great Moss. Watched over by the fort of Dunadd. By the hard rock which submitted to the feet of kings, but which kept their footprints for its own, holding the shape of those feet centuries after their bones became dust.
A sign, briefly glimpsed “Holding Back The Tide”. No time to read the small print, and find out how Thomas Telford out-did King Cnut. But on my left the tide is held back still, and on my right the canal, unmingled.
Pausing, briefly, to open a gate, and enjoy the light. A voice - “Get out, get out, I told you to stay out.” It’s coming from a cottage on the other side of the water, and I’m on my bike again before I know if it’s dog, or wife, or midges he’s casting out.
The path is suddenly paved, and I know I’m coming up on Cairnbaan. So soon? Dawdling in front of me, three teenagers on their own bikes, trying to set their own pace, defying the future rushing towards them by idling away from it. Good luck.
But the tarmac is smooth, and I’m picking up speed. Up and up the speedo goes. Dare I go over 20? I dare, I dare. The road tries to pull me left, but I resist and slow on to the tow path again. My bike grumbles, keen for speed, then chuckles on the gravel.
On the flat, now, the path overlooking the ghost of a rugby pitch, reeds marching from try-line to try-line. I wonder how long it will be before the posts get claimed by creeper. I want to come back and find out.
A glimpse of Arran, and then the path cuts beneath trees, winds in shadow. Let my thoughts be my own, for a while, in shadow. For a short while, and I know the sun lies ahead, but for a short while, my thoughts are dark.
And opening again, to the water, the canal dark on my right, still, and Loch Fyne improbably glinting. Arran so close, so clear, and, picking up the dying sun, a last ferry making the crossing from Portavadie to Tarbert, 15 miles away.
Oakfield Bridge now, and the deceptive cottage, one storey at the front, three at the back. It has more stories than meet the eye. Like most of us. I ignore the road on the left, the smooth path on the right. Straight ahead. Rougher, higher, the view is better.
A moment of sadness, as I see that the new owners have left the petanque court to be overgrown. I give room to another sadness, and wish my dog was running ahead of me, jogging alongside, walking behind.