Not far from my home, on the outskirts of Aberdeen, is a small body of water known as Corby Loch. Prior to 2020, my partner Hilary & I had only made the occasional visit there, but during the series of Lockdowns that year it became ‘Oor Place’, the object of our daily exercise. As in common with so many others, it was a difficult time for us. The pandemic had honed the edges of our concern for Catherine, our profoundly-disabled daughter, to a razor sharpness. Catherine lives at home with us and requires twenty-four-hour care.
So, for our extended clan of family and carers, it was a time of deep worry and daily concern, all of which chipped away at the smooth surfaces of our mental health. Hilary and I needed somewhere to escape the daily grind, somewhere nearby, somewhere away from crowds, somewhere close to nature. Corby Loch fitted the bill perfectly.
In my head it was the Day of a Thousand Rainbows. The cobalt blue of the sky was broken up by streamers of grey, diffuse clouds, darting across the heavens. Every now and again these clouds would release showers of rain as they passed over the autumnal land, before rushing south on an urgent wind. In each shower grew a rainbow, bright and resplendent, towering over the countryside, a fleeting monument to the dynamism of nature.
So, on the Day of a Thousand Rainbows, after a particularly stressful few days, we decide to again walk the high road to Corby Loch. The sun was shining in-between the showers, providing light but little heat. Walking up a quite country road we passed fields of sheep who grazed on stoically, heads down, muttering into the grass, “This rain, too, shall pass”. In the turbulent skies above a Buzzard soared effortlessly on the gusting winds.
It’s not a long walk to the Loch, only twenty-five minutes or so, but the path there feels like a portal into another world. The walk feels like an unburdening, as we begin to sync with the slower rhythms of the natural world. Busy minds and jangled nerves ease with each birdsong, with each breath of wind that rustles through crinkled leaves.
We reach the loch just as the latest shower begins and we huddle into the wall of the boathouse, watching as raindrops, machine-gun down from above, fall on the water and create ripples that come and go so quickly we can’t be sure they were ever really there. These split-second circles overlap, merge and disappear, a work of art in an instant, a one-time performance that is here today and gone today.
The sun brightens again and the show is over. The latest rainbow climbs high against a darkened sky, colours fluctuating, brightening then weakening, like a crisis of faith. Our own faith in Corby Loch is strong though. Here we sit, sipping tea from our flasks, watching the birds and insects go about their lives. The lapping of the waters provides a soothing, meditative soundtrack that brings peace to uneasy minds.
The wind whooshes across the loch in occasional sweeping gusts, cold breaths that make the waters shiver. We are cosy in our jackets though and feel that warm glow that comes with finding our refuge, our hope, our respite, our church. Here, the beating of the Swan’s wings is our prayer, the call of the Lapwing is our praise.
There is no doubt that the emergency phase of the pandemic was a challenging time and for our family the challenge remains, even if ‘Back to Normal’ has been declared. However, as long as we have Corby Loch and other places like it, hallowed places that allow us to silence our inner voices and rediscover something essential; then as long as we have these we will rise again, renewed, ready to weather the next storm.