On the day of the King's proclamation, and in need of some sea air, we took a run up the coast to Lower Largo. It's been a challenging week for us in one way and another, not least for the depth of emotion we felt at the death of the Queen. There have been other losses, of course, but this one seems to have brought home Joni Mitchell's statement of the obvious: you don't know what you've got 'til it's gone.
We walked along the upper path, it being near high tide, to a favourite spot on the beach beside what looks like a rockery arrangement for a garden. The waters swirled around the rocks and the sun passed slowly, ever lower in the sky as autumn progresses, reminding us again of the relentless march of time. Not yet ready to forget the dog days of summer, the sun shone warmly.
We sat for a while, the tide shifting the shapes and scenery with sand and seaweed. Sea kayaks passed out in the Forth, with the dead offshore platform Sedco 711 breaking up the horizon. Sunlight sparkled and shimmered on the water as time, ralenti, became all but suspended in the reverie.
There's nothing like a beach, and no better beach than a Scottish beach, to purge stress and anxiety, those corrosive curses of the contemporary condition. After the passage of some indeterminate time, things are just better than they were; big things smaller; a feeling of coming home settles.
As we walked along the path, the soothing splash of the waves on the shore below provided headspace in which to process and park our reflections on the week's events and resolutions were quietly packed in their pockets, ready for when we will need them.
I’ve learned that home isn’t a place, it’s a feeling. — Cecelia Ahern in Love, Rosie