Yesterday's weather was better than today's, that's almost official. We're going to a revised version of Hell in all it's Catholic and Gothic glory in an elaborately designed handcart. Here's the site where the SS Wordsworth ran aground in an April storm over one hundred years ago. All hands were saved but the precious cargo of daffodil bulbs was never fully recovered and the loss of that cargo delayed the Spring of 1916 by almost four Gregorian months. Scotland was shortly to be consigned to the Dark Ages of badly organized gardening and religious fervour. A series of events almost unheard of in the register of modern shipping losses though a few folk songs were subsequently pieced together and played on leather bound accordions by the old folks. That was followed by quite a lot of murmuring.
The timing of the Tropic of Cancer seasons has never fully recovered and a large area of the Scottish coastline was badly contaminated and remains so to this very day. At low tide the darkness of the tainted mud and the skeletal remains bear witness to the seasons' tragedy as the fog rolls over. So to you weary walkers of the Coastal Paths, a word of warning; tread carefully and respectfully and be mindful of the history that lies beneath your boot prints.
P.S. Please don't collect your dog shit in plastic bags and then hang it up onto the branches of wayside bushes or place it on the top of our dry-stane dykes. It only encourages local aggression and fosters despair in the farming and fishing communities that our fragile economy depends upon.
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