Above my head, at least double my height, the rocks are marked by the tides. Caves have emerged, drained. Kittiwakes guard eggs high above me, on cliffs stained with guano. Beneath the raucous gulls, beyond the rocks, waves rumbled and tumbled. I am in a special place. Serene and calm, a haven in the midst of chaos.
After nearly 30 years we plan a retirement relocation. Our rural life, in a couple of acres at 750ft, will come to an end. Our future life will be coastal, garden tools not required.
The big worry, so far, concerns cats and chickens. Aside, that is, from the books. How many will fit in? How many will have to go? And how to part with them? And I wonder if I am thinking books, or cats, or chickens. All of them. There will be tears, and not just over the books.
The children will have finished their studies, embarked on careers perhaps further afield. We hope. They will take all their clutter with them, to their new homes; won’t they?
Our time in Avondale, between horizons marked by Loudoun Hill and Dungavel, with Goat Fell on clear days, has been a happy one. Deliciously so. Thirty years is a long time; in the one place.
However the times are changing. Before the maple hedge grew we lost french doors to the winds. More than once. Once occasional blasts, now habitually Named Storms; stronger, names to defend. One of them, her name escapes me, disappeared with a chunk of the garage roof. There is less snow than we had back then. But so much more rain. Wind and rain.
The Moray Coast beckons. Gillian has been away for a long time, over 40 years. We need to reduce that four hour journey. Closer to the family, once we can put work commitments behind us. It has been a long time coming. And it has a much kinder climate; a gentler pace of life too. Which we need as we age.
Cycling in Avondale involves hills; and that wind. My old legs look forward to renewing an occasional acquaintance with the cycle paths of a fairly level coast; pottering between Cullen and Spey Bay, perhaps on to Lossie. The old railway lines have been re-purposed. In Avondale they lie derelict yet, and cycling involves traffic. Even if the dreaded A71 can be avoided.
And so to Portknockie, and my early morning wanderings. Bow Fiddle Rock at low tide; on the clifftop walk to Findochty golden whins glistened, the sun silvering the distant seas. Ancestral blethers at the Heritage Centre in Cullen, lead to the possibility of linking family tree entries from St Monans three centuries ago with the street which will become our home. Intriguing.
At the bottom of the street I find The Green Castle, and The Twinnies. Three Creeks Shore is a big change from Mill Rigg. Shitten Craig and Quineland; new words, new views. We’ll put the Covenanters’ Trail behind us; swap Trumpeter’s Well for Harry Cockie Cave. A deep carpet of thrifts and pinks, ready to burst into life, enveloped The Green Castle. Below a solitary eider pootled slowly towards the shore.
The ancient and distinctive volcanic plug of Loudoun Hill will be exchanged for the ancient and distinctive Cullen quartzite of Bow Fiddle. There will still be skylarks, but they’ll have shags and oystercatchers for company, turnstones too. Where once I cast an ear and eye for the buzzard, I’ll look now for the osprey. And there may be a glimpse of a dorsal fin out on the firth. At Troup Head the gannets and the puffins are but a short trip away.
In these early days we begin to measure up. Spaces, book cases; floors for rugs, and walls for pictures. And we realise, finally accept, that much of our accumulated detritus will need to be purged. The old piano; great-grandfather’s walnut bureau; the rowing machine. Pictures on the walls, plenty more unhung. Clutter in the kitchen; too many gadgets. The necessity of downsizing.
Then there’s the contents of shed and garage. Both bursting. A house with no garden, a simple yard. There are plans for pots and planters. And that will need an irrigation system for the next few years. Which is why I find myself browsing bowsers; water butts and drip feeds. Strange times. Bike storage. Think about that.
We need to delve for distant memories of things long lost; living with neighbours, and streetlights. Dark skies will go. But with hopes of aurora, looking north, out to to sea.
Our life’s journey starts out on a new stage, with a plan. And with so much hope. If only two us make the final move, the younger generation will be on their own journeys. And we will all have the excitement that comes with new horizons. New places, new sights to photograph; words to find, in a different dialect.
As the plans begin to take shape thoughts of what we will leave behind threaten to overwhelm. Our memories come with us, secure; but some things we leave behind, precious things. We’ll not be that far away. Open to guests and visitors. And always the threat of a trip south, descending on absent friends. Especially in January. It’s a Celtic Connections thing. Don’t even mention football. Buckie are doing well; Islavale perhaps more my level.
As I sit on a rock, at Bow Fiddle, low tide, all of these thoughts, and more, birl round; as the gulls whirl above with the skirl and claik of aeons. And I know we do the right thing. At the right time.
From Avondale to Moray, with hope for the years ahead.