On the Maid of the Loch sipping coffee, out of the rain that’s battering the cabin roof with Scottish enthusiasm. The light is lilac into the hills beside Ben Lomond. If only this boat could move but it’s a static fixture on the Balloch shores. I want to be carried around the loch by the power of the paddle, swishing past Luss with a wave, weaving in and out of islands up to Tarbet and Ardlui over monsters in the deep dark blue water.
Across the way leather-necked fishermen sit in this flash of weather; they are the real conquerors of time management.
Slow clouds sit above me – will they won’t they move? In front of me the world lies in shades of grey, in blocks like glowering brows, a bright halo defining the hills…but they’re passing north and I’m free to walk again – that exercise that presses me on to lose weight, to be a normal fraction in this modern world.
The Maid might be fit to sail in two years if they collect enough donations and I might be fit to sail into a healthier life if I donate my time to myself; there are miles to go before I sleep, slip into my berth of cardboard.