Sunday, 15 December 2013


Hah. I'm writing a novel... well, a something. Although I've written over 10000 words, I see no narrative forming. Nope. I'm on the Isle of Skye; it's winter; here, there is no sun. No, I lie; I saw it once when I walked to the top of a glen, for about 30 seconds, very low on the horizon, just above the mountain ridge with an unpronounceable Gaelic name. The colours are grey, rust, yellow. The burn is dark, rushing water, has white foam, background white noise. I can see it from the window. Oddly, the sky, at 3:30ish turns all colours: red, orange, pink, yellow, mauve; all the shades of blue to indigo. Strange eerie colours that bathe. Its windy. I mean windy. Today, the wind was blowing the waterfall back up the mountain before it could reach its drop pool. No TV, radio or music. No people. There isn't another building within over half a mile. And no one is there, closed for the season. The next person is 10 minutes drive away. I've spoken to my landlord twice, when he came to see me when I arrived. To check the roof after a storm. I hear the wind though. The roof rattles; the slates move in waves. The telephone line whines and hums. The grass whooshes. The rain. It rains every day. Yes, every day. Except the time it snowed. Its easy to spook yourself up here, Alone. I've been here nearly three weeks. I will go home, to Brighton, just before Christmas. No one is there either.