On dealing with loss, with grieving and healing, the dislocations and consolations of wildness and weather, and the smaller ones of everyday people and places who prove as McCaig wrote how extraordinary ordinary things are. Whenever and however you find yourself in the dark, read this beautiful essay.

The High Window

I was going to call this lecture ‘The Poetics Of Grief’. I was going to call this lecture ‘Beyond The Mainland: Poetry of The Highlands And Islands’. I have started, and deleted, this lecture at least seven times. I was going to cancel this lecture because I am, to use the vernacular, ‘all over the shop’ but I’m here now talking to you. Well, most of me is here but some of me is way up North where the road runs out and the sea takes over at Dunnet Head. Some of me is stumbling through the darkness in my father’s size 10 wellies. Some of me is counting roadkill as I sit in the passenger seat being driven up the A9 towards Orkney, towards dawn, towards grief. So this lecture may be fragmented. It may drift back and forth between Jamieson’s Quay and Hatston ferry terminal. It may trip…

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2 thoughts on “Gaia Holmes: Where the Road Runs Out

  1. I’m so glad you directed me to gaze through ‘The High Window’, such special writing which gave a true sense of ‘hygge’. Thank you both.


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