Early Days

One of those fine, sunny and very blue winter mornings which seldom makes an appearance, and which is always accompanied by icy paralysing cold. . . .

It has been so cold in the last few days that we cannot break through the ice crust when walking along deer trails in Lanark - it is slippery, treacherous and hard going all the way, and the forest is a noisy place to be, a vast realm of breaking glass in which good boots and protective head gear are imperative. A bitter wind has been dancing its way among the ice-coated trees in the woods, and it creates a veritable symphony as it goes along, one in which the instruments are organic, and the principal notes are tinkles and chimes, rattles and creaks, groans and falling ice. The Old Wild Mother was here first, and she is the original scribe and maker, the primal composer of music cosmic, refulgent and terrestrial.

This morning, a small cameo appearance from the doddering scribe/photographer of this patchwork blog (me). . . . At the beginning of a new year, there is something reckless, daring and rather appealing about the idea of showing up here, but as just a patch of strong blue shadow in my favourite landscape, an antiquated abstraction in which no visual details of the gnarly old metabolism are revealed.

Happy Hogmanay, and much joy on your journey this year.

Cate