Cloud-occluded blue skies, Crail*
Coffee, French apple tart.
There’s a cold easterly April wind
as I contemplate a coastal dérive.
The daffodils are past their best, as small birds
flit among the new growth on bushes.
And along the barley field-edge
I follow the path down
with the wind at my back.
A chaffinch watches and follows,
pale primroses beside my footsteps.
And the piles of winter flotsam,
mostly from the fishing trade,
await collection.
The Caiplie molehills have sheep hoof prints on them.
As the sun breaks through, Cellardyke hoves into view
on the headland; my destination today.
I am dancing alone on a thousand shells.
Then I see her approaching on the path,
a starry-eyed surprise capturing her own words
and weaving magic.
Out on the firth, a lone lobster boat
pulls up the creels.
Sandy Wilkie
April 2024
April walk to Crail*
Prologue
When does the walk begin?
When the door is locked and my
feet head away from home?
At these elusive steps that come and go
as the moon pleases?
The church bell rings 10am.
It’s time for the walk to begin
Through Anstruther and Cellardyke
To get out, first I must walk through
This isn’t an unpleasant task, though cars still pass
and places promise shellfish, coffee, whisky and gifts
(You’ll already know about the fish and chips)
The reaper is ready! Book here!
Or wait until drowning and call out the life boat.
You could go explore the fishing history on these shores.
Sounds safer.
‘ROAD AHEAD CLOSED,’ but not to me.
Outside of my vehicle I can squeeze past signs, or
hop over bollards.
Cellardyke is more sedate, hidden behind flat front doors
Fortune House, Coastal Inn, if I was ready to pause.
Along the narrow way, nodded greetings
“Morning,” “Hi!”
Tendrils and tails to find a way in, knock 3 times
And you can still cut your hair
by the harbour, or dry your clothes
Canoes stacked by shore
Soon I will reach the place I planned to start
and begin again
Laughing women in bobbled hats at the tidal pool
I’ll pause a while at the Grind, but I don’t plan to stay here;
life is so much longer, vaster.
The walk begins
Last time I took this walk I took off my shoes
and relished every step.
Why do I hurry now? I feel behind in time and place,
the need to catch up with self.
Perhaps I should have been more hurried
As I reach the beginning, Sandy crosses the finish line
and so we meet at both the beginning and the end.
I’ll continue regardless, there is a forcefield to break through,
a zone of safety I keep bouncing back from,
taking me back to the sofa and rest, lovely rest.
I am glad of the comfort there, an accessible place
of safety and warmth, but I cannot stay there.
Walk on! Break on through!
At Caiplie cottages the clouds darken. So pretty!
Why do I have the constant thought that somewhere else is better
than wherever I am?
Like a bull in a box, I butt against the edges,
relentlessly trying to break out.
Yet, when I stop and look!
I am pausing in pleasant places
The lambs munch and hop, the cows slouch
like teenagers, they do not cut their hair.
This is the kind of land I love:
jagged stone steps to hop upon, sunk into bog.
Crate pathway to save my trainered feet.
And there! Caiplie caves, waiting all along.
One beady eye a window to the cloudy sky.
Though the caverns beckon me, the stench of piss repels
and I feel vulnerable here.
This, the setting for a modern crime drama
Me, the victim.
Or, perhaps I could be the detective?
Searching for clues, too tough to be put off by stink,
Spotting a stray piece of rubber, that only fits a certain type of boot
His boot!
Everything flows here, water trickles on one side and
slams on the other, both kind and fierce,
like the laughing ladies at the tidal pool.
Going in any way.
Once again I feel pulled back, beckoned by the known.
I press in, regardless.
Stray glove! Stray hat! Quick check that I still have mine.
Primroses, how do you belong here in this ragged landscape?
I would have placed you in a trimmed garden, with marigolds and pansies
90s flower fashion
How much we get to decide.
Yet, primroses sprout between rocks, amongst turf
Defy expectation
Returning again and again regardless
Nature has reclaimed the bones of that tiny cottage.
How bright and jaggedy Crail appears!
The sky now blue against red clay rooftops.
A pigeon stands guard: FOOTPATH CLOSED.
Yet here I come, taking the twin path, I am arriving.
Sunny Crail curves around me in a hug.
In Crail
And finally, I take my place
In firm view of May Island, to eat outdoors
to be served, with waves for company
and a rather friendly bird.
There, is someone’s garden, this their daily view,
the thing they wake up to.
The waves curl forward today
fingers round a rolling pin, pressing out the dough
Always heading in the same direction
Only in water will I feel the backward motion
The pull of being stretched.
Epilogue
Heading back, I walk briskly
Singing a Scout chant
Changing the name to every place I ever lived
“Everywhere we go! People always ask us!”
I can hear the echo in company
‘I’ have somehow become ‘we.’
We call out the features in the landscape
like bits of a favourite book or film,
“There’s the slouching cows! Next it’ll be the munching sheep.”
I need to get moving now, stop writing.
I’m ready to be home again or
Rebecca Swarbrick
April 2024
* Both parts of a two-handed writing challenge undertaken as a dérive along the Fife coast path in opposite directions on the same day