rainbows in curved air (or curves in rainbowed air)

More Nostalgic Hippie Nonsense

A weeks holiday in November how will I spend it? Catching up with myself. I did go in to college midweek for my 5-a-side game, but that just shows my level of commitment.

Yesterday, I re-lived a painful & pleasurable journey as I re-traced steps taken as a small child.

After school I often took off alone into the Kilpatrick Hills & I relived this epic journey armed with suitable boots & clothing. Or so I thought. As I did when I was younger, I did get wet feet, I cannot remember so much bogland & mud.

I passed the wall where I leaned my back to read ‘Lord of the Rings’ during one of those glorious, carefree summers. It had to be read outdoors for the ambience.

I sound like an aged Gandalf the Grey, when I complain about how these fields were full of lapwings, sparrowhawks & skylarks. Now its just the clattering magpies (rare when I was young!) & the old crows. At one point, at twilight’s last gleaming, I saw a flock of around 300 crows squaking directly above me as they headed in to roost.

Looking over to what we used to call the ‘Judges Wig’, a hill covered in pine forest, I could see what I would wish to name: the ‘Judges New Wig’ as it echoes the older forest nearby.

I became tearful as I followed the burn & I remembered my father taking me here to catch trout from under rocks with our bare hands. Gypsy fishing. I know every rock in this burn, even after all this time. I know the shape of these rocks underwater, all the nooks & crannies, where the trout would shelter. At least you would not notice the tears as they soon drip down into the burn. I would spend all day here, when I was young only rushing home as it started to get dark.

I searched for the waterfall in the forest. I could now see it from the fence. This is the odd thing. Although I have been up here a few years ago, the landscape has changed a fair amount since my youth. The paths have moved. Other areas have become overgrown or have been cleared. Even the course of the burn has been altered. So much so in one area that used to be a loch for Saturday morning fishing with a rod in the rain, that it is virtually unrecognisable as it has dried up.

My father would collect the crab apples from the old gnarled trees. No one picks them now they just drop to the ground. Even the sheep pass them by. My mother would make wonderful fruit pies with them or with the blueberries or brambles. Who does this now?