[WrenX]'s diary
17 August 2024
I have nestled myself within the embrace of this secluded bothy for several months now, and the passage of time has wrought its inevitable transformation upon the land. The once radiant summer, with its golden warmth and languid days, has begun to retreat, yielding to the delicate yet inexorable advance of autumn’s russet hues. Soon, the Scottish winter shall descend upon these rugged highlands—a season of bleak desolation and a chill that creeps into the very marrow of one’s bones.
Last night, as I reclined in my bed, enveloped in the comforting solace of a well-worn book, my thoughts drifted to the ancient whispers of a legend that haunts these lands—the Baobhan Sith. This spectral creature of the fae, so they say, prowls the wild and desolate moors, seeking out the unwary. Drawn to those who, under the cloak of night, take refuge in these lonely bothies or pitch their camps amidst the brooding hills—often hunters by intent, but all too easily becoming the hunted.
The very thought of such a being, with its ethereal beauty masking a ravenous hunger, sent a chill through me, one that had little to do with the encroaching cold. The boundaries between myth and reality seem to blur in these desolate places, where the land itself breathes with secrets, and the night is as treacherous as it is dark.
"You must never disrespect the wee folk. Always regard them with the utmost respect and reverence," my seanmhair, my dear grandmother, would often remind me in the soft, lilting tones of her native tongue. Her words, like so many of her teachings, were steeped in the ancient wisdom of our people—a wisdom that transcended the boundaries of time and place. No matter where life’s capricious winds had carried us, whether to the bustling streets of distant cities or the quiet corners of some far-flung countryside, our home was ever steeped in the old ways, the air thick with the scent of tradition and superstition.
Even now, as a woman wandering the world with a camera perpetually slung over my shoulder, I find myself unable to shake those early lessons, the rituals of respect ingrained so deeply in my soul. There is something profoundly comforting in their simplicity, a connection to a past that feels ever-present, even amidst the modernity of the world.
One such ritual, simple yet laden with meaning, remains with me to this day: the offering of cream or honey on the west side of the home, a humble gift for the wee folk, those mysterious, unseen denizens of the natural world. To some, it might seem a quaint or even foolish practice, a relic of a bygone era. But to me, it is an act of reverence, a way of acknowledging the ancient forces that shape our lives in ways we cannot always comprehend.
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I awoke at the first light of dawn, the lingering shadows of night swiftly dissolving into the soft grey of the morning mist. The thought of the Baobhan Sith, that haunting spectre of the highlands, had dissipated with the coming day, as if it were nothing more than a fleeting dream, a shadow passing over the soul. I busied myself with the mundane tasks of the morning, preparing a cup of coffee that steamed in the cool air, its warmth a small comfort as I readied myself for the journey ahead.
Today, the solitude of the bothy would give way to the company of others, as I made my way to the nearby village, where a dear friend had graciously offered me a lift to the train station. The artist’s life, for all its romanticism, is one of perpetual movement—a dance between the solitary creation and the communal celebration. This day’s travel was for the latter, a journey to the small seaside town of Oban, where the echoes of a wedding I had captured in May would find their final refrain in a late summer reception.
As I prepared for the evening’s work, the familiar rhythm of my craft brought a sense of calm. The camera, that faithful companion, felt like an extension of my own eye, poised to immortalise yet another moment in time, as fleeting and ephemeral as the seasons themselves. The bride, whose joy I had once captured beneath the burgeoning blossoms of spring, had chosen to gather her loved ones by the sea, where the winds would carry the echoes of their laughter across the waves.
The task ahead was a familiar one, yet each assignment carries its own peculiar charm, a uniqueness that only reveals itself in the unfolding of the day. As I made my way down from the highlands, leaving behind the rugged beauty of the moors, I found myself caught between two worlds—the wild, untamed spirit of the land I had called home these past months, and the gentler, more cultivated landscape that awaited me.
Oban, with its quaint charm and the vast expanse of sea that cradles it, was a world apart from the desolate grandeur of the highlands. Yet, in both, there was beauty to be found—beauty that, once captured, could be savoured long after the moment had passed, like the memory of a lover’s kiss, or the whisper of an ancient legend on the wind.
The bride, in her graciousness, has extended an invitation for me to stay the night and partake in the ceilidh—a tradition as vibrant and full of life as the very land itself. There is a certain magic in such gatherings, where music and merriment weave a tapestry of human connection, and where the cares of the world are momentarily forgotten in the whirl of the dance.
I confess, there is a certain allure in the prospect of the evening ahead. A night spent not merely as the observer, capturing moments from behind the lens, but as a participant—da
Tomorrow, when the first light of dawn once again peeks through the curtains, I shall return to this journal—my faithful companion in solitude—and regale the zero souls who read it with tales of my night’s adventures. There will be stories of work, of dancing, and of the small pleasures that make life all the more rich.
And though no one may ever read these words, the act of writing them will be enough—a quiet celebration of the life I lead, caught between the wild beauty of nature and the fleeting joys of human connection.
16 August 2024
Once more, Elvis presides as my companion, his voice a rich, velvety thread weaving through the fabric of my day. The vinyl records, their grooves etched with the soulful cadence of his songs, spin beneath the needle with a satisfying crackle, a symphony of nostalgia that would surely cause any true Elvis aficionado to blush with envy. His music fills the air, a warm, resonant balm against the relentless downpour outside. The rain, far heavier than yesterday's gentle drizzle, drums incessantly against the windows, its rhythm steady and unyielding. The birds, those usual choristers of the Highlands, have fallen silent, their songs swallowed by the sombre grey of the storm.
Today has been one of quiet industry, my time divided between the ceaseless flow of emails and the meticulous task of editing, each image a piece of art waiting to emerge from the digital canvas. There is a certain satisfaction in this work, a meditative quality to the process that allows my mind to wander, even as my hands remain engaged. Yet, as the hours slip by, I am acutely aware of the preparations that must be made for tomorrow’s journey. The evening train will carry me to Oban, a town cradled by the sea and steeped in history, where I have been commissioned to photograph a wedding reception. The thought of it stirs a quiet excitement within me—a chance to capture the fleeting beauty of love, framed against the rugged charm of the Scottish coast.
The bride and groom, in a gesture of warm hospitality, have extended an invitation for me to stay the night and partake in the ceilidh that will follow. It has been many years since I last attended a proper ceilidh, that joyous celebration of music and dance that is so intrinsic to our culture. The prospect fills me with anticipation, a rekindling of fond memories long buried beneath the sands of time. I even found myself rummaging through the recesses of my wardrobe to unearth a pair of proper dance shoes, their leather softened by years of use but still as sturdy as ever.
I must have been in my early twenties, full of the carefree vigour that youth affords. It was another traditional wedding, much like the one I am to attend tomorrow, where the evening air was thick with the mingling scents of whisky and heather, and the laughter of old friends echoed through the hall. I remember finding myself swept into the arms of a young man clad in a rugged kilt, his presence as commanding as the Highlands themselves. His hands were firm and sure as he led me into the Gay Gordons, the familiar steps falling into place as if we had rehearsed them a hundred times before.
He spun me with such enthusiasm that the world became a blur of tartan and smiles, the room spinning faster than my feet could keep up. There was a wildness to his movements, a reckless abandon that sent us both careening around the dance floor, our laughter mingling with the music in a dizzying crescendo. He twirled me a little too vigorously, and I felt my balance falter, my feet barely grazing the ground as I was pulled into his orbit. But that, of course, is the essence of a true ceilidh—a dance that leaves you breathless, your heart pounding not just from the exertion but from the sheer joy of it all.
By the time the music faded and we stumbled to a halt, I was breathless, my cheeks flushed with exertion and exhilaration. I could already feel the telltale twinge of what would soon become a spectacular bruise on my shin, a mark of honour from the night’s revelries. It isn’t a true ceilidh if you don’t leave with a few bruises, a small price to pay for the unbridled joy of the dance. As I think back on that night, I find myself smiling at the memory—the aching muscles, the sore feet, the way we all staggered out into the cool night air, still laughing, still caught in the rhythm of the music that had long since ended.
I often find myself wondering what became of that boy, the one who spun me through the night with such reckless joy. Now, in my late twenties, the details of that evening have softened around the edges, like a well-loved photograph faded by time. His name eludes me, slipping through the grasp of memory like mist on a Highland morning. Yet, I hold on to the hope that wherever he is, he is still enjoying a ceilidh or two this season, his laughter mingling with the music as it once did with mine. Perhaps he, too, thinks back on our one night together with a smile, remembering the wild energy of our dance, the way we were carried away by the music and the moment.
As for tomorrow, I will step into the festivities with anticipation, ready to be swept up once more in the whirl of kilts and the lively strains of the fiddle. Yet, I shall exercise a measure of restraint, ensuring that the whisky does not flow too freely. It would be a shame to lose myself entirely to the night, only to wake the next morning with the faces and names of those I met blurred and indistinct, like a dream half-remembere
For it is not just the dance that I cherish, but the stories that linger in its wake—the faces, the conversations, the shared glances that might otherwise be lost to the passage of time. And so, tomorrow, I will dance and drink and laugh, but I will also remember, carefully storing away each memory to be woven into the tapestry of these pages.
In other news, I find myself in the curious position of having completed my work for the day, only to be met with a discovery that borders on the tragic—I am nearly out of whisky. The very notion seems to mock the sanctity of a Scottish home, where such an oversight is nothing short of sacrilege. What kind of abode, nestled within the mists of the Highlands, would allow its whisky supply to dwindle so perilously close to nothing? The thought alone is enough to make one shudder.
I completed my tasks with a sense of quiet satisfaction, the kind that comes only from a day well-spent, and I had looked forward to the small ritual that signals the day’s end: a glass of whisky, its rich amber glow catching the firelight as it swirls in the glass, a liquid sunset held captive by crystal. Yet, as I reached for the bottle, a most unsettling truth revealed itself—the level had sunk dangerously low, a scant few drops remaining to fend off the encroaching night.
What manner of home is this, where the hearth is warm, the air thick with the scent of peat, yet the glass is empty of its rightful fill? It is as if a violin were missing its strings, a canvas left untouched by paint. The whisky bottle stands there, a solemn witness to my negligence, the glass growing ever lighter with each pour, each sip a reminder of what little remains.
And so, with a mix of resignation and bemusement, I shall pour what is left and savour it as one might savour the last rose of summer, knowing it is the final bloom before the frost. I shall sit by the fire, the night pressing close against the windows, and reflect on the irony of it all—this Scottish home, so full of life and warmth, yet perilously close to being without the very essence of its identity. Tomorrow, perhaps, I shall rectify this grievous error, but tonight, I will make do with what remains, a reminder that even in the land of whisky, nothing is ever truly certain.
A' Chiad Solas
Anns a’ chiad solas,
tha na h-àrdan na h-Alba a’ leagail,
air a’ bhunait sheòmar mòr,
is a’ ghrian a’ sgapadh gu socair
trìm na h-ùine,
a’ cur glan air a’ ghlas,
a’ snìomh leis an t-sìth.
Gach creag, gach coille,
air a’ mhullach,
a’ freagairt do na gàirdeanan a’ fàs,
bho chionn ghoirid agus fìor-thoileach
an fhìrinn a’ briseadh às an dorchadas
mar a h-uile nì eile a’ fuireach
ann an raon fada,
far nach eil ach an dòchas.
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The First Light
In the first light,
the Scottish highlands stretch out,
across the vast expanse,
the sun spreading gently
through time,
clearing the grey,
moving with tranquility.
Every crag, every forest,
on the ridge,
responds to the growing embrace,
with a recent and true joy,
truth breaking from darkness
as everything else remains
in a distant realm,
where only hope endures.
15 August 2024
There is an exquisite strangeness in returning to this secluded corner of the digital ether, a space as secretive and intimate as the whispered confessions of a lover. Though the vast corridors of the internet echo with the silent absence of others, I find a peculiar comfort in this solitude, where my thoughts might unfurl without restraint, like the delicate petals of some rare, nocturnal bloom. How curious it is that this sanctuary should appear to me once more, a forgotten portal to a world where my musings might find resonance with kindred spirits. It ebbs and flows like the tides, this place, a virtual atelier where I once penned the fervent reflections of my youth. Now, with the weight of years upon my brow, I seek to rekindle that flame, to inscribe anew my thoughts, as one might trace the lines of an old, beloved manuscript, knowing that time will inevitably turn these words to dust.
More than a decade has passed since I last dwelt here, and in that span, life has unfurled in ways both expected and marvellously strange. I find myself, now, in the most curious of predicaments—a
At present, I reside in a tiny bothy nestled among the wild, untamed beauty of the Scottish Highlands. The bothy, once a humble shelter, has been transformed by the grace of modernity, now pulsing with the gentle hum of electricity, the steady flow of water, and the invisible threads of wifi—a trinity of conveniences for which I am profoundly grateful. Here, in this remote haven, I have embarked upon an artist residency, a sojourn that allows me to wrestle with the raw forces of nature that dominate this landscape, channeling them into my work. The Highlands, with their tempestuous energy, provide the perfect canvas for the evolution of my artistic vision—a vision that seeks to transcend the mere documentation of others' joy and reach into the sublime, the ineffable.
Today was spent in the quiet company of my own thoughts, the task of editing photographs occupying the better part of my hours. The world outside my window was alive with the songs of birds, their melodies a gentle counterpoint to the crackling warmth of an old record player, which spun the hauntingly familiar tunes of Elvis Presley. It was a day that unfolded like the turning of a page in a beloved novel, each moment tinged with a sense of nostalgia, yet brimming with the promise of new beginnings.
Before the Scottish summer sun dipped behind the craggy peaks of the mountains, casting its final golden rays upon the heather-clad hills, I felt an irresistible urge to venture outside. The day had been one of persistent rain, a fine, misty drizzle that had soaked the earth until it became a living sponge beneath my boots. Each step I took was met with the soft resistance of the sodden ground, releasing the rich, heady scent of damp earth and ancient peat into the cool evening air. It was a scent that seemed to rise from the very heart of the land, a perfume distilled by time and nature’s alchemy.
I made my way towards the nearest town, a place that clung to the landscape like a secret whispered between the hills, to procure a few essential items—a task mundane in its nature, yet imbued with a quiet significance in this remote corner of the world. The walk was solitary, the only sounds the occasional rustle of leaves in the breeze and the soft, rhythmic patter of water droplets falling from the trees. The path, a narrow ribbon of earth, wound through the wild beauty of the Highlands, where the landscape seemed to breathe with an ancient, untamed vitality.
As I approached the outskirts of the town, I encountered a gentleman whom I had seen on several occasions before, a figure as much a part of the landscape as the gnarled oaks or the brooding mountains. There was a ruggedness about him, a weathered quality that spoke of a life lived in harmony with the harsh, unforgiving terrain. His accent, thick and melodic, rolled off his tongue like the Gaelic verses of old, a stark contrast to my own softer speech. We exchanged pleasantries, our conversation turning, as it so often does in these parts, to the weather—a subject as unpredictable and capricious as the Highlands themselves. His words carried the weight of the land, shaped by the winds and rains that had carved these mountains, and I found a curious comfort in the cadence of his speech, as if in his voice I could hear the very soul of this wild and beautiful place.
Once I returned to the warmth of my humble abode, the gathering dusk casting long shadows upon the walls, I set about the comforting ritual of brewing myself a cup of coffee. Though I was born in these very lands, the years I spent wandering beyond the borders of my homeland seem to have severed my once steadfast allegiance to tea (and my accent). Instead, I found myself irresistibly drawn to the dark allure of coffee, a passion that had blossomed during my first sojourn to Italy, where an old Moka pot, now well-worn and cherished, became a trusted companion. I filled it with real espresso, rich and fragrant, and set it to boil on the stove, the kitchen soon filling with the warm, intoxicating scent that I have come to associate with moments of quiet reflection.
The coffee, once brewed, was tempered with a splash of milk and a spoonful of brown sugar, its sweetness offering a gentle counterpoint to the robust bitterness of the espresso. With cup in hand, I settled into the embrace of my sofa, the night drawing close around me like a familiar, comforting cloak. The late hour held no power over me; caffeine, it seems, is a stimulant that fails to disturb the tranquil waters of my mind. My brother, in his ever-amusing candour, attributes this to a touch of ADHD—a suspicion that, though never confirmed, has a certain poetic resonance. I have never sought a diagnosis, preferring instead to think of it as one of those quirks that lends character to my existence.
As I sipped the rich brew, I reached for an old favourite, The Picture of Dorian Gray by the incomparable Oscar Wilde, whose prose dances through my thoughts like the shadows cast by a flickering flame. Wilde, whose wit and wisdom have long inspired my own meandering attempts at writing, felt like the perfect companion for such a night. There is something about his work—its elegance, its decadence, its piercing insight into the human soul—that resonates deeply with me, as if his words were woven from the very fabric of my own thoughts. And so, with the fire of caffeine warming my veins and Wilde’s exquisite prose to guide me, I allowed myself to drift into the labyrinth of his imagination, where beauty and darkness entwine in a dance as old as time itself.
First Entry
I used to have an account on this website during the tumultuous days of my angsty high school years. While I don't necessarily long for those strange and awkward times, I do cherish the friendships I formed here and the space it provided to create, share, and journal my thoughts. There might be a touch of nostalgia creeping in, but I’m genuinely pleased to have been reminded of this little corner of the internet and to have found my way back to it.
This space feels like a hidden sanctuary, tucked away in the quiet corners of the vast digital landscape. It's as if I've stepped into an old, beloved attic, where the dust dances in the shafts of sunlight and every creak of the floorboards holds a memory. The walls here are lined with the echoes of past conversations, the whispers of shared secrets, and the warmth of friendships that defied distance and time. There’s a comforting anonymity here, like slipping on a well-worn cloak that allows me to blend into the background, yet still be a part of something meaningful. It’s a place where the weight of the everyday melts away, and in its place, a sense of possibility blooms—a place to sprinkle a little magic, dream freely, and let creativity flow like a river undisturbed by the rush of the outside world.
So, here's to writing more journal entries, forging new friendships, and embarking on countless adventures. Slàinte Mhath! Here's to good health and even better times ahead.