The weather lately has been drivellous. There. I’ve invented a word for it — because frankly, “dreich” doesn’t cut what we’ve had to endure recently.
With the exception of one glorious weekend when I felt really ill (rare for me this year), we haven’t had any reliable blocks of solid sunshine since May. It’s now July the 4th, and tomorrow’s forecast is overcast and drizzly. So is Monday’s, and so is Tuesday’s…and then, if we’re lucky, we’ll see a break in the cloud for a bit.
Everyone in my house is fed up. Everything is thoroughly damp. The roses have lost their leaves, and their buds are turning brown and falling off. Yes, even they have given up. My tomato plants are pathetic, and my peppers have gone on strike. The beach is full of rotting seaweed, coughed up by the ocean in an unseasonably late manner, and the sand on the southern part of it has turned green. There are algae-filled ponds forming on its surface.
This is not a day for walking; tomorrow will not be a day for walking, either. Instead, I think it’s a day for writing — and I’m going to begin by explaining why I haven’t written here for more than three years.
Jeanne, where have you been?
In autumn 2022, something happened that left me feeling low, and while I tried to keep writing for a while, my heart wasn’t in it. At first, I couldn’t explain what had happened because it seemed so complicated and surreal. Instead, I lit a tea light each evening — a little flame in the darkness.
By the following spring, it became obvious that I needed some support, but my attempts to arrange it didn’t work out as I’d hoped. Then, that summer, I got made redundant.
I’m a creative person — painting, photography, music, writing — but when you’re going through a difficult period, it’s hard to create anything. You can try: you can start things, but finishing them is another matter
Recovery took longer than I expected. Gradually, I began to find my feet again, rediscovering things I’d forgotten about myself. While in London for work, I’d walk through the city in the evening, exploring various parks and paths along the river. I bought solo tickets to concerts and shows. Back at home, I roamed the hills near the village and took photographs again.
But still, I didn’t write here, and didn’t really talk to anyone about what had happened. I stuck to familiar subjects and spent a lot of time thinking, finding it difficult to put my own experiences into words.
Then, in March 2025, I decided to apply for an archaeology degree, using my work experience and general enthusiasm for the subject as the basis for my application. To my surprise, the university sent an email about a week later to say I’d been granted a place in the programme. I began my studies in late August — about 20 years late, but there you go. Time flies.
Looking back, this was probably the turning point for me. Beyond being a mum (which has been the most profoundly positive thing ever to happen to me), re-entering higher education gave me a new sense of purpose and belonging.
This year, I’ve become braver. I’m much better. Pieces of my life are shifting, like ice floes on a lake. I still light a candle every evening, but it’s more of a ritual now than anything else.
And I’ve decided to write again — honestly and openly. Not everyone will be interested in the way I see the world, and that’s fine, but several people have said they’d like to read this blog. So, I’ll have at least four fans.
What will you write about now?
Exploring, mostly, I suppose. People have lived continuously on this peninsula for thousands of years; the evidence is all around us — and not all of it is recorded. Kintyre is a bit of a frontier, which is exciting.
So, when the weather changes, I’ll hike up to a few spots I haven’t visited before. Until then, I’ll tell stories about places I’ve already been. They’re living in my head, and it’s time to let them out.
