Entering the Forth Dimension
I’ve just become a government statistic, albeit one which won’t be noted until the next census in 2021: I am now an English (well, quarter Welsh) migrant living in Scotland.
We have moved, lock, stock and smoking dishwasher (the machine is currently protesting against its enforced displacement) to what is possibly The Best House In The World. Our new home was once a Georgian signal house and sits atop a stone pier on the banks of the Firth of Forth, bang in between two of the world’s most iconic bridges: the Victorian wonder that is the rail bridge, and its more modern (and soon-to-be-replaced) sister (are bridges always female, like ships?), Forth Road Bridge.
It is stunning.
It is (I hope) inspiring.
It is a place which is constantly moving: ships sailing under the bridges; trains, cars and bikes rolling over; and the weather whipping through as the winds funnels it down the valley and out towards the North Sea.
It might even be a dream from which I am yet to wake.
I am not an economic migrant; nor political. I am fleeing neither famine nor persecution. I am simply one of the many who have thrown in their lot with someone from Scotland; someone who could no longer resist the call of their ancestral land. Either that, or he could bear no longer the way English fish and chip shops insist on leaving the skin on the fish.
So I have joined what the 1861 census referred to as ‘this numerous class of aliens’, and will henceforth be commuting 500 miles by air to the airport. Yes, flyingscribbler will still be flying around the world to earn his living; he also hopes to resume scribbling. There’s nothing like moving your life (and mother: did I mention she’s coming too?) from one end of the nation to the other to curtail your creativity and leave your writing withering by the wayside.* And it’s just taken me two days to find the printer; I assume my muse is hiding in one of the yet-to-be-opened boxes.
I’m sitting at my desk in my new writing space. My view from here of the rail bridge is naturally awe-inspiring.
How my new location affects my writing remains to be seen. I wonder how writers cope with an uprooting of this magnitude. I know some say they can write anywhere; others need the security of their regular ‘space’ in order to produce their work. But as I look out at the tide ebbing away, at the shore-line wading birds searching for lunch, at another train ferrying its compartments of travellers across the bridge and beyond to who knows where and who knows what adventures and intrigues, I’m beginning to be convinced that inspiration won’t be so very hard to find.
The Forth Dimension feels good. I think you’d like it here too.
*Predictably poor excuse for deserting my blog for over a month.
© flyingscribbler 2013