This photograph was taken many moons ago. I cannot make it larger on here or half of it disappears. These were the days when I played in the college hockey team. Oh, to feel as young and fit now! I suppose all the things we have done at variou stages of our lives must influence our writing - even if only subconsciously.
I wonder if any of you who know me can recognise me from the photo. I played left back but that will not help you. Only the goal keeper dressed differently.
We have not had so much snow as many places in Scotland but it has been very cold, although we are near the Solway Firth.
The name of the hill is Criffel but the peak is covered in snow so not so plain. On the other hand it is usually one smooth looking curve but snow on the various slopes shows up the real shapes of the land. It is a pity the photo is not clearer.
Other news for today is the publication by Ulverscoft of Return to Bonnybrae in Large Print. These are usually bought by libraries or for people with poorer vision but who still prefer a real book.
Also Beyond Reason is now available as an e-book to download.
It is a long time since I gave this blog my attention so I am entering the last series of five books to complete my list of published books
This is the first book in the series and begins around 1875
Moorland Mist - Joffe Books description
Twenty year old William Sinclair whistled merrily as he
strode along. The autumn sunshine glinted on his reddish-brown hair, hinting at
a quick temper and passionate nature. He was lean and fit and he loved his
native land, especially the farm where he had been born. He had never been to
Glasgow but he guessed it was about fifty miles to the North West. Its houses
and factories were spreading further out now the railways were weaving their web
the length and breadth of the country with branch lines like tentacles reaching
out to small towns. Another five years would herald the twentieth century. He wondered
if the old queen would live to see it. He prayed the factories and industrial
sites, with their iron girders, the dirt and noise and smells, would never spread
as far as his beloved green fields and rolling hills and the majestic trees.
He and Emma were to meet where the farm track reached the stream, well away from the farmstead and his mother’s sharp eyes and sharper tongue. Her young maid rarely went further than the farm buildings and nearby fields where the fresh green grass grew and the Ayrshire cows grazed. Today he had promised to take her to the highest peak of the hill land, just beyond their own boundary. If they were lucky, and the day remained clear, he hoped to show her a glimpse of the River Clyde shining in the distance and he wanted her to see how intelligent his two collie dogs were, how they obeyed his commands and rounded up the sheep almost by instinct. As she waited Emma trailed her fingers in the crystal clear water of the burn as it burbled over the pebbles on its way to a larger burn and eventually to the river. A few golden leaves floated gently down from the trees and she smiled with delight at the sight of a late butterfly.
