Tales From The North

The morning is cold. A light sparkly dusting of frost covers the ground and the clear blue sky reveals the stars and waning slice of moon above. It is 8:30 and it is already getting lighter out, a rosy orange glow graces the horizon- evidence of the days getting longer. I find the matchbox and notice there is only one match left, so I decide to use it to light a candle and bring some feeling of warmth to my indoor surroundings. The last match in the box reminds me of my time of teacher training in an outdoor education programme in Northern Michigan many years ago. One of the courses involved teaching ways of surviving in the snow, and what to do if we were stuck out in the wilderness with only one match left. We taught the pupils to gather and light small branches and leaves to start it off, and gradually as the flame grew, larger branches were added until we (hopefully) had a roaring fire in the middle of the woods. It was an interesting and sometimes painstaking challenge, theoretically a matter of life and death! For another lesson we built a lean-to with our 12-year-old students and afterwards took turns going in and experiencing what it might be like to sit in such a frozen cocoon. As it happened, inhabiting the insulated space meant that it soon became cozy and warm, not to mention very quiet! A few of my colleagues took their sleeping bags inside and slept in it one night to test it out further,. They woke up fully rested the next morning! That particular winter in January involved a lot of constantly falling snow which accumulated to a height way over my head. So the snowshoes and skis came out often. When groups of children visited the centre for a day, we would take them out for walks in the woods, each with their own pair of snowshoes, and hunt for animal prints, or anything else nature had to offer. We'd often see rabbit or deer tracks. Though I remember once coming across a kind of brush mark in the snow. Our professor at the time suggested that it was most likely a ruffed grouse or ptarmigan that had left the mark when it got up from its snowy nest and flew away. I remember thinking how perceptive he was to spot that. Another time, on my Saturday off, it was -25 degrees Celsius. I decided to layer up and stepped out of my wooden cabin accommodation to do a bit of cross country skiing through the woods. I was very content, gliding through the snow, until an hour later I did not know where I was. I was starting to make circles with my ski tracks, unsure of what direction I was moving in, and stupidly had forgotten my compass. It was another 2 hours before I came across another human being who pointed me in the right direction, and I made it back by early evening light, so relieved, and cold, and happy to see my friends. … A flock of geese flying overhead interrupts my thoughts…. … Yesterday, here in the north of Scotland, I went out onto the frozen beach for a break from the day's tasks and to get some fresh air, crunching through the frosty sand and seaweed. Eventually I came upon some tracks that could only have belonged to a sea otter. I had seen him from a distance in the late summer, a rare sight indeed. I followed the five-toed footprints for a while, until they vanished and I found myself in a patch of low tidal rocks and egg wrack swishing this way and that in the rising tide. I looked up to see how far I had gone, and decided to turn around and walk back, retracing my steps that ran parallel to the otter's. Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I spotted birds of black and white in the sky, flying in a flock and turning this way and that... www.moniquesliedrecht.com

At this late and magical hour, I decided to go out for a walk - something I used to do quite often when the moon was full and shining bright. I would go out without a lantern, my eyes easily adjusting to see the way ahead and much more besides. There was a rustling in the bushes as I walked past the house, a creature scuttling to a safer place. Then a flutter of wings sounded from the tree branches. Turning back to look at the house, I can see the indoor warmth through the windows. The twinkling of the small lights that frame the window, echo the silent stars above, and the faint sound of music drifts through the still frosty air. I continue my walk and as the music fades a flock of geese replace the choral tones with their honking sounds above and then flap away into the darkness. As I follow the winding road I wonder why I haven't done this midnight walk more often in recent years. The burn is flowing steadily, cutting through the ancient land and rocks, carving its peaty path to the sea. The incandescent moon shines full in the dark sky casting a bright light across the moorland. I can pick out objects, buildings and grasses in the night silence and tree branches and hills against the horizon. The outline of the castle stands tall against the wide open sea and landscape, its shape defined by the blue glow; and the waves reflect a momentary sparkle of silver white as they gently rolled into the shore. And if I look out toward the sea, even in the darkness I can make out the moving lights of ships passing on the horizon. The inkiness of the ocean merges with the headland, which merges with the large expanse of sky, hardly any distinction can be made between one and the other, and therein sits a smattering of house lights - or are they stars? These days are at their shortest, the nights long. As the moon gradually waxes, the stars are still strongly visible in the dark sky. The earth continues its usual rhythms and the world waits with anticipation. With hope. In stillness. Something is different. I stop in the sand on the beach and stand motionless for a time, awed by the silence and beauty and lulled by the incoming tide, the waves gently lapping the shore. I look up to see the stars, outshone by the moonlight, but there nonetheless. There is Orion … and the Big Dipper, or the 'Plough' as the call it here in the UK. 'Twas in the moon of wintertime… ' The lines from a song I learned in school back in Canada called ‘The Huron Carol' comes to my mind. I know we are all emerging from this past festive season, but looking back, it remains one of my favourite Christmas hymns… 'Twas in the moon of winter-time When all the birds had fled, That mighty Gitchi Manitou Sent angel choirs instead; Before their light the stars grew dim, And wandering hunters heard the hymn: "Jesus your King is born, Jesus is born, In excelsis gloria." It goes on, but I cannot remember all the words now. It is the oldest Canadian Christmas hymn, written in around 1642 by Jean de Brébeuf, a Jesuit missionary at Sainte-Marie among the Hurons in Canada. Brébeuf wrote the lyrics in the native language of the Huron/Wendat people; the song's original Huron title is "Jesous Ahatonhia". The song's melody is based on a traditional French folk song, "Une Jeune Pucelle". The well-known English lyrics were written in 1926 by Jesse Edgar Middleton . As the song continues... www.moniquesliedrecht.com

Hello to all of you who are listening This is a special short episode, different from the others, for this Christmas Day. I hope everyone is having a lovely time, whether with family and friends, or if you're self-isolating, or wherever you are. For those of you who, like me, were unable to get back to have Christmas with the family, I hope it is still a special time for you. It's Christmas Day afternoon now, and I'm sitting here all cozy next to the Christmas tree, and the fire is glowing. I'm raising a glass to you all and want to share with you this poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow at this special time. Enjoy the rest of your holiday, and Happy Christmas! The Three Kings BY HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW Three Kings came riding from far away, Melchior and Gaspar and Baltasar; Three Wise Men out of the East were they, And they travelled by night and they slept by day, For their guide was a beautiful, wonderful star. The star was so beautiful, large and clear, That all the other stars of the sky Became a white mist in the atmosphere, And by this they knew that the coming was near Of the Prince foretold in the prophecy. Three caskets they bore on their saddle-bows, Three caskets of gold with golden keys; Their robes were of crimson silk with rows Of bells and pomegranates and furbelows, Their turbans like blossoming almond-trees. www.moniquesliedrecht.com

Before the windstorms recently, we had the good sense (or the tree surgeon had the good sense!) to come and cut the tops of some of the trees near the bungalow here. They were growing too close to the electricity wires. So the guys came in with their visor jackets and chainsaws, and gradually cut away the necessary branches. They chopped up the logs and stacked them in the shed for future use, and the branches were put in a separate pile underneath one of the trees. At the time I was not sure what they would be used for! In any case, it was a good thing those branches came down when they did, as I'm not sure they would have held up in the recent wind storms! A few days ago I suddenly thought of those pine branches and how they would be perfect for my Christmas decorating. Instead of going out and getting a Christmas tree, or enhancing my decor through store bought items, I decided to make my own garland and makeshift tree with the remaining pine. On a still and clear, dry day. After a walk on the beach, I came back and went out to the stack of leftover branches to pick some out. A crow called out and birds were twittering nearby, wondering about my visit to their territory. I breathed in the fresh air…. It smelled sweetly of pine - a wonderful smell which always brings me back to the pine forests in Ontario, where I grew up as a child. There were a lot of branches to choose from…. I picked out a few tucking them under my arm and walked to the house, plopping them on the porch where I could have a better look and trim some of the excess. My boots were muddy so I stomped down a few times to try and get some of the dirt and debris off them. A robin popped up on the outdoor wall to watch me inquisitively, or to alert me to its need for seeds, I'm not sure which! But probably the latter! I cut away a few bits of the pine branches and brought them inside, took off my boots and coat, and walked to the lounge with my stash, spreading them out over the floor. Before continuing I decided to make it a festive occasion. In the kitchen I rummaged through the cupboards to find some spices, heated up some almond milk on the stove and made myself a spicy latte which I took with me back to the lounge. Then I plugged in the small Christmas lights already framing the large window, and put on some Christmas music. There, that was the right setting. There was a perfect piece from the outdoor foliage to use as my small Christmas tree. I found a terracotta pot and turned it upside down, inserting the stem of the branch in the hole at the bottom and placed it on a small tall table. The makeshift tree was a little wobbly, but it would do! Then I proceeded to trim up the other branches and lay them along the top of the fireplace mantle, tucking one piece behind another until they covered the stretch of ledge in a somewhat orderly way. I put the leftover bits in a small pile to use for a fire later. Moving around the room, I took other branches big and small and found places to display them, along with some of the ribbon and gold pinecones I had saved, nestling candles in where they could be suitably lit without setting it all aflame! There were so many branches to choose from! But I chose carefully and before going over the top, decided to stop and stepped back to have a look. Feeling satisfied, I took the smaller pieces and put them in the fire, lit a match and set them alight, placing a log on top. The fire crackled and spit, and soon was roaring away... www.moniquesliedrecht.com

It's early. A pigeon coos loudly outside my open window, bringing me to some level of consciousness. As I struggle to open my sleepy eyes, I nestle under the warm covers and my mind slowly wanders from dream to practical thoughts about the day ahead. I remember that I'll be going into town later this morning, which spurs me into sudden movement and with hardly a second thought, I throw back the covers. Shivering in the chill air, I put on some woolly socks beautifully knitted by my aunt, and shuffle over to the kitchen across the hall to boil the kettle and pop some bread in the toaster. On returning to my room to eat my breakfast, I make up a short list of all that needs to be done today. From the top floor window of the guest house where I am staying, I can see stately red and yellow brick houses on the other side of the street. In my immediate view the branches of a large honey locust stretch out into the morning sky. Having already shed most of its leaves, the remaining few dance bravely in the light winter breeze, still resplendent in their autumnal yellows, ochres and oranges. An equally bright morning sun is rising against the clear late November sky. I'm so enjoying the last of this autumn foliage and begin to realise how much I've missed trees and walking through fallen leaves, which is something of a rarity in the wild coastal landscapes of Caithness that I now call home. I gaze out of the window drinking it all in. The pigeon happily sits on its branch. Its calls are welcoming in the morning. A bell begins to toll somewhere in the distance, along with the discordant sounds of a siren racing off to who knows where. The world is waking up. Sitting still for a moment longer, I watch the sun casting a shaft of light across my room, filling it with warmth. It's so good to be in the city again, especially here in beautiful, historic Oxford. I gulp down the rest of my coffee, quickly dress and head out the door, eager to take in all this beautiful place has to offer. Heading down two flights of stairs I push open the large wooden door to the outside and I'm hit by a cold blast of fresh air. I breath it in deeply and head my way down the street, towards Banbury Road and the town centre. Crunchy autumn leaves and long yellow pine needles are strewn across the walkway, and people are beginning to emerge from their homes. One lady sweeps the leaves from her porch. A man dressed in a navy pin stripe and holding a brief-case strides to his shiny car busily pressing buttons on his keys. The indicators flash and the car beeps as it unlocks. He hops into the front seat slamming the door behind him and starts the engine. Smoke billows from the rear exhaust and rises up into the crisp air. I notice the white frost covering the edges of stone walkways, silver outlines the leaves, trees and houses, emphasising their shapes which glisten in the morning sun. As I step into the main road, cars whiz past and I continue my walk towards the town centre. It is a 20- minute trek at least, but I don't mind. I take in the late autumn sights and smells of this new environment. A student pedals past me on her bicycle, her books filling a basket at the back. She wobbles slightly and maintains her balance on the road. Another bell tolls low in the distance and an elderly man walks slowly along the sidewalk, stopping at various points for his dog who shows an extreme interest in nearly all of the bushes along the way. Eventually the light yellow stone buildings, spires and domes of old Oxford appear before me. What a place! Leaves continue to flutter across the street as people walk... www.moniquesliedrecht.com

Yesterday afternoon, at around 3:00, just before sunset, a friend and I made a spur-of-the-moment decision to drive up to the most northerly point on the UK mainland, Dunnet Head. It was such a beautiful, crisp, bright day, it seemed a shame not to get out somewhere before dark. Many are under the illusion that John O'Groats is the most northerly point, as it is at the ‘end of the road' from Land's End and host to many charity walks, runs and cycles. However, it is this more dramatic and high moorland a number of miles further that can claim the true title of ‘The Most Northerly Point of Britain'. When we got to the cliff edge, the mist was rising from the sea into the crisp air, creating an atmosphere of mystery and such beauty. It was all I could do to stop attempting to capture it with my small Leica camera. For a while I paused from taking photos to try and drink in as much as I could before my teeth started chattering and it was time to move. My friend and I managed to make it up to the look-out point before the sun dipped behind the horizon and the moon took it's place as star of the late November show. We made it. Just in time. Sometimes it pays to be spontaneous. It was 4:00 and we decided to go to the nearby hotel to have a bite to eat before making our way home to do a little more work. By 5:30 the moon was very high in the sky and there were distant lights of ships out at sea on this clearest of evenings. Then this morning I got up to witness the first real frost of the season - a result of yesterday's cloudless advent skies. I woke later than I would have liked to see the sun casting its light on the frosty landscape, but I slipped into my warmer clothes and boots anyway, and trekked out to catch the last of the light before the sky was covered in a blanket of cloud. The early part of the day felt fresh and still. I managed to alert a group of lapwings as I came tromping down to the beach through the frosty grass. They immediately flew off in their usual erratic group flight patterns, out over the bay. The ducks were the next to take note of my presence and quacked away in a noisy flutter. Aside from the birds, and the steady movement of the incoming tide, it was as though the seaside was waiting with baited breath. For what, I don't know, though I suddenly became aware that today is the first day of Advent - a time of anticipation and hope. What are we waiting for? ... Well, that's the cloud coming in.... Time to head back home for a coffee. As I now sit in my chair, writing, and drinking my coffee, there seems no better way to finish than with the following advent poem by Christina Rossetti, 'Having devout faith, Rossetti composed a great number of poems that celebrated the season including amongst others In The Bleak Midwinter, which we now know as a popular Christmas carol. This selection is one of several verses she wrote about the period of Advent. The themes of watching and waiting are revealed to have two meanings, as not only does it relate to the darkness of the long nights at this time of year, making things in the horizon difficult to be aware of, but also as Advent is viewed as a time to recognise the coming of Christ once more.' Lisa Spurgin, The Reader Advent This Advent moon shines cold and clear, These Advent nights are long; Our lamps have burned year after year, And still their flame is strong. “Watchman, what of the night?” we cry, Heart-sick with hope deferred: “No speaking signs are in the sky,” Is still the watchman's word... www.moniquesliedrecht.com

If ever one needed to clear one's head, the northeast of Scotland is a good place to come. The wind will clear the cobwebs in no time! This week I went down to Inverness to get an MOT (annual roadworthiness certificate) on the car as some things needed looking at and fixing. It meant spending a day in the city, but I didn't mind. There was plenty to do. Later in the evening, on returning to the northeast, the wind started to pick up and the rain was falling heavily. By the time I got home and stepped out of the car it was all I could do to stay upright as I ran to the house, fighting the bracing wind. On my arrival home, It was so dark, and I forgot about some of the paint pails left outside of the studio. I got ready for bed and took a while to sleep with the wind howling around the house. I imagine it was about 50mph gusts - the first really strong winds of the season. In the morning, when things had calmed somewhat, I went out to check the state of affairs and was surprised to see that nothing had blown away — not too far at least. This last week has definitely seen a marked change in the temperatures and wind - one is dropping lower, the other is picking up. It's time to pull out the woollies. I need to invest in more woollies, that's for sure, along with waterproofs. Anything to make the coming months a bit more cozy, a bit more ‘do-able'. I'm grateful to a local friend for the lovely wrist warmers she knitted so beautifully for me. Those will certainly get a lot of wear. For some reason, any jumper I buy seems to have shorter sleeves for my long arms, and wrist warmers are just the thing to ‘mind the gap' and block out further cold. It's not always easy to capture wind in a 2D image, not least that your camera might be flown out of your hands while trying! I took a photo a week or so ago, when things were still fairly calm. I love the copper colour of the long grasses in the autumn, and how the wind creates interesting waves and movement. It is not until you see the effect of wind on an object that you know it is there. Or it is a felt thing. When it comes to a painting or photograph, wind is shown and known differently. I'm paraphrasing an art historian here, but August Renoir's aim in this painting, Gust of Wind, was not so much to create an accurate representation of the landscape, but to convey the sensual pleasures of the outdoors and to capture the most unpaintable element: air. Our eyes are drawn to the movement of the trees, bushes & the racing clouds in the sky, all achieved by the seemingly simple act of blurring the paint. The Scottish painter, Joan Eardley, made a switch from portraiture to landscapes after spending time on the north-east coast of Scotland while recovering from an illness. 'On hearing that a storm was approaching, she would catch the next train from Glasgow to Stonehaven, and make the rest of the journey to Catterline. There she created her elemental panoramas of land and sea in thickly textured paint, working outdoors and securing the huge boards she used with ropes and boulders' During these night winds, while lying in my bed, there is an initial feeling of nervousness. It sounds as though the remaining northern trees might be whipped out of the ground or the house is going to spin away in a whirl like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz. But to be honest, if anything was to blow away, it would have done so by now. In the morning, after the wind dies down, having blown this way and that for some time, it is like the earth is on pause, and I get up to greet the new day. I enter the studio and remember that wind is one of the most ancient and powerful symbols of inspiration. I hope it can blow some new ideas into my mind and heart as I work... www.moniquesliedrecht.com

It's morning. I wake up slowly to the pitter patter of rain against the windows and slate rooftop and eventually make my way down the hall to the kitchen for a cup of coffee. As I wait for the kettle to boil I notice that the rain has eased up and there is a small shaft of light coming through the thick cloud in the distance which lights up the winding burn, flowing at a full pace. I go over to the front door and step out for a moment, enjoying the post-rain smell and the sound of the birds waking up with me. I pick up the broom next to the doorway and do a quick sweep of the front porch where some leaves and debris have settled, and then step back in, closing the door behind me and make my coffee. A lot of rain has fallen this past week. The land is saturated. After a night of high winds and the drumming of raindrops against the windows (plus little sleep!), I am amazed by the level of water, especially in the flowing burn, which is full almost to brimming. It is incredible to see the peaty water cutting its regular route through the land. It has always been there, but now it seems more noticeable than normal, even from the kitchen window. Before all the water is about to be absorbed by the land, I gulp down my coffee, put on my coat and boots and step out to follow the burn's winding route down to the beach, stopping now and then to marvel. The water is rushing at such a speed and in such a torrent. That would have made for a good dinghy run from the top of the road, something my friends would have done on a day like today. Getting nearer the sea, the burn takes on a peaty colour, revealing ambers and golds as it winds its way past the stone bridge and hits the rocks in its estuary, where the ducks often settle on calmer days. It's the most beautiful and unusual colour - something I noticed after first arriving in the north of Scotland many years ago. It is like pints of Guinness rushing down. I know some might say ‘If only'…. We'd certainly be wealthy now if that were the case! But it's not Guinness. It's something much more tied to the land, and a reflection of the non-renewable resources in the earth. The peat in the soil creates that rich amber hue. Perhaps I should try and make a paint with it. Again, if only. When it meets the saltwater it becomes brackish, and results in such a beautiful range and contrast of colour. The sea waves take on the tinge of gold as they roll in closer and burn and sea meet. The light breaks through the cloud and highlights the tops of the breakers and ripples. The sea seems to be rising as the weather gets wilder, waves hitting the edges of bluffs and the grasses of dunes at high tide. When I got down to the sea's edge, I became enveloped by the light and a contagious energy in the salty atmosphere. The force of the waves caused a mist to rise up which could be seen clearly against the silhouette of cliffs in the distance. It reminded me of Niagara Falls, in the Niagara region of Ontario where I am from and where my parents live. We would usually go to the Falls when family from the Netherlands or other friends came to visit, as it was only a half hour's drive away. My favourite point to stand at the Falls is right where the water drops from the Niagara River into the abyss below. The power and force, not to mention the amount of the water going over the edge, is incredible. The crashing sound drowns out all else and you stand there in a trance. It's something about rushing water and mist - the feeling of movement and energy it brings, and being alive in that moment. Back in the Bay, the oyster catchers feel it too and no doubt are delighted by the fish and crustaceans that are stirred up by the rough seas... www.moniquesliedrecht.com

Late morning's pale blue sky is painted with sweeps of bright white cloud. Or as Vermeer said, white is never really white if you look hard enough. There are faint signs of yellow, magenta, blue, and violet that come through. It's a clear day. A silent day. Or is it so silent? A caravan drives along on the top road. I can see and hear it in the stillness of the autumn air, the sound traveling across the open landscape. An airplane joins in the passing noise as it flies overhead. The long rust-coloured grasses and rushes are hardly moving - such a difference to their constant sway in the winds the other day! From the grassy field, heard but not seen, a pheasant makes its garbled sound, undoubtedly full of concern as it rushes across to another patch of long reeds, out of sight. Pheasants don't seem have the easiest lives. They are rather clumsy birds. And how do they end up on the road so often? Saying that, they are beautiful, their colours blending into the auburn landscape in such a complementary way. Ducks are chattering in the 'unofficial pool' that has been developing beyond the garden. There are quite a few ducks here which surprises me when I think about it. When I was younger I used to have to visit a farm to see the ducks, or go to the shores of Lake Ontario. There are some beautiful varieties of duck here in the north. Now they chuckle and quack as though responding to a joke. When I step out two of them flutter and fly away with a start. I marvel at the so-called silence which, in reality, is full of layers of tones and rhythms. It is an autumn orchestra. A crow calls from the tree overhead. And a wren lets out its winding song, competing with another airplane flying above. It's lovely to go for a wander and spend time with the sights and sounds around me in this small northeast corner of Scotland. Some birds emit small staccato chirps in a row - the accent comes closer…. What is it I wonder? The crow caws again loudly from the top of a telephone pole. Then I notice two small roe deer nearby. I stop, motionless. They are quietly grazing. I move. They stop. Their ears up, alert. When I try to step forward as slowly and carefully as possible, they immediately bound away, their white tails bouncing up and down over the fields. I follow their graceful leaps with my eyes until I can't see them anymore and they blend in with the copper and gold field-scape. I look up from that point where I last observe the deer and see a kestrel hovering in the distance. It suddenly swoops down, spotting its next prey. Quickly proving unsuccessful in its hunt, it flies on over the moorland to a new place in the sky, hovering again as though hanging from an invisible fishing line fixed in the heavens, its wings flapping steadily... www.moniquesliedrecht.com

It's the end of October and the weather is turning. I stepped out and felt the blustery autumn wind on my face, still warm for this time of year, the rain was beginning to fall lightly on my cheeks. I walked down past the castle to the beach. The tide was out and the water was crashing against the rocks on the lower shore, spilling over the shiny black surfaces, swirling and dancing amongst the kelp and wrack seaweeds. Today is the day, 20 years ago, that I made my way over to Scotland for the first time. It was a spontaneous trip in many ways, full of anticipation for new adventure. I was young and trying to make a go of my art, learning to live and survive in the big city of Toronto. But deep down, I was beginning to feel the urge for change and spaces faraway. Sometime in early autumn I went to a talk given by a British film-maker I had read about in my philosophy course — someone who is now my good friend and colleague. He was being hosted at the University of Toronto and spoke largely about film-making. Near the end of the evening he mentioned a place he had just bought in Scotland, inviting us all to come visit (this was to a crowd of 200+ artists, film-makers, writers, dancers etc.). My ears perked up at that and my friends, Rob and Marcia, two artists living in Toronto at the time, and I looked at each other. We were all thinking the same thing: ‘We need to go there!'. I left the university and walked home quite casually, but something significant had been planted in my mind that evening, even though I was hardly aware of this. Soon afterward, I was up in Huntsville, Ontario, teaching watercolour painting workshops at Algonquin and Arrowhead Provincial Parks. In my search for jobs on the local library computer one day, the idea of the north of Scotland popped into my head and I wrote an email to the screenwriter, never thinking I'd get such a quick and open response. Some days, maybe even weeks later, I was sitting in a busy Toronto cafe with my friend, Andy, and I told him about this place in the north of Scotland that I was fantasising about. ‘Why don't you go?' He said. I said I'd love to, but included all the reasons why it might not be the best idea, the main one being the cost of getting over and staying there for a stretch. My idea, if it worked, was to spend some time there, painting. He then told me that his Mom had some tickets to get rid of - Air Canada flights that needed using before Christmas. I could hardly believe my ears. They were priority standby tickets and all I'd have to pay was a small amount of airport tax and travel before the end of the year. What an incredible moment. Suddenly my mind did a complete gearshift. It did not take me long to tell friends and family that I would be leaving for Scotland. My plan was to go for 6 weeks. Some were surprised, but supportive; others thought I was just crazy. I packed my things into a large duffel bag and suitcase, taking along painting commissions I had in a black portfolio, and went to the Toronto Pearson airport for a 10pm flight to Glasgow. I waited in the main hall for my name to be called. Suddenly doubts poured in and I thought ‘If my name isn't called for this flight, I'm not going.' But it was - 10 minutes before the departure: ‘Monique Sliedrecht, please go to gate…. for flight … to Glasgow. Monique Sliedrecht, go to gate …. for flight to Glasgow.' I had approximately 10 minutes to run to the other side of the airport with all my bags. Before I knew it, I was on the plane and heading to Glasgow. I was in a bit of a daze when the pilot announced our arrival early morning the next day. I felt as though in a dream. Having landed and got my bags, I made my way to Queen Street train station and rang my host to let him know I was really on my way to the north...

The air is still this morning, as though waiting with baited breath. There are shoots of growth popping up and the days are welcoming in more warmth and light. It is Easter time - a moveable feast based on the lunisolar calendar which reflects the ongoing cycles in our world. Soon there will be a burst of bright colour and a flurry of activity as lambs are born, rabbits scoot across to their holes in the ground, seabirds populate the cliffs, and the swallows swoop down after their epic flight. Meanwhile, the thrush is now singing its lilting and varied tune, an overflowing melody. When it comes to perseverance and sheer determination, I never cease to be amazed by the tiny swallow. While small, it has a larger than life journey every year. The task of flying from South Africa to Scotland is no simple feat, and they battle to survive an incredibly treacherous journey over sea and desert, through all weathers. I have kept their wonderfully made mud nests in the porch, and am looking forward to when they fill them with some new broods this summer. On the property here at Freswick a space was cut in the wooden garden shed door, some years ago, so the swallows can always return to their beautifully built nests of previous seasons. As friends in South Africa have observed, they wistfully say goodbye to the swallows around March 10th. Between then and late April here in the far north, the tiny but agile creatures are spanning huge distances, traveling over 200 miles a day at low altitudes to reach their destination as quickly as possible. It has been amazing to witness their arrival in these gardens on exactly the same day, for many years (April 24) although last year they came two days early. Migration is a truly hazardous time and many swallows die from starvation, exhaustion and in storms. In TS Elliot’s ‘The Wasteland’ he writes ‘April is the cruelest month’. I have often wondered about that seemingly harsh view of Springtime, with all its life and energy. As time goes on, I’ve come to understand this poignant phrase of poetry more deeply. “April is the cruelest month, breeding Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing Memory and desire, stirring Dull roots with spring rain. Winter kept us warm, covering Earth in forgetful snow, feeding A little life with dried tubers.” No doubt the poet is evoking that familiar feeling of comfort, self-protection and hibernation, which is familiar from the winter months, which can be so easily disturbed by sudden and painful change. But T.S.Eliot was writing in a world that had seen the literal 'Wasteland' of the First World War, only a few years before he wrote his epic poem. The whole world was still emerging fearfully from the darkness and horror. There were huge challenges, economically, politically and spiritually for Western civilisation. Springtime in 2021, in a world devastated by the pandemic, has some of this mixture of desolation and hope, of hiding away yet longing eagerly for a good future. Growth does not come easy. Transition contains its own struggle - of breaking ground and travelling long distances, literally and metaphorically - in order to birth new life and create fresh pathways. The swallow shows us that growth, birth and all good hopes for the future cannot happen without taking great risks and persevering. I look forward to when their swoops, chatters, and twitters become part of this northern Scotland tapestry, lifting all our hearts... www.moniquesliedrecht.com

I just finished doing some morning stretches for the first time in a while! Oof. My muscles are certainly tight. To be honest, they are the complete opposite of flexible. However, doing the exercises and full breathing felt good and made me wonder why I had not gone back to doing that on a regular basis much sooner! I guess there is a new start for everything, even if we lapse. Is Winter a time for lapsing? I don’t know, but I seem to do it, despite best intentions and resolutions made in January (resolutions that only seem to last 3 days!). But now it is officially Springtime. Yesterday was the Spring Equinox, a marker announcing longer stretches of daylight, something that is very noticeable in the north of Scotland. Aside from the extended hours of natural light, it does not really feel like springtime here in the north of Scotland right now. I suppose I was unrealistic, willing the buds to suddenly burst open and the sun to shine, and all things to look bright and green and vibrant on the first day of Spring. Instead, the wind has been blowing and the landscape still looks rather washed out. And yes, I've grown impatient. Saying that, when I look more closely, I see the buds forming on trees, snowdrops are out in hidden places (others not so hidden), birds are carrying bits of grass in their beaks to create nests, and the sea is slowly forming a rich tapestry of new seaweed growth. All things to be celebrated. Last night I saw a frog on my doorstep, huddled in a corner trying to remain inconspicuous. A frog! That seems to be a rare occurrence in Caithness, or at least I have not seen many frogs here. I was glad I saw him, and by the light of the porch lamp, I nudged it onto a dustpan and brought him to a more ‘safe’ environment. Frogs are one of the main indicator species for changes in our environment. They are organisms that can tell us about an area by their presence or absence. It may indicate a developing pond ecosystem, as well as increased protection nearby. Aside from all that Spring entails, I wonder what changes lie in our path. I put a green cloth on my table and bought some tall irises yesterday, to enhance the feeling of Spring and perhaps coax it along. In a way, Springtime sometimes feels like a more fitting season to make resolutions which could have greater potential to stick. There is more energy working in our favour! With the brighter days comes a widening of perspective, where prospects and hopes may widen too. After what we’ve been through this past year, it may be hard to open ourselves up to creative wishful thinking. It can be tempting to pull back and hide, in an attempt to protect ourselves and to avoid disappointment. However, as the birds and buds are flourishing, we too can take one small step at a time, and resolve to pursue two or more hopeful thoughts. It is okay to prepare ourselves for various outcomes, but it is also healthy not to focus on what might happen negatively or what new restriction will be put in place. Instead, let's open up our hearts and minds to new and surprising possibilities. We can start with what is in front of us. There is always an open door somewhere. People who have existed in the tightest of circumstances have been living testaments to that in history (like those who have been unjustly imprisoned or have faced severe illness or disability), still choosing to step into the pathway of love... www.moniquesliedrecht.com

The north of Scotland is generally very sparse when it comes to trees. Being so close to the sea make this a landscape that cannot sustain their growth so easily due to the wild winds and salty air. However, I am fortunate to have a few trees outside my study window where I often sit and watch the birds flitting to and fro. March seems to be a month of birthdays for lots of my friends, which reminds me of a celebratory hike though a wooded glen near Edinburgh for a friend’s 60. I had never been out to this spot before and, to be honest, I hadn’t hiked through a forest in a while - perhaps not since a trip to Algonquin Park in Ontario, Canada a couple of years ago, which feels like oh, such a long time ago now. While the varieties of trees and undergrowth are different from the Ontario forests that I grew up with, the feeling in the glen was the same in early Springtime: new life, fresh smells, muddy paths, uphill climbs, soft mounds of moss lit up by golden shafts of sunlight, and a sense of other-worldliness. Woods and forests always seem to be bursting with life, whether it’s birds in trees, or creatures rustling deep in the undergrowth. That particular day there was quite a group of us. We ended up taking a wrong turn on our way back, and had to turn back onto the woody path, adding another half hour to the trek. We all took it in our stride, lured by the thought of hot mugs of tea and homemade cakes at the end of a long day’s hike. There’s something about walking with others in nature, a place where conversations are bright and perspectives are clear. Sights can be restored. All of this makes me think of music at the start of a tv programme I used to watch as a child called ‘Fables of the Green Forest’: ‘The green forest, the green forest, the laughing brook chuckles all day….’ (Immediately following this show, the theme music of Dr. Who would start up, which really frightened me as a child, so the tv was immediately switched off. Lol.) Interesting, these associations with music and memory. Just as interesting is the connection between nature and familiarity or sense of place. I was reminded of how much I love the forest. For me it is a kind of haven, reminding me of good long walks with my Dad and brothers into unknown territories. It always felt like an adventure with Dad, and he helped us notice the small things on, or off, the path. I’m glad to have had my eyes opened in this way, and continue to enjoy that restoring of sight and perspective when venturing out into unknown, but familiar, woodlands. Here is a poem by former poet laureate, Carol Ann Duffy. It really encapsulates that feeling of being surrounded by woodland in all its foresty goodness. Forest - Carol Ann Duffy In fact, the trees are murmuring under your feet, a buried empathy; you tread it. High over your head, the canopy sieves light; a conversation you lip-read. The forest keeps different time; slow hours as long as your life, so you feel human. So you feel more human; persuaded what you are by wordless breath of wood, reason in resin. You might name them- oak, ash, holly, beech, elm- but the giants are silence alive, superior, and now you are all instinct; swinging the small lamp of your heart as you venture their world: the green, shadowy, garlic air your ancestors breathed. Ah, you thought love human till you lost yourself in the forest, but it is more strange. These grave and patient saints who pray and pray and suffer your little embrace. www.moniquesliedrecht.com

The Pentland Firth in the far north of Scotland is known to be one of the roughest stretches of tide in the world. There have been many a shipwreck in these terrifying cross currents, with very few unable to survive the frigid waters. I remember a trip across the Firth once. It was to the mainland from the island of Stroma in a fishing boat called ‘Boy James’. The person driving the boat was experienced and familiar with that passage of water, having made the trip many times, and suggested that we would have to take the long route back as the tide was turning. It was early evening and the light was lowering. So a boat journey that normally took 10-20 minutes took us an hour and a half. I didn’t mind. The light was stunning and birds were flying around the boat, active in their pursuit of fish. The swell of the water was powerful and the smooth surface areas indicated a strong whirlpool-type undercurrent. I just sat at the back on the floor of the boat, exposed to the open sea air and wind, and drank in as much as I could, hanging on tightly to the side when the boat lurched and rocked. That journey became the inspiration for a number of paintings, including ‘Sea’ and ‘Stroma’, and it had an impact on me for years to follow. It was one of the most memorable sea-going adventures for me. Crossing that great expanse of ocean, where Atlantic meets North Sea currents, created an impact that I’ve only experienced standing behind the Niagara Falls. The hidden depths of the sea are so unknown to us, the life it contains yet to be discovered and explored. It has a power that is mesmerising and stirs up fear at the same time. It is a wildness that cannot be reigned in or controlled. I’ve been noticing the sea swell in the last few days as the wind has been constant. Yesterday, late morning, on a very cold February day, I went out to look over the bay. The waves were rolling in, fast and strong. Later, I drove out to Duncansby Stacks a few miles away and stepped out by the lighthouse to get a panoramic view of the Pentland Firth which was wild and threatening. Light snow was blowing and when I got to the lighthouse a pinkish glow infused the murky sky. The island of Stroma sits in the middle of this rough stretch of water. Some say the name Stroma means ‘Island in the Tide’. In days before lighthouses, whenever there was a storm, the island community would hang a large lantern from a tripod to warn the ships passing by. But as one could imagine, it did not prevent every boat from hitting the rocky shore. In ancient cultures, the sea has often been used as a symbol of chaos and darkness. Poets and writers in later times refer to the sea as a vast space reflecting the grandness of nature, drawing a person beyond the troubles and concerns of everyday life, and serving as the ultimate inspiration. I must say, a walk to the seaside along with a blast of wintry air certainly does help pull me outside of myself, allowing nature to seep in and re-enliven my senses. Kathleen Jamie says it so well in the first verse of 'Poem' which, seemingly casual, reflects some of my feelings of yesterday John Keats wrote the sonnet, 'On the Sea'. A sonnet is often a love poem, so we can consider this a love letter to the sea. When caught up in concern and worry, creativity and the flow of words can be stifled. Ideas and inspiration lie stagnant, unmoving, like the smallest shell that sits still in the same place for days, despite the motion of water all around it. The moment we step out and consider something as vast as the sea and its depths, we are taken to another place, and perhaps that unleashes a new impulse to create... www.moniquesliedrecht.com

It is 25 years ago today that my friend and colleague confirmed the purchase of the historic Freswick Castle in the far north of Scotland, the place where the Wayfarer Trust was born and my life took on a whole new trajectory. And it was supposedly on this day in the 5th Century that Saint Patrick of Ireland died. Today, while in lockdown, Ireland is celebrating virtually. Families and communities around Ireland and abroad improvised their own parades, some of them indoors using toy tractors and cars and any old musical instrument lying around the house. Others ventured outdoors practising social distancing while they marched up and down their streets. Green is the colour associated with St. Patrick’s Day, maybe for the shamrock that Patrick was known to use to illustrate the trinity in his sermons. Maybe just because, well, he was from Ireland. It seems a fitting colour for this time, especially as it is nearing the official start of spring, and the colour is starting to show itself more in the natural surroundings. I stepped out into my natural surroundings today, just to get some air and a blast of wind to clear the cobwebs and stretch my mind and scope beyond all things corona for a while. It felt good. Another treasure of Edinburgh that is not quite as hidden as the Lane Sale on Jane Street are the Salisbury Crags. I walked there in the blustery weather in the early afternoon. There is evidence of the landscape moving from being wintry and washed-out to waking up and reaching out. Some years ago, I remember my painting teacher suggesting that people weren’t really attracted to paintings with a lot of green in them. He said his ‘green’ paintings didn’t really sell. I wonder why that is. But now that I think about it, I’m not sure I would be drawn to largely green paintings, except to maybe match the green pillows on the couch. Just kidding! Ahem. (Right now I can imagine one or all of those pillows being thrown at me by some artist friends in the wake of that comment!) It is a strange time. However, it couldn’t be a better time to eke out creativity and life in new ways from the hard places, just like Moses who was told to strike his staff against the rock, producing a spring of fresh water. In this challenging season, new life can emerge and grow, even from the dry and seemingly dead places, and as a result of the losses. The freshly created things will bring a re-shaped perspective to the reality of our circumstances, which are certainly serious, but not without some hope and light. After getting some necessary groceries at Easter Greens and making my way across the empty streets without much help needed from the green man, I picked up a hyacinth bulb that I saw for sale outside one of the shops further down the road. When I got home I put it in the green ceramic goblet that I had picked up at the lane sale the other day. When I looked at it, sprouting so confidently, the hyacinth seemed to be saying, 'For now, I'm proud to be green!' Proud to be growing, hopeful, ready for spring. www.moniquesliedrecht.com

A small orange yellow light blinks it’s way along the top road, across the open view of the living room window, distinctly noticeable in the blackness of the early morning. The sand truck. It must be icy out there. I’m certainly feeling the chill in getting up, and have wrapped myself in the Icelandic wool blanket some friends gave a few years back. Geese clamour their way through the dark sky. I can’t see them, I can only hear them. I wonder what they are thinking right now. Maybe that clamour is them muttering to themselves as they tumble through the air: “ *&%$! cold….” I’ll go out to greet my robin friend when it gets lighter. Or rather, she will come over to greet me, as seems to be the case lately, the prospect of seeds being a strong motivating factor. The robin is gradually building a trust in me, as she seems to get bolder and closer every time I see her. Yesterday, I was down on the shore for a short walk, bracing myself against the damp frigid wind, to get a dose of the fresh air. It was a point in the day that called for clearing the cobweb of taxes and other business. When I got down to the beach it was low tide and I noticed that some of the water between the rocks and seaweed had frozen. It must have happened because of the fresher water trickling down from the old mill, merging with seawater, or temperatures have dropped lower than usual. My coffee has got cold, like the weather. Time to make another. I don’t like cold coffee, especially on days like today. When I get up to switch on the kettle I’m struck by the warm bright colours reflected on the far wall. The sky is getting pink, very pink. Orange light + pink sky in the morning = shepherds (and pedestrians) warning. Are we to be ready for rough seas and wild weather? I’d been planning to go out for a drive this afternoon, but we shall see. Things are turning bleak and somewhat wet. I think instead I’m going to choose the guilty pleasure of staying firmly inside beside a warm fire with a book. www.moniquesliedrecht.com

On the plane at London Gatwick, I mentally prepared myself for the long flight ahead, sending final texts to people in the UK, and making a call before putting the phone into flight mode. A woman came and dropped down in the seat beside me, shoving her full rucksack into the space in front of her. She seemed agitated, hasty, as she rummaged around for her headphones. We settled into our seats, me by the window, she in the middle, and a Chinese man in the aisle. She immediately directed her attention to the screen in front to look at what films were on offer. I started reading my book. We didn’t talk for the first half of the flight, but we had 8 hours ahead of us, so plenty of time to connect if we were meant to. I slept a bit, which was a welcome relief after a very short night before leaving for the airport on the shuttle bus early in the morning. Midway through the flight, both my neighbour and I took the opportunity to go to the loo when the guy in the aisle seat got up. On returning to our respective places, we started talking, first about the length of the trip, then where we were from, and what we did to fill our days. Soon we were moving onto deeper things -- life decisions, relationships, cultural differences…. We ended up talking for about 3 hours! It certainly made the time pass quickly! Her name was Erica. 'With a ‘c’ . When she said her name it made me think of my childhood friend who now lives with her family in Seattle and spells her name with a ‘k’. Erica was from Brazil, but had been living in the UK for almost 2 years. ‘How have you found it?’ I asked her. ‘Hard’, she said. She missed her country, the warmth of the climate, as well as the people and strong sense of community. She missed hugs and personal touch. She was finding it a challenge to make friends in her new home in Guildford. I wondered why she wasn’t in Brazil anymore, but she said there was really no future for her and her partner there, and he liked it in the UK. We talked about deep things, some personal. It surprised me, in a way, yet at the same time it seemed a very natural thing. After our snack lunch and notification of our landing in 20 minutes, Erica and I both commented on how fast the time had gone. I mentioned how nice it was to meet her and that she was welcome to get in touch if she had time to meet in Niagara on her week-long work trip. ‘That was a bit of a soul-bearing session, wasn't it!’ I said as I got up to get my bag. ’I've missed that, to be honest,’ she said. That really struck me. I stepped into the aisle with my coat and bag and we quickly got swept along towards passport control, and I reminded myself I must pull out my Canadian passport (not the Dutch one!). I was thinking how interesting it was that we tend to share openly with people we don’t know, and sometimes more than with people we do. I walked out of passport control still thinking about it, feeling I had learned something about myself, the culture I come from and find myself in; I felt a sense of my worldview having expanded just a little bit. Had I kept my nose to the window, or in the book, I might not have experienced the greater space beyond culture and comfort to which my mind and sensitivities had been directed. There are these little glimmers into people’s lives. Deep things come out in the literal space between places. For a while our feet are off the ground and there is a kind of freedom to speak, to share. Why do we do it? Maybe it’s because we know we likely won’t see the person anymore, it’s less of a risk, and in an odd way, that makes us feel ‘safer’. Maybe it's the anonymity combined with the need to talk and for some kind of connection... www.moniquesliedrecht.com

It’s a new week and the beginning of a new month. As I sit here and write, I have a clear view out of a large window onto a frosty landscape. The sky is bright blue and the sun is spreading a golden light over the frozen earth. The tree branches in front of the window are soaking up the suns rays and some birds are fluttering back and forth, nibbling at the seeds I put out this morning. My robin friend has had some competition lately, with a blackbird and sparrow having discovered the seed, plus a stoat who made an appearance the other day! I’ve been wondering where these creatures reside. I haven’t detected any nests, but maybe I haven’t looked carefully enough. The stoat has evidently burrowed a little tunnel next to my studio wall. The birds suddenly seem to appear from secret places in the trees or long grasses. The other evening I went out to watch the full moon rise over the sea. I layered up with woolly clothing, trekked down to the beach, and waited. I ended up waiting longer than planned and was chilled through to the bone on my return to the house. Stepping into a small pool of North Sea water at low tide did not help. When I got inside, my boots were the first things to come off and I lit a fire to ward off the chill, changing into dry socks. It is moments like these when I appreciate the place called home. While standing out in the bay on that wintry evening, I thought about a couple of radio interviews I heard a few days prior, with UK’s astronaut Tim Peake, and Canadian Space Commander, Chris Hadfield. Both of them expressed their awe and excitement at seeing the world from space, acknowledging the immense privilege it was to experience such a life altering journey. They developed a new and deeper appreciation for earth and all it’s complexity; and along with the practical and technical considerations, a reverence and wonder filled their voices as they shared. While in space they started to think of this earth, our home, and the people in their lives, with a new sense of love and gratitude - and throughout this dangerous adventure, they had to maintain the delicate and complex world of the International Space Station. Their task was to make a very special, temporary home for the limited time they were in space, a unique environment where they could safely live and work. What makes home home? Is it merely a roof over our heads? Certainly that is a thing to be thankful for, no doubt. But I think we can all agree that home is something more, and it extends beyond the idea of shelter. Here on earth we’ve been plunged into a rather sudden and unexpected isolation. If there’s anything this pandemic and the subsequent lockdowns have taught us, it is how to be ‘at home’ in our own skins and in our own company, or in the company of very few others. We’ve had to tap into inner resources we never knew we had, and re-establish boundaries and set new routines. The artist, Grayson Perry, hosted a programme on Channel 4 last spring, called ‘Grayson Perry’s Art Club’. In it he invited members to submit artwork based on a theme. One of them was on home. He said ‘We carry around with us this emotional map. When we’re part of the world out there, our map expands because we meet people and they reinforce who we are. In lockdown we are forced to close down, pull back from that world in some ways. Our home has become the boundary of our extended sense of self. Even more than ever, we need to take care of this environment because it’s affecting who we are.’ This silent path through the pandemic has shaped us in ways we cannot yet see or imagine. If anything, it subconciously or conciously invites us to consider how ‘at home’ we are in our own skins... www.moniquesliedrecht.com

Some snow has finally fallen - enough to satisfy this Canadian-born woman’s heart for now. The distant homes look like house-shaped igloos against the horizon, their roofs blanketed by the white sparkling powder. We’ve gone through a range of weathers in the last few days — a bit like my emotions lately. A few times this week I stepped out to get a blast of air after full hours of taxes and figures, needing to clear my head. Numbers and I are not close friends, as I told my sister. If anything, we are more like distant acquaintances. One evening, when my head reached its limit with sums and lists, I decided to step out into the bracing weather, regardless of the decreasing light. The wind was howling. I stopped for a while to look down at the full burn rushing into the sea. When the winds became too strong and the hail started to pellet down, the darkness descending further, I went home, feeling more settled in myself and ready to make the transition from numbers to cooking. Yesterday involved a longer walk on the beach during one of the clear intervals between blowing wind and heavy rain. The clouds had cleared one section of sky, revealing a patch of bright blue where the half moon was hanging. A ‘day moon’ as my friend called it. A beautiful image. Day moon - that fingerprint in the sky and a lovely companion as I made my way to the shore. At the sea I took my time and walked as far as the tide and temporary clear skies would allow, collecting limpet shells and washed up bits of buoy, stuffing them into my pockets. I reached an outcrop of rock and realised it would take a little more effort to find my way across the slippery stone surfaces in order to get to the other side of the cliff, so I decided to save that for another day. The prospect of what is around the corner always intrigues me and tends to lure me further, but not this time. The wind was starting to pick up again, and I noticed my day moon companion had vanished behind the cloud. Yesterday evening there were sudden bolts of lightening revealing the shape of the landscape for less than a second, followed by immediate darkness and the rumble of thunder. Thunderstorms rarely happen in the north of Scotland, let alone in winter! There are strong associations between thunderstorms and a restless spirit. I remember in my days as a teacher in New Mexico how the pupils would become hyper on the day of an oncoming storm. It was all I could do to keep their attention. I don't know if my memory is playing tricks or not, but I also found my classes very jumpy on the day of a full moon! Perhaps there's something in that ancient tradition of moons and madness (hence the term, 'lunacy'). It is true that my emotions have reflected the instability of the thunder recently, but for me, the day moon is now bringing a sense of calm and light. High above, in the vast blue sky, the moon is still reclining in it's first quarter. I look forward to when it reaches it's fullness on the 28th of January, which is just around the corner... www.moniquesliedrecht.com

I was travelling to Thurso with a friend (we’re in the same bubble), to pick up a prescription. It was a nice enough day. No wind, no rain. Clear and cold. The drive to town seemed normal enough, though I sensed something felt different about the car. I wondered if there was a problem with the steering, but quickly dismissed my concerns. My friend was driving and I didn’t want to bother him. We managed to pick up the prescription and drove back through Castletown, stopping at a shop on the way. However, as we headed back towards Freswick I could hear a very faint ‘wobble’ noise, but figured it was just the cold or the rough road. Gradually the vibrating wobble sound became louder. Initially my friend thought it might be a door that hadn’t been shut properly (although privately I thought this interpretation might be a fatal miscalculation), so I turned round to check the rear doors, but there was no problem. There was, of course, a worse problem. The realisation hit us both at the same time - the back tire had blown, the smell of burnt rubber quickly filling the air. We pulled over into a narrow lay-by in front of someone’s house and got out of the car. My friend sighed and quietly pulled out the safety tyre from the back of the car along with a rather pathetic looking jack. ‘This is never very efficient,’ he said dryly. Fifteen minutes later, when we were both frozen to the bone, he had successfully established that point. He had not successfully changed the tyre, of course, but had managed to wedge the jack awkwardly under the car and was unable to retrieve it. He murmured to himself ‘I knew I should have called in at Halford’s last time I was in Inverness to get a better jack for an occasion like this. However, annoyingly, I couldn’t be bothered at the time.’ Bowing to the inevitable, we called the local garage, which - as luck would have it - was less than half a mile away and (amazingly in these times) was open. They were incredibly helpful and sent their mechanic to us within 10 minutes. He pulled over, cheerily greeted us with a muffled hello behind his face mask, and went straight to the car, crouching down beside the wheel. At first we didn’t recognise him in his orange overalls and because of the mask that was covering half his face. My friend chatted to him for a while without realising that he knew him. Such is the weird world of masks and disguises in our Covid-19 existence. The mechanic was in fact quite shocked not to be recognised because he had often come down to Freswick and helped his brother with mowing the fields. All three of us laughed about this occupational hazard of the lockdown, a world where friends and even relatives can sometimes pass each other unawares in the street. However, I found it very heartwarming that in the tight-knit community of Caithness, even the local garage mechanic turned out to have another connection with us! While he pulled some tools out of his car, a pedestrian was approaching on the other side of the road. As he came closer, we saw that it was someone else we knew. He stopped and chatted from across the road, soon to go on his way again to keep warm, but not before saying a few words to the young mechanic who (you get the picture) he clearly knew very well… It was a very cold day. I was moving around and flapping my arms to ward off the chill, whilst waving oncoming cars past as the little ‘pop-up community’ conversed. My phone 'tinged'…. a message. Another friend, had recognised us moments before, noticing the soft tyre while driving behind us on a stretch of road near Dunnet. He had tried to get hold of me, and eventually turned off the main road to go a different way, hoping that all would be well... www.moniquesliedrecht.com