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Introducing Hadrian’s Wall: Where Rome Meets Westeros

Watched or read George RR Martin’s Game Of Thrones? Been captivated by that colossal wrought-ice defensive battlement known as The Wall?

Here’s some news that may interest you.

It exists in our world too.

Fevered Mutterings image: Hadrian's Wall, by Bill Hails - Flickr

The Wall, the Others… where did that element of the story come from? Did that grow up as a plot device or is it more?

Well, some of it will be revealed later so I won’t talk about that aspect of it, but certainly the Wall comes from Hadrian’s Wall, which I saw while visiting Scotland. I stood on Hadrian’s Wall and tried to imagine what it would be like to be a Roman soldier sent here from Italy or Antioch. To stand here, to gaze off into the distance, not knowing what might emerge from the forest. Of course fantasy is the stuff of bright colours and being larger than real life, so my Wall is bigger and considerably longer and more magical. And, of course, what lies beyond it has to be more than just Scots.

 - George RR Martin, in conversation with Wayne MacLaurin, 2000

In Martin’s Westeros, The Wall is designed to keep Wildlings, grumpkins and snarks (plus darker, nastier things) at bay, providing a seemingly impenetrable fortification manned by the haggard, stalwart members of the Night’s Watch. It marks the northern edge of the Seven Kingdoms in the starkest sense (pun intended) – a physical deterrent to invaders from beyond the fringes of civilization.

Hadrian’s Wall is far more interesting – and not just because it’s real.

Fevered Mutterings Image: Hadrian's Wall - Mike Sowden

From Bowness-on-Solway in the west to the appropriate named Wallsend on the Tyne in the east, Hadrian’s wall runs the width of England’s northern boundary with Scotland (although not along it – the whole wall lies within England, and while it’s just 1km shy of the Scottish border at Bowness, it’s 110km south of it at Wallsend). It originally ran for 73 miles (117km) of stone and banked turf, 7-10ft (2-3m) thick and between 15 and 20ft high.

Think about this for a minute. Imagine a branch of the Roman Army ordered to defend the northern fringes of the Roman Empire from the marauding Scots. Hadrian’s Wall is a military structure, built by troops and initiated shortly after the Roman Emperor Hadrian visited Britain. A 15ft high unmanned stretch of wall would hamper the progress of invaders, but would it stop them? Unlikely.

The true significance of the wall, and the reasons for its construction, must lie at least partly elsewhere – for example, in the symbolic defining of the end of territory under Roman influence (being an urban culture, the Romans stamping their authority on landscapes and peoples with urban building-work – towns, bridges, aqueducts, fortresses, villas and the like. Otherwise, they tended to adopt an “if it isn’t broke, don’t fix it” attitude to local government – while Romanizing it sufficiently to make it clear who was in charge). The power of Rome wasn’t limitless – and Britain was at the Empire’s fringes. A line had to be drawn.

It’s not hard to imagine Hadrian, or one of his strategists, running a finger across northern England, from sea to sea, and saying “this is enough – for now”.

Fevered Mutterings image: Hadrian's Wall, by Stu & Sam - Flickr

Whatever the motivations for its construction, Hadrian’s Wall remains one of the wonders of world archaeology. It’s an astonishing feat of engineering, comprising of walling, milecastles, forts and a wall ditch and track (or vallum) that often had to cut through rock. The foundations and lower layers of many of its associated structures endure, making it one of the richest accumulations of Roman archaeology outside of Italy. It’s also a bulwark that’s deeply in tune with the landscape it works its way through – taking advantage of inaccessible rocky outcrops to heighten its defensive power (literally), while employing the characteristic uncompromising lines that can be seen in Roman roads across Europe. (“Geology, get out of our way or prepare to be quarried”). It’s astonishingly self-assured. If you were a non-Roman inhabitant of Britain of the time and were in any doubt that the Romans intended to stay, this would have shut you up for good…

I’ve been infatuated with Hadrian’s Wall for years now. I’ve walked sections of it, I’ve cycled along it, I’ve huddled under it as the rain scythed down, and I’ve been told off by an English Heritage inspector for clambering over it in a moment of weakness. It’s a stunning display of human ingenuity – and it’s also not a little mad. Why would anyone build such a thing, on such a scale, in such a place? Another reason for my obsession is the land it winds through – some of the loveliest (and bleakest) in England.

For 2012, as one of a number of new themes for this blog, I’m getting up close and personal with Hadrian’s Wall country. You’re going to find me writing about…

  • glimpses of a civilization that popular culture is still fascinated with after 2,000 years (no gladiators, though – sorry);
  • what the Wall was (perhaps) for;  
  • how, when and why to walk Hadrian’s Wall, where to stay, and what there is to see;
  • how the Wall affects the lives of people in Cumbria and Northumberland today;
  • how the landscape shaped the Wall’s development, and how and where its builders overcame or defied the many obstacles in their way;
  • the cities, towns and villages of Hadrian’s Wall country, including one of my favourite cities in the whole of England, Carlisle;
  • …and finally, the Wall Walk, all 73 miles of it, which I’m undertaking sometime this coming year.

As I write this, I’m hoping to be up on the Wall next Wednesday, walking from Hexham to Once Brewed and hopefully further – but since I’m currently fighting off the remnants of a heavy cold, we shall see. (It’s certainly nice to know I have some kind of survival instinct. I’d wondered).

(Note: As I said here, I’d originally planned to be sleeping in a Goretex sack of misery, better known as a bivi-bag – but if I do make it up there, I’m still post-’flu. Sleeping in a sack in the open air with temperatures hovering around the zero Celsius mark…might not be the greatest idea I’ve ever had. Another time, I think).

So – are you coming along for the ride?

Images: Stu & Sam, Bill Hails, Paul McGreevy and Mike Sowden.

Hadrian’s Wall: A Birthday Adventure / Cry For Help

Every year I set myself a birthday challenge – something that looks feasible from a distance but turns into a living hell close-up. Last year, I wandered across the North York Moors in an 8-hour October rainstorm (and ended up writing it up for the San Francisco Chronicle). On my birthday this year…well, I was busy. Too much writing, too much on – something had to hit the wall.

So, two months late….I’m hitting the wall.

Fevered Mutterings Image: Hadrian's Wall, by Stu & Sam - Flickr (more…)

All It Takes

(2008)

The voice coming over the loudspeaker is beginning to struggle.

“Uh – on platform 6, the Treno Notte to Roma will be leaving in approximately…”

“SHOW ME TH’WAYDA GO-OME…..CAZZ I’M TIREDANA WANNA GOHDA BED…” (more…)

Trans Pennine Trail: The Long, Winding Goodbye

It’s midnight, and I’m looking up at a signpost.

The best way to see England is on foot. (The second best way? Ask Sustrans). It’s a country designed to fit your feet, whether via the National Trail network or by those enticing mystery dashed lines you see winding their way into the trees at the fringes of your Ordnance Survey Landranger. You’re not meant to go from A to B – you’re supposed to dabble with the rest of the alphabet. This is why English people of a certain age will argue until they’re blue in the face about the ‘quickest route’ for a stranger to get somewhere. What they really mean is their favourite route – and everyone has a different one, because England can accomodate that.

At midnight on the 23rd of August I’m in Hornsea, my childhood home on East Yorkshire’s coastline. I’ve wandered along the sea-front, tweeting fitfully and plucking at memories, until I’ve reached the Marine Hotel and a sheer concrete wall to the upper promenade I clearly remember being too nervous to climb, which I can now scale by jumping, grabbing the rail and pulling myself up. (It’s such a contrast that I feel I have someone else’s memory). The clouds are low enough to turn to mist, fogging the streetlights and giving the ruinous amusement arcades the look of a heavily anti-aliased Pripyat.

Then I’m at the end of the old railway line, the one that connected Hornsea with Hull until Doctor Beeching swung his axe. The disused train station is long gone, and replaced with an enormous paved compass, pointing westwards – specifically, at Southport, on the other side of the country.

I walk the first mile of it.

From here, the Trail winds over the Wolds and down towards Sheffield, splitting in either direction to provide secondary routes for the weekend-tripper (one of which is up to York, via the whole Solar System)….

…and finally, on the main route, reaching Southport on the west coast, 20 miles north of Liverpool.

When Barbara of Hole In The Donut Travels came to York a few months back, I was startled to learn she hadn’t arrived via London. Because all too often, that’s the England visitors see. I’m not knocking London (it’s a fascinating place) but it’s not a synonym for England. The England I love best, that gets me scanning maps with what I can only describe as geographic lust, is that of hill and dale and moor and backwater trail – and the best ways to find these are by taking the great trans-England walking routes so beloved by folk like Wainwright (who even devised his own coast to coast walk)…

Striding along these great Ways isn’t just an effective method for seeing (and feeling) England – it’s also a great way to say goodbye to it. Since my plans revolve around seeing the rest of the world, a couple of final, epic walks sometime soon are an attractive prospect.

And the symbolism of starting the last of them from my childhood home?

Irresistible.

Further reading:

  • Walking Britain: tons of ideas here, complete with detailed breakdowns of walks and some (sadly quite small) photos of what you can expect to see.
  • It is absolutely impossible to read this book and not have twitchy feet. That’s you warned.
Images: rofanator, vikellis, karenwithak, steves71.

Dead Air Under London

Fevered Mutterings Image - Pedestrian Tunnels connecting Heathrow terminals - Mike Sowden

London breathes on my back. Around me, shirts billow, dresses flare and hats are clutched, as the stuffy, tasteless air roars past us in search of somewhere to dump its heat. Behind me, the mournful screee of an Underground Tube train – and around me, a subterranean London that is far from solid.

Imagine laying a cross-section across the city, dividing it like a cake. Looking at the results, you’d think: earthworms. The ground under London is Swiss-cheesed with cavities. There are the most famous – the London Underground and its many, many abandoned stations, and the extraordinarily extensive sewer system pioneered by Joseph Bazalgette, the “Sewer King“, an engineering marvel now threatened from above. But around them, burrowed into the sponge of subterranean London, are countless other mysterious voids. The church catacombs, most notably at Camden. The military bunkers and citadels and their extensive tunnel networks.  The pedestrianways winding between Heathrow’s terminals (above), hauntingly endless when you’re dragging your suitcase down them. And then there’s the Fleet, London’s lost river, gushing back and forth through the sewer tunnels as the tide waxes and wanes, a trickle of its former self but still powerful enough to drown the unwary.

And through all this, the dead air of London’s ancient breath…

In.

Out.

Photo: Mike Sowden 2011.

Further reading:

Mistakes: Make Them.

If at first you don’t succeed..you might be onto something here.

For a long while, my ability to attract misadventure and fall flat on my face whenever enough ground presented itself…well, it haunted me. Other people seemed to glide as if well-oiled through the machinations of society. I rattled, clunked and occasionally jammed.

In 1995 I went on my first archaeological excavation to West Sussex (only a few miles from where I was last month, in fact). I took the train – the first time I’d used the backwater trains south of London. In most cases, the carriage doors don’t have handles on the insides; you push the window down and reach through to turn the outer handle. I didn’t know this.

The train stopped. I pawed at the door like a trapped animal. Since nobody watching me could work out what I was doing, nobody stepped in to help. After a while, the train started rolling, and at precisely the point it began to move too fast to jump off it, I realised I needed to open  the window to get out. I pulled it down and shouted “HELP” at the English countryside. When I turned round, a backpacker was laid on the floor, laughing so hard he couldn’t breathe.

A few hours later, at the excavation site, I discovered I should have brought a welded hard steel (WHS) 4″ trowel, like this:

Instead, I pulled out one of these:

The archaeology students I’d just befriended all fell to the floor and wept openly.

This was my one and only chance to make a good impression. And I’d fluffed it.

But.

What happened next was what always happens next, in a pattern I hadn’t yet recognised but I’ve since come to associate with most of the events in my life. I became “the guy [that did something fantastically stupid]”  - in this case, “the guy with the big-ass trowel”. My mistake hadn’t just dissipated into thin air, in the way I’d wanted to myself when I realised what a fool I’d been.

It had defined me.

Be remarkable, say personal branding gurus like Gary Vaynerchuk. Well, I am remarkable. I’m remarkably disaster-prone. My recent trip to Austria started with enough stress to put grey hairs in my beard. (I say that I grew a beard last week to compare with the one I grew 6 months ago, and it appears I’m turning into a badger). I’ve been like this for my entire adult life – and nowadays, that’s a long time. And it’s almost always self-inflicted. My friend Jodi Ettenberg has a problem with birds shitting on her. I have a problem with me shitting on me.

(Not literally – or this story would have been posted here).

However, you may have noticed how unconcerned I am at all this self-sabotage. I honestly don’t care. Take a look at this blog’s subtitle. Does that sound the work of someone ashamed of what a walking disaster he is? Ain’t so.

In future posts I’m going to dig deep into the power of mistakes, the little-evangelized joy of protracted misfortune, and the way that everyone takes pity on the klutz in the room. (You want to break the ice with people on the road, right? Then channel your inner numpty. Prove you’re a human in the most mortifying way possible, and once they’ve picked themselves up off the floor where they’ve been laying laughing at you, you’ll have a friend for life).

This is the tip of a huge iceberg, waiting to bang a hole in the side of your dignity. My advice? Sail straight at it – full speed ahead.

Mistakes are medals.

Aim to become highly decorated.

Images: Kurt Thomas Hunt, Electricians Direct and Jeffrey Beall.

Audio essay: Going Under At Ayia Napa

Fevered Mutterings Image: Cape Greco, by TeryKats - Flickr

Image: TeryKats.

Travel Technology: It’s What It *Does*, Stupid

Fevered Mutterings image - Mystery Bag, by JD Hancock - Flickr

What stuff do you need to go travelling?

Let’s pretend we’re back at school, and that’s an essay question. What are we trained to do? Break down. (The question, I mean). We disassemble into its component concepts, in search of the tricksiest.

And what’s the troublesome word here?

Need.

I have a real problem with that word – because I’m needy. Not in the “talk to me or I’m going to bawl into a tub of ice-cream” way. In the sense that I find everything fascinating.

No, really. Have you ever really, truly looked at [insert some mundane object here]? It’s AMAZING. We live in a world of invisible, endlessly entertaining miracles. Have something you want to sell me? I’m sold! In fact I’d be the perfect consumer, were it not for the tragic fact that I have no money. Everything commands my attention, which is why I often neurologically short out in public and stand there, drooling and gently soiling myself.

It’s because the world is so fascinating.

For this reason, I’m bewildered when people use the word “bored”. Are we occupying the same reality? Hey, Bored Person, here’s a list of things you should do before you are allowed to use the b-word – and yes, I’m sorry it’s rather long, it’s because there’s Absolutely Everything on it. Off you pop now.

Not everyone is as easily impressed as me – but it’s a fact that we’re all overwhelmed with desirable objects. We just can’t cram things into our lives fast enough. And that’s the way other people like it. Out there are fabulously clever folk who know how to design, make and promote things that instantly become necessities the moment we start playing. (My most recent example? Evernote. What did I do before Evernote? It probably involved banging rocks together). Such marvels feel like they complete us, by erasing our older memories of feeling complete. It’s mystical and magical.

It’s also how to end up travelling the world with useless crap.

Fevered Mutterings Image - Eternal Wanderer, by mamnaimie - Flickr

The problem arises when the emotional component of “need” swamps the practical one. Case in point: last month, my beloved Kindle was either mislaid or stolen at Heathrow Airport. I discovered it was gone when I boarded my flight to Frankfurt and reached into my bag, ready to let George RR Martin take away my flight nerves. I rummaged. I dug. I turfed everything out. Gone. Gone. I slid into a miserable funk. When the inflight drinks arrived and I was handed orange juice, I asked the air hostess for something stronger. She gave me stronger orange juice. (And they say Germans don’t have a sense of humour). Sober and utterly without reading material, I resorted to playing a game that involved applying just enough knee-pressure to the seat in front for the occupant to shift uncomfortably, but not enough for them to realise I was to blame. This passed the time nicely. (The lesson: misanthropic psychological warfare is a great way to get over a fear of flying).

In Austria, I downloaded Kindle for Android, and all the books I was reading (ta, Amazon).

And in doing so…I realised I didn’t really need a Kindle anymore.

Oh, I wanted one. I wanted one so bad that its absence was like emotional toothache. Inwardly I pined and wailed – but I still read my books on my phone. And you know what? It was fine. No, it was great. It was everything I needed from an ebook reader. And I shudder to say this, but…it still is everything I need.

Sure, I want a new Kindle – but I can survive without one, thankyouverymuch.

It’s a difficult process, stripping away the layers of want to find that kernal of need. Context is important. That’s why travelling is a great way to find out if something is useless, cumbersome crap. It’s also a great way to lug useless, cumbersome crap around, having seasoned travellers and hotel staff laugh at you pityingly until the day you lose your patience and stuff the offending article in a stranger’s half-open bin. Nothing breeds self-contempt like an unnecessarily heavy backpack or suitcase. (In Greece, I ended throwing away my suitcase, choosing the lesser evil of a single  rucksack so overladen it was nearly spherical).

That approach is best avoided. You’re better off deciding what you need in advance.

But how?

My best answer is one that the beauty-loving part of me hates. It’s a grimly mechanical view of the world. It’s utilitarian – and I hate utilitarian. It’s the following simple question:

What does it do?

If I’m going travelling, my rule of thumb is to choose function over form. Does it do the same job as something larger and heavier, equally if not more reliably? Then I don’t care how it looks. I don’t care if it’s a piece of Hello Kitty merchandise, or plastered with Justin Bieber’s intensely irritating face - it goes in. And nuts to my social credibility (if I have any left, that is).

Fevered Mutterings image - Hunny Bunny, by Lita Bosch - Flickr

And there’s another benefit to uglifying your possessions, as Shannon O’Donnell notesthey’re less likely to get stolen. Have an expensive camera? Wind duct-tape around it until it’s an eyesore. Smartphone? Make it look it’s freshly repaired by an idiot who clearly knows nothing about technology, ie. you. Visually brand yourself as the kind of person who wouldn’t carry anything worth stealing.

I’ll admit – I find all this tough. I love gadgets and oddities, and I’m easily prone to daydreams of how I’d use them when I travel (“YES, this Inflatable Turkey would be just *perfect* for…hell, I don’t care, I just want it!”). I’m a hoarder. But most of my squirrelling tendencies, born of immediately being smitten with the idea of something rather than the reality of something, can’t survive the What Does It Do line of enquiry. That’s how I best spot unneceessary crap before it has a chance to clamber onto my shoulders…

So what about you? How do you decide what you really, truly need to pack?

Image: mamnamie, Lita Bosch and JD Hancock.

Mongol Rally 2011: The Festival Of Slow (Clothing Optional)

Fevered Mutterings image - Crowds seen from ambulance window, Festival of Slow, Mongol Rally 2011- Mike Sowden

Poor devils. Little do they know what's coming.

The ambulance picks up speed.

“I’m really sorry!” shouts the bleached-haired man in the doorway as I fight to click in my seat-belt.

WHAT? I CAN’T HEAR….”

“I said I’m really sorry - I’M ABOUT TO GET NAKED!”

I laugh dutifully. Well, they’re adventurers, not comedians, and however in-jokey or lame their attempts at humour are, I’m their guest. I should make the effort. I force a semblance of an amused grin and give the thumbs-up, then turn back to the window to photograph the crowds blurring past.

When I turn back, he’s naked.

Fevered Mutterings image - Spectators, Festival of Slow, Mongol Rally - Mike Sowden

I say, is it my imagination, Muriel, or is that ambulance filled with nudists?

The vehicle stops. I suddenly see the driver has become naked as well. And the front passenger. The fourth member of the team is still clothed and looks disturbed, but not entirely surprised. There is an air of normality about this unexpected eruption of nudity, a matter-of-factness. I’m suddenly concerned that they’ll ask me to participate in whatever the hell it is they’re doing. Terrified, even.

Naked Man n0. 1 pulls open the side-door and steps out, full-frontalling the crowd. I point my camera at the sea of laughing, horrified faces – then a pair of (mercifully blurry) bare buttocks fill my viewfinder, bisected vertically with a strip of luminous green. He’s not naked – he’s wearing a mankini.

In other words, worse than naked.

For my first press photographer’s lap of the circuit, I’ve somehow managed to pick an emergency vehicle driven by Borats.

Fevered Mutterings Image - Mankini'd bloke, Mongol Rally 2011 - Mike Sowden (the photographer, I mean)

Cheeky.

The Mongol Rally‘s Festival of Slow is all about spectacle. Beyond the Russian Border Guards, Undercover Spies and Mail-Order Brides picking their way through the crowds looking for prey…

I lav yoo! Need of wife? Ivana makes you happy, PayPal it is OK!

…beyond the gryrating Mongolian wrestlers and the hypercaffeinated MC rushing up and down the track, barely able to get the words into his microphone fast enough…

Well, there were the entrants.

Fevered Mutterings image - Discovery Channel vehicle, Mongol Rally 2011 - Mike Sowden

The perfect blend of car and Muppet - the "carpet".

Fevered Mutterings image - Various vehicles, Mongol Rally 2011 - Mike Sowden

Fevered Mutterings image - Smartcar in the Mongol Rally, 2011 - Mike Sowden

You're doing it in a *what*?

Fevered Mutterings image - Entrants, Mongol Rally 2011 - Mike Sowden

I've seen bog-bodies less brown than these guys.

You're going via Iraq? And the flag will be up all the way? Um...all the best.

Fevered Mutterings image - Craziness on a Mongol Rally car, Festival of Slow - Mike Sowden

Oh, don't even ask.

Fevered Mutterings image - Cars waiting to depart, Festival of Slow, Mongol Rally 2011 - Mike Sowden

Dear diary... Day 1: totally gridlocked. I now realise my months of playing Colin McRae DiRT were no training at *all*.

Before my lap in the Mankini Ambulance is up, I learn the reason for all this brazen man-flesh on display. The chaps in question are Halley’s Comics, and they’re raising funds for the Orchid male (prostate, penile, testicular) cancer charity. There’s method in their nakedness.

I leap out at the end of the lap, wish them good luck (and warmer clothing), and hunt for my next ride…

Acknowledgements:

The Adventurists were kind enough to invite me to this year’s Festival Of Slow (and pay for my train ticket).  It’s the eighth year of the Mongol Rally and the biggest yet, raising over £380,000 for charity at the time of writing.

You can track the progress of the Mongol Rally teams here: http://www.theadventurists.com/the-adventures/mongol-rally/live

(And go say hi to my friends Dave, Deb, Rick & Sherry of the Social Media Syndicate. They’ve already been pulled over by the police, and probably need your support).

Images: Mike Sowden, 2011.
Many thanks go to Travel4Press for featuring the Festival Of Slow as a press opportunity for freelance travel journalists. If you’re a travel writer, especially if you’re based in the UK, I honestly can’t recommend T4P enough for finding work and keeping up with industry news. Did I mention they’re free to use? Yeah. Amazing.

Nobody Expects The Orkney Haar

Surely my eyes have blown a fuse. The world is blank – not a hole (because holes are *in* something) but a total absence, a blackness filled with light.

Vertigo sweeps over me. And…that strange muddled sense of depth, like when you’re drifting off to sleep in a darkened room and suddenly you can’t tell if the ceiling is a million miles away or pressed against your face.

Fevered Mutterings Image - Haar, between Mainland Orkney and Westray - Mike Sowden

If I look down, the illusion is broken by the ship’s side-wake, curling outwards like scraped butter, but if I tilt my gaze so everything disappears from my peripheral vision, I’m floating once more. The view is a featureless aether lit by a coin of light wan enough to stare at. I drift, spiritually untethered, a sense of peace filling my entire….

…!!!!

Dear god.

Obviously. Obviously they would have…sounded the...fog-horn. Because we’re…in fog.

But…couldn’t they WARN us first?

Fevered Mutterings Image - Haar lifting, between Mainland Orkney and Westray - Mike Sowden

Suddenly the horizon is back, in the time it takes you to read this sentence.

Behind us, the ship’s wake appears and lengthens. Are we picking up speed? No – it’s the fog we’re emerging from, revealing the mark of our passage like a meteorological magic trick.

Fevered Mutterings Image - Wake of ship emerging from haar - Mike Sowden

Here in Orkney, a sea-fog or haar can descend at any time. In this case it’s in the middle of a sunny July day (2009).

This confuses me. Fog needs the kind of cool, damp air you’d find in Winter? But then I remembered the haar I met in August 2006 when I slept rough on the Orkney Mainland. Why fog in summer? The answer is wind, or rather a lack of it – during the Winter months, the incessant wind picks up enough to blow the fog away. It’s always around, developing wherever there’s a pronounced temperature difference between sea and sky …but Winter is more adept at moving it along, presumably to make room for some real weather.

Fevered Mutterings Image - Fog on Westray - Mike Sowden

A few days later, I emerge from my tent at Chalmersquoy on Westray after an afternoon nap to find everything smudged with haar. I watch (cursing at my camera’s inability to do it justice) as it rolls down from the hills and blankets the middle of Pierowall bay, a strip of cloud as discrete as a contrail – and as it dissipates, the buildings at the opposite side of the bay emerge, rising like the Golden Gate

Fevered Mutterings Image - Fog over Pierowall Bay, Westray - Mike Sowden

Images: Mike Sowden, 2009.
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