Whitehills.
Last Monday, April the 7th. ann arky and partner, took off with the bike and headed for the north eastern corner of Scotland. We stayed in a small village called Gardenstown, near Banff. It is a small area at the bottom of an extremely steep hill and the houses are all crammed together with virtually no space between them, and right on the rocks at the shore facing the North Sea. Your heart bleeds when you think of the life of hardship the residents of the late 19th. early 20th century, must have had to endure just to survive in such a harsh and cramped environment. Herring fishing was their life's blood. Now, most of the cottages are holiday homes, one of which we rented. There is no mobile phone signal and no wi-fi. In the kitchen of the cottage there was instructions telling you that there was no phone signal, but if you walk towards Grovie, past the harbour and the steps down to the beach, there is a phone signal. I had a vision of walking there and seeing this "thing" on the beach with a label, "phone signal". Or perhaps at certain times of the day the village population of holiday makers, congregate at that point and stand in groups with their mobile phones stuck to their ear chatting to the outside world.
McDuff.
I also believe it is the windiest and hilliest spot on the planet, making it very hard work for ann arky's legs when on the bike. Perhaps I should have recognised the signs, lots of very large wind turbines, always turning at a fair pace.
McDuff.
In saying that, it is a very beautiful area and we will be back, though perhaps not to Gardenstown, beautiful as it was, I didn't like the feeling of being trapped, unable to get out of the village without a car. I didn't tackle the hill on the bike.
Near Whitehills.
I regret not having been able to post a poem a day for the whole month of April, but here we are with today's rendering.
JUST IMAGINE!
If only we could find the imagination
to see this world as one rich colourful nation,
not a collection of camps, insular and small
always eager to mount a border brawl
sending forth an army of fruit growers
to shed the blood of some seed sowers,
holding high a coloured rag
proclaim, "the blood we shed is for this flag",
believing this justifies the countless dead
across nature's beaty spread.
Can't we learn from yesterday's errors
borders breed false fears and foolish terrors;
each flag waving hand sows the seeds
of tomorrow's pointless brutal deeds.
If only we could find the imagination
to see this world as one rich colourful nation,
all free to walk our chosen path
free from fear of the strangers wrath.
A brother rich or poor we can accept,
a different coloured skin is cause to reject,
smile at a brown eyed sister with reddish hair
yet mock one who walks a jungle path, with bosom bare.
Shower with praise and welcome embrace
anyone from our spurious race,
greet with snarl and angry glare
those strange people from over there;
then using our culture as some kind of shield
guarantee our future in isolation sealed.
if only we could find the imagination
to see this world as one rich colourful nation.
