From a few weeks ago: Auri and I love looking for treasure on the beach, and this skull was a particularly exciting find.
My brother, Alex, sent out his latest newsletter yesterday. You can subscribe to Not A Travel Writer here.
Another morning and there is a surprising dew, every blade of grass is bejewelled, reflecting light and image, a tiny fisheye vignette of the world evaporating with the sun.
Back to School, Not A Travel Writer by Alexander M. Crow, 7th September 2022
I have laughed at this far, far more than I should have done since Euan sent it on earlier (courtesy of Wade’s brother-in-law). For those of you who have seen the photographs of our wedding day (six and a half years ago already, somehow!), here’s an alternative take to me being serenaded down the beach by my very-soon-to-be-husband and the ever-excellent Wade.
I have been reading recently about habit creation and, tomorrow, I plan to make a start on a few changes that I’ve been toying with for a while (a restart, in some instances). My preparation is done, and I’m ready to go with a “Getting Started” dry run on making permanent changes via initial trialling of habit methodologies.
I’m sure I will write more on this and my progress over the coming weeks but, for now, this article was sent my way at just the right and complementary time: Why we need rituals, not routines.
Auri was looking at her French book about Beethoven earlier – the one that plays little snippets of some of his music – so I thought I would introduce her to this. She sat there in silence transfixed the entire time and, as soon as it was finished, asked to watch it again. We eventually had to stop playing it after several repeats so she could get ready for bed. A true magical moment!
The Sisters Three at their Crowvus book stall today in Thurso. It was fantastic to be able to call by and see them in action (and we managed to pick up a few Christmas presents from various stalls while we were there – the year is rushing by!).
Early morning September sunshine in the cottage garden at Stempster.
It is the first day of September, and there was a slight chill in the air this morning before six, despite it still being dry outside. The seasons are starting to shift.
Until more recent years, I spent more or less my entire life living by the academic calendar, whether as a pupil, a student, working in universities, or as a mixture of these. It’s no surprise, then, that at this time of year I have always felt a frisson of excitement linked to new beginnings and possibilities.
The traditional Japanese calendar identifies 72 separate microseasons through the year. Around this time of year, September, “heat starts to die down”, “rice ripens”, “dew glistens white on grass”, “wagtails sing” and “swallows leave”. Towards the end of the month, after the autumnal equinox, “thunder ceases” and “insects hole up underground”.
I have kept returning to these seasons throughout the year, enjoying their poetry and their reminder that we are all linked to the seasons and the natural world. I will look forward to when “crickets chirp around the door” in mid-autumn, and when “mists start to linger” in February.
I have also fallen rather in love with the idea of my own – perhaps our own – list of personal seasons. There would be less than 72, and not all would be as focussed on the calendar of the natural world; but they would capture those moments throughout the year where a certain thrill of anticipation rises again, as it did the year before and the year before that, at some feeling that you can’t quite capture in words but which you recognise instantly nonetheless. So far, the only season I am certain of starts at the beginning of September. I have yet to decide on a name, but it should feel like the promise of potential and the delight of new stationery. A hint of “bouquets of newly sharpened pencils”, perhaps. The freshest of fresh starts as the year begins to turn, the heat dies down, and everywhere there is opportunity and possibilities.