A poem by Ashley, inspired by conversations, pictures and tales in the blog…

Out on the northern edge of things,
where Scotland breaks into scattered stone
and the sea forgets to be gentle,
your boat moves with a stubborn kind of grace.
the wind doesn’t ask permission—
it just takes what it wants,
pulling at the rigging,
slapping salt against the face
like an old friend with rough humour.
The sail, whether gentle or fraught
always seems mellowed by good company
and, of course, the promise of good food,
and, naturally,
fortified by the occasional malt.
For you this is at the heart of being alive,
whether tucked up like a kitten below
or proudly astride the foredeck,
where no chore or task is undeserving,
In pursuit of the goal,
and the care of your beloved boat.
Scotland drifts by in silhouettes—
cliffs like broken teeth,
islands that appear only
when the fog feels generous,
villages tucked into the land
as if hiding from the wind’s temper.
In that long horizon, where land seems far away,
sea and blood are fused in you
you shed your selkie skin
and belong.