Journal
A welcoming and warmly lit workshop for that most brilliantly baffling of machines: the human dynamic. Dispatches from the front lines of psychology, and from journeys along the liminal edge.
Highgate Cemetery
To walk Highgate is to move through a different state of matter. The air itself seems thick with time, clinging like ivy to the stone. I came here with a specific intention: to see the world beyond the visible…
ReadImir Fada
The world had dissolved to grey. Not the soft, shifting grey of a dreich day in the glens, but a dense, saturating whiteness that erased the boundary between earth and air. Ben More Assynt had vanished…
ReadKilmartin Glen
To walk the Kilmartin Glen on a bright spring morning is to feel the past press close, to read a language written in stone and light. The air, sharp-edged and tasting of salt blown in from the Sound of Jura…
ReadLinn of Muick
You feel the spate long before you see it. It is a tremor through the soles of your boots, a low-frequency hum that vibrates in the bones of your jaw. We had walked in from the Spittal under a pewter sky, the…
ReadLundin Links
To walk the fairways of Lundin Links is to move across a surface of profound artifice. The green here is a managed thing, a baize of shorn and fed grass, its contours smoothed and its hollows calculated. It is…
ReadRiver Braan
The sound finds you first, a low thrumming that builds through the soles of your boots to a full-bodied roar. This is not the river’s summer chatter, but its spring spate-speech: a raw, untrammelled monologue…
ReadRumbling Bridge
To walk the path to the Rumbling Bridge on a spring afternoon is to leave the sunlit world behind. You descend into a holloway, a cleft in the land carved not by footfall but by the ceaseless industry of…
ReadSchiehallion
The path begins as a rumour in the gloaming, a pale thread spooling out from the road and into the deep hush of the summer morning. Mist has claimed the world overnight, snagging itself on the larch woods and…
ReadThe Fairy Lochs
The path begins as a promise, a soft track winding from the road near Gairloch, but it soon becomes a question. On a day of high, bright summer, with a sky of impossible blue, the ground remembers water. It…
ReadThe Twelve Apostles
The air on the moor is thick enough to drink. It is a brew of peat, damp heather, and something else, something electric and ancient. To walk up onto Ilkley Moor on a thundery summer’s afternoon is to feel the…
ReadTuilyies
To stand at Tuilyies is to feel the rip-current of time. Here, in a green wedge of land beside the A985, the present rushes past as a torrent of steel and rubber. Lorries shudder by, their slipstream a sudden…
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