the things that matter

Yellowcraig, 11 January

I haven’t known what to write in the past week. It’s felt strange to share calm, big-skied coastal walks on Instagram while watching scenes of decimated homes and neighbourhoods and communities and livelihoods and lives over 5,000 miles away. That distance doesn’t feel so far away when watching devastation unfold on your phone. There’s also the understanding that impossible things can happen. That unthinkable things can happen. That we are most definitely not in charge of nature, and that, as we look on, we don’t know when or where devastation might happen next. It’s a reminder of all the things that we can’t take for granted, and also of how deeply we should appreciate the things we have, including the roof over our head and the communities we live within.

While I view our current home as a transitory place, the stepping stone between the urban life we used to have and the more distanced and quiet coastal life we hope for daily, still, it’s a place where we’ve spent six-and-a-half years (I know, not so transitory - this wasn’t the plan) and I’m grateful for so many small things within this. The wee alcove alongside the chimney breast in the sitting room, where my desk sits, where I write. Looking to my left while sitting here, and the view to our small garden that’s filled with birds and squirrels. The peace of this. The front room, Richard’s office, where I’ll roll out my yoga mat and flow through sun salutations as light patterns flicker on one wall in the late afternoon spring and summer light, when the sun is high enough to glow over the buildings opposite. Those first days of spring when the same happens at the back of the house, as the sun shines over the buildings to the rear and suddenly, after months of having very little light in the sitting room, shafts of sunlight stretch inside, catching a glass bell jar and reflecting patterns across the wall. A magical thing after a long winter.

Our homes hold those small moments of daily life that no one else sees, but that help to keep us grounded. That help us to feel safe.

While I was watching the news last week, listening to accounts from people who had minutes to grab things and escape, and who were now left with nothing else but those few items, it was natural to wonder: what would I grab? What are the things that really matter to me?

It goes without saying that the first thing you’d save is your family, and for some (many) people, their family is literally all they have left.

Also, my phone and my laptop. The fundamental things I need and use all the time.

But when considering the personal things that matter, the ‘must be saved’ list, I’ve realised it’s simple: the lads, their little boxes. The most precious ‘things’ aren’t things at all. They’re the physical memories of a life lived together.

Also, the lads’ blankets, which are rolled on the white chair beside the bed. And their alpaca jumpers, now folded on top of a storage unit in our bedroom. Unwashed, like the blankets, and still holding their scent.

I could go on… but if thinking of more than I could carry in my hands, I’d also want to grab a few artworks. A painting of Bracken by Japanese artist Noriko Taguchi that sits on an oak shelf behind the dining table. Noriko captured Bracken’s expressive eyes and his gorgeous velvety ears, and his gaze is focused and also slightly questioning (I recognise this look so well) as Noriko was clearly working from a photo I’d taken where there was a treat just out of frame. Given Bracken’s food obsession, this spot above the dining table, overlooking our meals together, is the perfect place for this artwork. I will always treasure this piece.

I’d also grab a tiny painting of Bracken by artist Sarah Gooder. Sarah painted this one years ago (it might have been 2017) and she captured his curmudgeonly nature. Bracken gazes out from the painting in quiet judgement.

And, positioned on the shelf above this in the dining space, there’s an acrylic piece from a photo of Harris taken by photographer Maxine Bantleman. Max was setting up her dog portraiture business in 2018 (I’m not sure what she’s doing now as she moved a few years back and her website is no longer active) and we did a shoot together, walking along the Water of Leith to Dean Village in Edinburgh. Max took this particular photo on the metal footbridge at Dean Village, Harris sitting metres away, looking small against this backdrop but with his firm, confident gaze granting him the stature he always carried.

I’d also grab a painting of Harris by Scottish artist Fiona Purves. I’ve known Fiona for years and she painted Harris a few times, but there’s one piece from a few years ago, painted for a calendar she created, and Fiona gifted us the original artwork. I’d taken the photo on a snowy day in February 2021. We rarely see snow on the coast and the lads were less than ecstatic about this change in paw and undercarriage conditions. In Fiona’s painting, Harris looks quizzical about the situation.

Also, the hand knitted shawl that was made by my friend Claudia in memory of the lads, with colours inspired by the hues of our coastal walks. It’s stunning, and it symbolises such kindness and compassion too. And my Melin Treqwynt yoga blanket, which I’ve used for every home practice over the years, and which Richard bought for me seventeen years ago.

Everyone will have their own list. If you feel drawn to leave yours in the comments below, please do.

Which brings me, in this roundabout, unconnected way, to this frosty walk at Yellowcraig from last weekend. We were grateful to be here, in this cold, crisp air, after a few days of being glued to various screens, absorbing the news, thinking about our changing climate, worrying about our changing climate, and, on a personal level, wondering what more we could or should be doing. We walked along the dunes, looking out across the beach with its frosty layer of frozen sand, and across the Forth towards the distant snow-topped hills.

This photo above is one of my favourites of Raf. Alert, totally engaged with this adventure. He was also on the lookout for people or dogs to worry about and feel threatened by, so, with this in mind, rather than heading down onto the shore, we walked along the edge of the golf course first, looping down onto the beach at the far end, by which point the light was fading, the sky flushed with pink.

One of the best things about these walks at Yellowcraig, when it’s late and the beach is really quiet, is watching Raf run and run. Finally off lead, as there are no ‘threats’ around to react to, and he is fully, completely himself. Who he is, and who he was meant to be. Shooting across the damp sand with absolute joy at the freedom of this. These are the moments that make these walks so special.

And winding along the shore at low tide, watching the light glow gently across the calm water, listening to each wave as it breaks and spills onto the sand. Watching the light fade in the sky behind Fidra. Breathing it all in and trying to hold onto those moments.

Yellowcraig, East Lothian, 11 January 2025.

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