I am needing to find the time to write at the moment. Weeks ago, when we were resting Harris after his shoulder/back flare-up (which may or may not have been linked to the mass – I suspect there’s a connection but there’s no way of knowing), I’d got into the habit of writing blog posts in the car while Richard and I took turns to have solo walks with Bracken. As I said at the time, I discovered that I liked writing in the car. We’d park at Gullane or John Muir Country Park, and I’d enjoy the fresh air with the window down, a mug of tea, and Harris curled up on the seat beside me. Car park writing turned out to be much more enjoyable (and better, for me) than doing what I am now: sitting at my desk at home.
And, strange though it sounds, since getting back to normal routines – and thank goodness for normal routines when we can all walk together – I’ve been struggling to find any time to write. For work, yes. For Instagram, yes. Here, not so much. I keep planning to spend an hour in the morning, but invariably I open Instagram and that hour has gone.
So, new (and healthy) habits: making time for this space too. Because it’s less about this space than it is about simply writing for the pleasure of it.
And this photo? I was in Edinburgh briefly last week, winding down from Waverley to Stockbridge through the familiar streets I walked for years, enjoying the quiet routes away from the noise of the city centre. The familiar corners that I’ve always admired, like this building, which has been home to the Ingleby Gallery for the last few years but was originally the Glasite Meeting House. When we lived nearby, before the gallery moved in, this doorstep was a regular stop on walks with Harris, who was an anxious urban pup, so we’d pause here to settle after navigating the traffic on Broughton Street. All these places that have memories, and most of them with my boy.
