Small Town Living

About thirty years ago, I was on the Thames teaching kayaking. Speeding water buses, river traffic, huge moored barges, the noise of the city and its people; and then I moved north. I took my boat down to the water’s edge a few days after I arrived. Apart from a seal, and the sound of gentle waves on the stony beach, there was nothing. I didn’t even know ‘what’ was on the other side of the hill I was looking at. Completely alien, completely perfect. I had moved to the West Coast of Scotland. 

Dunoon my adopted home town hosted the Cowal Games at the weekend, and I went along and helped out at the Cowal Open Studio stand. Almost every other face was someone I knew, people who took the time to stop and chat and quickly catch up. I found myself in the ceilidh tent and danced the afternoon away with a group of laughing people. I couldn’t tell you their names, but I knew their faces, people who would say the same about me. Aware of each other for the last three decades, a smile, a hello, an afternoon of dancing in a rain-drenched tent — small-town living at its best.