[WrenX]'s diary
22 August 2024
Today is the lull before the tempest, that fleeting pause when the world holds its breath in anticipation of the whirlwind to come. The next three days will see me crisscrossing the wild and untamed beauty of Scotland, as I embark on the final odyssey of this wedding season.
Tomorrow, my journey begins with a drive to Glencoe, where I shall capture the enduring love of a quaint older couple. Theirs is a love story etched in the lines of time, a tale that will be immortalised through my lens. From there, I shall journey southwards to Loch Awe, where Saturday's wedding awaits—a celebration of union beneath the watchful gaze of ancient hills. And then, on Sunday, the road will carry me back to the Isle of Skye, to the Quiraing, where I shall once again seek to ensnare the fleeting beauty of human emotion amidst the brooding landscape.
But today, today is mine. The sun, in a rare act of benevolence, has graced the skies with its presence. My friends have already departed, scattering like leaves on the wind, each to their own adventures. Perhaps I too shall indulge in a wild run through the trails that weave around my bothy, letting the fresh air cleanse my spirit and invigorate my limbs. But not just yet. For now, I shall linger a while longer, savouring the stillness, and the comfort of my coffee, before the storm beckons and I must once again surrender to the call of the road.
Pancakes?
In a delightful departure from my usual musings, I stumbled upon something quite unexpected today—a new recipe that I simply had to try for lunch. Now, we are all familiar with the humble pancake, that comforting staple of the breakfast table. But imagine, if you will, a pancake that not only delights the taste buds but also nourishes the body with an abundance of protein. Yes, a protein pancake that still retains the lightness and flavour of its traditional counterpart, yet satisfies the appetite and fortifies the soul. Such a discovery is nothing short of culinary alchemy.
To think that two of these golden discs contained a staggering 35 grams of protein! It is a revelation that brings a smile to my lips, for it solves a conundrum that has long shadowed my life. What you may not know, dear reader, is that I was once an athlete, my feet swift upon the track in the days of my youth. A runner, to be precise—a creature of speed and stamina. But as a vegetarian, I always found myself grappling with the elusive challenge of meeting my protein needs, a struggle that lingered like an unwelcome guest.
Yet today, this simple recipe has altered the course of that old battle. With each bite, I felt as though I was reclaiming a part of myself, nourishing not only my body but also the memory of the runner I once was. It is strange how something so seemingly small can reignite a spark within, reminding us of who we were and who we might yet become.
And now, as promised, the recipe that has brought such unexpected joy to my day. It is a simple concoction, yet one that carries the potential to transform an ordinary lunch into something quite extraordinary. Here it is:
Recipe:
4 eggs
1 1/2 cups cottage cheese
1 cup flour
1 teaspoon baking powder
Combine these ingredients, mixing until the batter is smooth and free of lumps. Then, fry each pancake on the stove, watching as they puff up and turn a golden brown, their aroma filling the kitchen with the scent of comfort and contentment. This recipe yields about eight pancakes, a veritable bounty if, like me, you find yourself cooking for one.
So yes, you will likely have leftovers—a happy predicament for those of us who live alone. I do encourage you to try them yourself, and when you do, you may find yourself silently thanking me as you savour each bite. But as for me, I think I shall need to give Fionn a call and invite him over to share in this newfound delight. It seems only fitting to spread the joy, to offer a taste of something new and nourishing to a friend.
To Clean or Be a Couch Potato, that is the Question
Today has been an indulgence in the art of idleness, a rare and exquisite pleasure that I seldom allow myself. My hours have drifted away in a haze of reading, baking—astonis
Yet, today I permitted myself to be a creature of leisure, if only because I know all too well what looms on the horizon. This day of restful indulgence is the calm before the storm, a final moment of tranquillity before the relentless whirlwind of this last weekend descends upon me. For those who ply their trade in the world of weddings, August is the cruellest month. It is a time of frenzied activity, when every hour of every day is spoken for, and one's sanity hangs by a thread.
And so, I have taken this day to prepare—not in the usual way, by ticking off tasks and making lists, but by readying my mind and spirit for the onslaught to come. Tomorrow, the madness begins. What we in the industry call a "triple weekend" lies ahead, a merciless gauntlet of three weddings in three days, covering nearly 500 miles of Scottish terrain. It will be a test of endurance, both physical and mental, and yet there is something exhilarating about the challenge.
But today, I am content to indulge in this fleeting respite. Tomorrow, the storm will break, and I shall be swept up in its fury. But for now, I am content to simply be—no business, no deadlines, just the simple pleasures of a good book, a successful bake, and the company of Anthony Hopkins on my screen.
21 August 2024
It is a curious thing, this dance with the sun, an intricate waltz where I am led by its whims, rising and falling in synchrony with the golden orb. How tiresome it can be, this perpetual union! Especially in Scotland, where the sun is a capricious lover—overzeal
In these long summer days, the sun lingers in the sky until nearly midnight, casting its pale light over a land that refuses to slumber. Then, as if driven by some relentless urgency, it reappears before the world has had a chance to fully embrace the darkness, tugging at me to rise with it at the ungodly hour of five. How cruel the fates must be, to bind me so intimately to such a fickle master! And yet, as the seasons turn, I find myself a creature of winter as well, retreating into the warm embrace of slumber as the sun itself seems to retreat from the world. How wonderfully decadent it is to indulge in sleep when the day is barely born and to feel the night's shadows lengthen long before evening truly arrives.
But alas, today is a summer day, and though the warmth is but a distant memory—fled to some southern clime, no doubt—the light is still my ever-present companion. It drags me from my bed, that soft cocoon of dreams, and bids me greet the day. My dear friend, however, is still wrapped in sleep, stretched out on the sofa in my modest living room, oblivious to the world that stirs around her. I tiptoe through the room like a thief in my own home, desperate to reach the kitchen where my salvation lies.
Ah, the sweet nectar of caffeine! How I crave it, how it courses through my veins and brings me back to life. Do I dare confess my dependence on this dark elixir? But of course! There are far worse vices one might indulge in—how dreary life would be without them! At least I have not succumbed to the sordid allure of more dangerous substances. No, I shall cling to my caffeine with a clear conscience, for it is a harmless indulgence in the grand scheme of things. And, after all, what is life without a few indulgences to brighten the day?
The rich, intoxicating aroma of coffee drifts through the air, a siren's call that stirs even the deepest of sleepers. My friend, lulled by its promise, emerges from the cocoon of sleep, shuffling into the kitchen with the languid grace of someone not yet fully awake. There is a certain comfort in this shared ritual, this quiet communion before the day asserts its demands.
I pour the dark brew into two chipped mugs—companion
Our gazes drift to the window, drawn to the world beyond, where the sky is a sullen grey, heavy with rain. The drops patter against the glass in a relentless rhythm, a melancholic lullaby that Scotland knows all too well. Ah, Scotland! A land where the sun is often a stranger, where the rain is a constant companion, and where the beauty of the landscape is matched only by the unpredictabili
We sit in silence for a moment, both knowing that the rain will not relent, that the day will be one of dampness and chill. There is a certain resignation in this, an acceptance of the capriciousness of our northern clime. But there is also a deep-seated love, a fierce loyalty to this land of mist and shadow. For all its gloom, Scotland has a way of getting under your skin, of weaving itself into the very fabric of your being until you cannot imagine living anywhere else.
We exchange a glance, a shared understanding passing between us. The rain, the grey skies, the cool summer—it is all part of the charm, part of the peculiar enchantment that binds us to this place. We may grumble and sigh, but we would not trade it for the world. And so, with the rain as our backdrop, we sip our coffee and prepare to face the day, knowing that Scotland, in all its moody splendour, will greet us with both challenges and quiet moments of beauty.
"Ailis, how is it that you always seem to tumble out of bed with such grace?" my dear friend murmurs, her voice still soft with the remnants of sleep. "You look like an angel, though perhaps one slightly fallen—those dark curls framing your face, those bright green eyes that seem to hold the promise of mischief, even at this unholy hour. I wish I could possess even a fraction of the poise you have, especially when the morning is still so young and cruel."
Her words, laced with envy and affection, hang in the air like the mist that so often blankets these Scottish hills. She sips her coffee with the reverence of a disciple partaking in a sacred rite, as the rain continues its melancholic serenade against the stone walls of the bothy. There is a certain charm in her dishevelment, a wildness that speaks of nights spent under the open sky, where dreams are shaped by the whisper of ancient winds and the soft murmur of distant lochs.
I laugh, a sound that seems to blend with the soft pitter-patter of the rain. "Well, my dear, you might start by not spending a fortnight in the wilds, like some creature out of Scottish myth. It might be helpful in civilising you, bringing you back to the realm of mere mortals," I reply with a teasing glint in my eyes. The truth is, her wildness is part of her charm—a reminder that there is something untameable in all of us, no matter how much we might try to smooth the edges.
She grins at me, her lips curving into a smile that is both knowing and defiant. "Where would be the fun in that?" she retorts, her voice light, though there is a hint of something deeper beneath. It is as if she dances on the edge of two worlds—the orderly and the chaotic, the civilised and the primal. And perhaps that is why we understand each other so well, why our friendship feels as inevitable as the rain that now drapes the landscape in a veil of silver.
Outside, the rain continues its steady beat, a persistent reminder of the wild beauty that surrounds us. Here, in this remote bothy, where the outside world feels a thousand miles away, we are free to be our truest selves—unguard
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A Rainy Day Off in Oban
After packing the last of our things and making sure all was in order, we were once again graced by Fionn's ever-reliable presence. It seems that in the labyrinth of life, there are some who, like knights of old, are destined to come to our rescue time and again. Fionn, with his easy charm and steady hand, drove us to the train station as he so often did. But this time, with a little cunning and perhaps a dash of mischief, I persuaded him to join us on our little adventure. A purchased train ticket and a few well-placed words were all it took to sway him—though truth be told, it was less a battle and more a gentle nudge, as he agreed with the faintest hint of reluctance, a smile already tugging at his lips.
The train ride from Fort William to Oban is not overly long, but just enough to allow for a brief retreat into the comforting world of words. As the scenery unfolded outside the window—lush hills draped in mist, lochs shimmering like silver mirrors under the brooding sky—I took the opportunity to update my journal, capturing the day’s events in ink before they had a chance to slip away into the recesses of memory.
The rain, ever our constant companion, seemed more determined here, as if the heavens had taken particular offense at our journey. But we, ever the optimists, were prepared for its onslaught. Fionn and I, dressed to the nines in wool coats that spoke of old-world sophistication
I realised then, with a smile that was both fond and amused, that I had neglected to introduce Ava properly in my thoughts. She is more than just a friend; she is a force of nature, a ray of wild sunshine that refuses to be dimmed by the dreariness that so often accompanies life in Scotland. She sticks out like a sore thumb between Fionn and me, but how dull the world would be without her vibrant presence! Ava’s irrepressible spirit, her refusal to blend into the background, is what makes her so wonderfully, unapologetical
As the train carried us closer to our destination, I couldn’t help but feel a certain warmth in the midst of the cold and rain. Here we were, three souls on a journey through the wild beauty of Scotland—each so different, yet bound together by a shared sense of adventure and an unspoken understanding that life, in all its unpredictabili
"I can't believe the weather is like this in August. It's worse than Ireland," Fionn remarked, his voice tinged with a blend of disbelief and resignation. He peered out of the rain-streaked window, where the landscape seemed to blur into a watercolour of greens and greys. The train, our steadfast chariot through this soggy wilderness, was drawing ever closer to Oban, and with it came the pressing question of how we would spend the day despite the relentless downpour.
Ava, ever the optimist, brightened at the mention of breakfast. "Cuan Mor sounds perfect," she chimed in, her eyes lighting up with the prospect of warmth and sustenance. The thought of a hearty meal in that cosy haven by the sea was enough to lift our spirits, if only temporarily, from the dreariness outside.
"Yes, let's fortify ourselves with breakfast first," I agreed, nodding towards Fionn, who had already begun to loosen his tie, as if preparing himself for the battle with the elements ahead. "Nothing like a good meal to arm us against the Scottish weather. Besides, Dunollie Castle isn’t going anywhere, and it’ll be all the more mysterious in this fog."
Ava grinned, her enthusiasm undampened by the rain. "It’ll be like exploring the ruins in an old story—windswep
Fionn chuckled, though his smile was laced with a hint of reluctance. "If only the weather could add a bit more ‘mood’ and a bit less ‘soaking wet’ to the atmosphere."
I couldn’t help but laugh at that, imagining us as characters in a novel, trudging through the mist and rain, determined to uncover the secrets of a forgotten castle. There was a certain romance to it all, despite the reality of damp clothes and squelching boots.
As the train began to slow, signalling our imminent arrival in Oban, we gathered our belongings and prepared to disembark. The rain was still falling in a steady sheet, undeterred by our plans or desires, but we were resolved. Cuan Mor awaited us, promising warmth and the comfort of good food, and beyond that, the day stretched out before us like a blank page, ready to be filled with whatever adventures we might find—or create.
With a final glance at each other, we stepped off the train, our spirits bolstered by the camaraderie that had grown stronger with each shared experience. The rain may have been relentless, the weather unseasonably harsh, but it had a way of binding us together, turning our simple day trip into something more—a testament to the enduring power of friendship in the face of life’s little trials.
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What it Means to be Scottish
We spent the day wandering through Oban, letting the town reveal itself to us in layers, like the pages of a well-loved book. The rain was our constant companion, soaking us through and through, but we pressed on, determined to savour every moment of our time here. Dunollie Castle stood tall and proud against the mist, a relic of Scotland’s storied past, its stones whispering secrets of ancient clans and long-forgotten battles. The museum was a treasure trove of history, each artefact a piece of the puzzle that forms the identity of this rugged land.
As we moved through the town, we indulged in the flavours of Oban, sampling local dishes that tasted of the sea and the earth, each bite a connection to the generations who had lived and thrived in this corner of the world. We chatted with locals, who welcomed us with the warmth that only those accustomed to cold climates can offer, and exchanged stories with fellow travellers, each of us drawn here by the same inexplicable pull that Scotland has on the soul.
But amidst the rain and the ruins, the food and the laughter, a question began to form in my mind—what does it truly mean to be Scottish? Is it the landscape, so wild and untamed, that mirrors the fierce independence in the hearts of its people? Is it the history, steeped in both tragedy and triumph, that we carry within us, like a legacy etched into our very bones? Or is it something more, something intangible, that binds us together even when we are far from home?
As evening descended, we found ourselves at the Oban Inn, seeking refuge from the relentless cold. The pub was alive with the hum of voices, the clinking of glasses, and the warmth of bodies huddled together, escaping the chill of the night. It was here, amidst the raucous laughter and the rich aroma of ale, that I felt the pulse of Scotland most keenly—a heartbeat that thrummed beneath the surface, binding us all in its rhythm.
We were seated at a worn wooden table, our coats hung to dry, our cheeks flushed from the warmth of the fire and the company. Fionn, Ava, and I were lost in conversation when, as if by some unspoken agreement, a group of people at the far end of the pub broke into song. The first strains of "O Flower of Scotland" filled the room, and time seemed to slow. It was as if the very air had thickened with emotion, the words of the song wrapping around us like a tartan shawl.
In that magical moment, something stirred deep within us. Without hesitation, we joined in, our voices rising to meet the chorus. Ava's voice, usually so bright and carefree, took on a new depth, filled with a passion that could only come from the heart. Fionn, normally so reserved, sang with a fervour that spoke of a connection to something far greater than himself. Even for an Irishman. And I, swept up in the swell of voices around me, felt a wave of emotion that I could not quite name—a fierce pride, a profound love, and a deep, unshakable sense of belonging.
There we were, the three of us, surrounded by strangers yet feeling more at home than ever, our voices blending with those around us until we were no longer individuals but a part of something larger, something ancient and enduring. The song echoed through the pub, filling every corner with its power, until it seemed that even the walls themselves were vibrating with the strength of our collective spirit.
To be Scottish, I realised, is to carry this spirit within you—to be fiercely proud of who you are, to stand tall in the face of adversity, and to find kinship in the most unexpected of places. It is to understand that Scotland is more than just a place; it is a feeling, a way of being, a connection that transcends time and space. And in that moment, as the final notes of the song hung in the air, I knew that this was what it meant to be Scottish—to belong to a land, a history, and a people who will always stand together, no matter where life’s journey may take them. Now to make it back home to the bothy.
20 August 2024
There comes a moment, even for the most fervent souls, when one longs for respite—a gentle pause in the relentless march of duties. Alas, such luxuries elude me for now. August, that cruelest of months, does not permit the luxury of rest. It is a time when the world of wedding photography is awash with the fevered rush of unions to be captured, consultations to be held, the ceaseless demand to market, to maintain an ever-present allure on social media, to attend to correspondence with the attentiveness of a lover writing a letter, and to sift through the endless tide of images from each carefully curated gallery. The spectre of burnout hovers ominously, its presence almost tangible. Yet, how I rejoice at the prospect of Tuesday, when the whirlwind shall calm, if only slightly, and life might allow a breath of tranquillity.
Alas, today proved to be a most capricious companion, offering anything but the tranquillity I so desired. Beyond the mountain of tasks that clamour for my attention, fate added another layer to my already overburdened plate—a dear friend, visiting for the night. She has returned from a fortnight spent in the wild embrace of the Highlands, her spirit kissed by the crisp air and solitude of that rugged landscape. Naturally, I welcomed her into my modest bothy, offering the comforts of warmth, refreshment, and a brief respite from her wanderings.
It was truly a delight to reconnect, to exchange stories and laughter as though time itself had slowed just for us. Yet, as we spoke, I couldn’t shake the shadow of unfinished work that hovered over me—a dark cloud, ever-present, reminding me of the countless tasks left unattended. The joy of our reunion was tinged with that familiar sense of dread, the knowledge that even the most precious moments must eventually yield to the demands of duty.
It is now nearly eleven in the evening, and at last, I find myself ensconced in the sanctuary of my bed, a book in hand, while my friend slumbers peacefully on the sofa. The house is quiet, save for the gentle rhythm of her breathing, and for a fleeting moment, the world seems to soften around the edges.
Tomorrow, we shall take the train into Oban, that charming little town by the sea, and explore its winding streets once more. It will be my second journey there this week, though this time I shall abstain from the temptations of whisky or any such libations. The memory of the previous indulgence lingers still, a reminder that even the sweetest of pleasures can come at a cost. No, tomorrow shall be a day of clarity and calm—a brief respite before I must once again surrender to the inexorable tide of work that awaits me.
And so, I turn to my book, seeking solace in its pages, even as the weight of unfinished business presses upon my mind. But for now, I shall let it be, if only for a few stolen hours, and lose myself in the quiet beauty of words, as the night stretches on and sleep begins to weave its delicate spell.
I am nearing the final pages of The Picture of Dorian Gray—a tale I have read countless times, each reading revealing new subtleties, like hidden brushstrokes in a painting I thought I knew intimately. Yet, as much as I adore the dark elegance of Wilde’s prose, I find myself wondering if perhaps it is time to venture into new literary territory. The familiarity of Dorian's world, with its opulent decadence and moral decay, is comforting, yes, but there is a certain allure in the unknown, a pull towards stories that might challenge me in ways I’ve yet to imagine.
Perhaps tomorrow, as we wander through Oban, I shall make a stop at a bookshop—a quiet, dusty one, with shelves that creak under the weight of stories waiting to be discovered. I could lose myself there for a while, seeking out something more modern, something that speaks to the present rather than the past. It’s a tempting thought, the idea of a new book, a fresh voice to accompany me through the final days of August’s relentless demands.
And so, with that thought lingering like a promise, I shall allow sleep to take me, the anticipation of tomorrow’s possibilities softening the edges of my weariness.
19 August 2024: The Rain is Back On
The day is draped in a somber cloak of grey, as cold, relentless rain taps against the windows, each drop a melancholic note in nature’s symphony. The encroaching darkness wraps itself around my little bothy in the Highlands, whispering a reminder that the dance of the seasons is well underway. There is a chill inside today, a silent, spectral presence that foretells of winter's imminent arrival. I am reminded of my duty to gather firewood, and enough to see me through the long, unforgiving months that lie ahead.
Scottish winters possess a peculiar magic, one that penetrates not just the skin, but settles deep within the marrow, lingering like an echo of some ancient, forgotten sorrow. I have wandered the world, yet there is nothing quite like the winter here—its grip is otherworldly, almost as if the very soul of the land awakens in the cold, binding the living to the rhythm of the earth. It is no wonder that the ancient rites and the turning of the wheel were inspired by the seasons of this place, where nature itself seems to breathe with a power both wondrous and fearsome.
Yet, with all its beauty, winter here carries the weight of peril, particularly in these remote corners of the Highlands. The threat of being snowed in, of the electricity faltering and leaving one stranded in a world gone white and silent, is ever-present. One must be vigilant, prepared, ensuring that there is always enough food, water, and firewood to outlast the icy grasp of winter. In this solitary wilderness, self-reliance is not just a virtue, but a necessity, for the cold does not forgive those who are unprepared.
But I must not linger too long in the melancholy embrace of winter's approach. Other matters beckon my attention—chie
It seems only yesterday that my family uprooted from Edinburgh and transplanted us to the southern reaches of the States. I was but six years old then, and for the next ten years, I called that place home. How peculiar it is to recall that, as a child, I began to adopt the lilting tones of an American accent—a subtle transformation that did not go unnoticed by my resolutely Scottish parents. They, determined to preserve my connection to the land of my birth, sought the expertise of the town's lone accent specialist.
In that small Southern town, there were no teachers of the Scottish brogue to be found, no tutors to instil the rolling Rs of my heritage. The only option available was an instructor in the refined and measured tones of British RP. My parents, faced with a choice between allowing me to acquire a Southern American drawl or adopting the polished cadences of British Received Pronunciation, chose the latter without hesitation. And so, I was trained in the precise and polished accents of the British upper class, an affectation that has since become my default mode of speech, even to this day.
Now, as I prepare for my journey, I anticipate the warmth of Southern hospitality awaiting me in South Carolina, Georgia, and Tennessee, where I shall visit dear friends and family. But there is more to this adventure, as I shall also spend a week in New Orleans—a city of vibrant contrasts, where the echoes of jazz fill the streets, and the air is thick with a history as rich and complex as the very soil it stands on. It is a place where the past and present dance together in a heady, intoxicating rhythm, much like the weave of accents and experiences that have shaped who I am today.
It amuses me now to think of it—the lengths to which we go to preserve an identity, even one as mutable as an accent. Yet, in that accent, there lies a bridge between two worlds: the rugged beauty of Scotland and the vibrant energy of the American South. Both are part of me, woven together in a tapestry that is, in its own way, as complex and rich as the seasons themselves.
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Back to the Real World
As for the more mundane parts of today, my attention is drawn back to the pressing demands of my work. The beauty of the Highlands, while inspiring, also calls for meticulous preparation. I must ready myself for a portrait session in the rugged hills of Glencoe on Friday evening—a place where the landscape itself seems to breathe with ancient stories and untamed beauty. The dramatic vistas and ever-changing light will no doubt present their own set of challenges, but they are the kind that make the effort worthwhile.
The weekend brings another engagement, this time at a wedding nestled in the serene and mystical setting of Loch Awe. There is something profoundly moving about capturing moments of love and joy against such a majestic backdrop. The loch, with its still waters and surrounding peaks, lends an air of timelessness to the occasion, making it not just a celebration of union but a communion with the very spirit of the place.
But before I can fully immerse myself in these creative pursuits, there is the more prosaic task of managing my ever-growing editing queue. Each photograph is a story waiting to be told, and the process of bringing them to life requires both patience and precision. The backlog is a constant reminder that even in the midst of beauty and artistry, there is a need for discipline and diligence. The work is never truly done, but there is a certain satisfaction in knowing that every hour spent refining an image brings it closer to the vision I hold in my mind.
18 August 2024: The Aftermath of the Night Before
I take immense pride in embodying the very quintessence of decorum, a woman whose poise and grace are the crowning achievements of a life meticulously curated. To maintain such a façade is an art in itself, a delicate balance I have refined with the precision of a master painter. Each gesture, each word, is carefully chosen to uphold the image I have so diligently crafted. And yet, there exists an amber-hued elixir, beguiling and potent, with the peculiar power to unravel this finely woven tapestry. Whisky, that most seductive of spirits, slips into my glass with the stealth of a sorcerer, awakening within me a persona long suppressed—a creature less bound by the strictures of propriety and far more inclined to indulge in the intoxicating allure of abandon.
And so it is that today, I find myself paying dearly for this nocturnal metamorphosis. My head, as heavy as the morning fog upon the moors, pulses with the remnants of last night’s revelry, while my stomach churns with the bitter remnants of overindulgence
But I must not allow myself to be entirely swept away by the present malaise. Instead, let me transport you back to the events that precipitated this morning’s discomfort. Last night was, in a word, exquisite. As the appointed photographer for the occasion and a proud daughter of the Highlands, it was my unrivalled pleasure to capture the essence of a true Scottish wedding. While my usual sphere is one of refined elegance, there are moments when I yearn for the unbridled chaos of a ceilidh, where formality gives way to fervour, and the night unravels in a riot of music, laughter, and spirited dance.
The evening was a veritable kaleidoscope of colour and emotion, each moment more vivid than the last. The bride, resplendent in her gown, and the groom, rugged and radiant in his tartan, embodied the very spirit of Highland romance. And I, through the lens of my camera, preserved it all—the joy, the tears, the fleeting glances of love that spoke volumes. But as the night deepened and the whisky began to flow with reckless abandon, I felt myself irresistibly drawn into the heart of the celebration, casting aside the role of observer for that of participant.
There is a certain enchantment in a ceilidh, a wild, untamed energy that sweeps all who partake into its joyous embrace. So, when my duties as a vendor concluded, I was graciously invited to join in the revelry, and I danced. Oh, how I danced! With each turn, each spirited leap, I felt the constraints of decorum melt away, replaced by a thrilling sense of freedom. And as is custom at a ceilidh, the whisky was flowing, each glass more liberating than the last.
At one particularly memorable moment, I found myself being flung about the room by a Highlander dressed in the very tartan of my own family—Gow, to be precise. It was only later, when the dance had ended and the night began to wane, that I discovered this dashing partner was, in fact, a distant cousin. Such are the perils of dancing in the small, remote villages of the Highlands—one never knows when the exuberance of the ceilidh might lead to a reunion of blood as well as of spirit!
It was a night that may very well have wreaked havoc upon my liver, but oh, how it filled my soul with a warmth that no elixir could ever rival. The memories of that evening, like the most delicate of perfumes, linger in the air, a heady mix of laughter, whisky, and the wild abandon of the ceilidh. Even now, as I sit here nursing the aftereffects of my indulgence, I cannot help but smile at the thought of it all—the music, the dance, the unexpected familial ties discovered in the midst of joyous chaos.
But as with all such nights of excess, the time comes to face the sobering light of day. My body, craving reprieve, demands a moment of clarity before I embark on the journey back up north. The train awaits, ready to carry me away from the revelry and return me to the solace of the Highlands, where my little bothy stands nestled among the hills that have been my refuge these past months.
As the train rumbles northward, I know that the journey ahead will be one of quiet reflection. The past evening, with it's whirlwind of activity and emotion, have left me longing for the peace and solitude of my bothy. There, amidst the heather and the bracken, I shall find the space to breathe, to think, and perhaps to recover from the delightful excesses of last night.
The Highlands have a way of restoring the soul, of reminding one of the simple joys of existence. The brisk wind on my face, the scent of pine in the air, the distant call of a lone bird—these are the things that ground me, that bring me back to myself after the whirlwind of life’s more decadent moments.
So, as I settle into my seat, the train’s gentle sway lulling me into a state of quiet contemplation, I look forward to the days ahead. To long walks in the hills, to evenings by the fire in my little bothy, and to the serenity that comes from being alone with one’s thoughts. The night may have been one of indulgence, but now, it is time for restoration, for the soothing balm of the Highlands to work its magic.
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Back to the highlands
As I stepped off the train and into the cool air of Fort William, the familiar sight of Fionn waiting near the platform brought a wave of relief. His tall, sturdy frame stood out among the few others milling about, and his presence, solid and dependable as ever, was exactly what I needed after the whirlwind of last night. Fionn, though a stranger to these Highlands, had become a trusted friend in this remote part of the world, and his easy smile as he caught sight of me was like a balm for my weary soul.
“Welcome back,” he said, his voice laced with that unmistakable Irish lilt as he moved forward to take the heavier of my bags. “I trust the festivities were worth the pain you’re in now?”
“Oh, the festivities were grand,” I replied with a rueful smile, “but the aftermath? Less so.” I handed over my luggage, grateful for his help as we made our way to the car.
Once we reached his vehicle, Fionn opened the passenger door for me with a gentlemanly flourish. As I settled into the seat, he reached into the back and produced a canned bottle, handing it to me with a grin that was both knowing and sympathetic. “I figured your true Scottish self would come out last night. Thought you’d need something for the hangover. Those always help me when I’ve gone a bit too hard the night before.”
I looked at the bottle in my hand—a Huel Daily A-Z vitamin drink, caffeinated for that extra boost—and couldn’t help but laugh. “You know me too well already, Fionn,” I said, cracking the cap of the can and taking a tentative sip. The cool, slightly sweet liquid was a welcome change from the whisky that had dominated my palate the night before. “This is just what I needed.”
Fionn chuckled as he started the car and pulled out onto the road. “There’s nothing like a good hangover remedy, even if it comes in the form of a fancy modern drink. You’ll be right as rain in no time.”
The drive northward was quiet, save for the low hum of the engine and the occasional chirp of birds in the distance. The landscape outside the window was as breathtaking as ever, the rugged peaks and deep valleys bathed in the soft light of the early evening. As the gentle curves of the road carried us deeper into the Highlands, I felt the tension begin to melt away, replaced by the familiar comfort of the hills I had come to love.
Fionn, sensing my need for quiet, let the silence linger, though his presence was a constant reassurance. There was something uniquely soothing about his company, the way he understood without needing to be told, the way he offered support without making a fuss. We shared a bond, both of us outsiders in this ancient land, I, a native born to Edinburgh but living abroad most my life, and he, a native to county Clare Ireland, yet somehow more at home here than anywhere else.
As we drove, I sipped on the drink, feeling the caffeine and vitamins begin to work their magic, slowly bringing me back to life. By the time we reached the outskirts of the village, I was feeling more like myself, the fog in my head lifting as we neared the place I had come to call home.
“Thanks for this,” I said, holding up the now half-empty bottle. “And for the lift. It’s good to know I’ve got someone looking out for me up here.”
Fionn glanced over with a smile. “We look out for our own, don’t we? Besides, what’s a neighbour for if not to help you recover from a proper Scottish wedding?”
I grinned, feeling a warmth that had nothing to do with the drink in my hand. “Aye, that we do.”
As we pulled into the village, the familiar sights of the little community greeted me—small stone cottages, the tiny local pub, and the rolling hills that stretched out beyond, untouched and wild. Fionn parked the car outside my bothy, and I gathered my things, feeling an immense sense of gratitude for this place and the people in it.
Before I got out, I turned to Fionn, a thought occurring to me. “You know, you should come by later this week. I’ll cook us something, and we can trade stories—Highla
His eyes lit up at the suggestion. “Sounds like a plan. I’ll bring the whisky this time—just a wee dram, of course.”
“Of course,” I agreed with a laugh, knowing full well that with Fionn, a ‘wee dram’ could mean anything. But that was part of the charm, part of the reason I was glad to have found a friend in this remote corner of the world.
With a final wave, I stepped out of the car, my feet crunching on the path that led to my bothy. As I watched Fionn drive off, I took a deep breath, the crisp Highland air filling my lungs and clearing the last remnants of the night before. It was good to be back, good to return to the quiet, steady rhythm of life in the Highlands. And with friends like Fionn, I knew that even in this isolated place, I was never truly alone.
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.