My spirit roams your wynds, Pittenweem

"You will find me walking amongst the fishing nets and along the breakwater, listening to the incantations of the sea, as it fills the space between the rocks by the old harbour. My body has left you, but my spirit roams your wynds, Pittenweem."

Before I return to where we left of, and perhaps do a hop skip and a jump to the very beginning, I wanted to talk a little bit about where I am now. Not in my physical body, but in my heart and my soul.

My biggest joy while I was in Scotland, or more accurately, while I am still there in spirit, was to be able to walk amongst the fishing tackle and nets of a working harbour, with its smell of fish upon the air, and the sound of freakishly giant sea gulls as they bobbed up and down in the water, or as they rested atop the pier, before being startled by the newcomer, causing a last minute Kamikaze dive towards the water. They always swooped down into the water, rather than flying up into the sky, as if the weight of their heavyset bodies was just too much to bear. The resident seals in the harbour were a pleasant surprise, scavenging amongst the fishing boats; returned with their daily bounty and the setting sun. It was the first time I had ever seen seals in the wild, and like the gulls, these are not the polished looking Sea World specimens that are taught to clap for the audience. These are seals that mean business.

I would have to say, that out of all the places in Scotland, Pittenweem felt most like home, though the first night did not come without some hurdles, as my GPS took me past my temporary living quarters, with a non existent internet signal being of little help.

My first moments there were rather panicked, as I frantically tried to remember what the front of the building on the website had looked like. I walked up and down Mid Shore; I must have passed my door several times, and yet it seemed to somehow elude me. I stepped back, and walked over to the nestled boats in the harbour, determined not to let the experience worry me. Worst case scenario, I could sleep in the car.

I had seen Pittenweem in photos so many times, so I recognised many of the places, the statue of the woman looking out to sea, The House on the Rock. And yet, in the dead of night, my frustration growing at my inability to find my door, it seemed almost as if the town was teasing me, assessing me. Deciding whether or not it should allow me to stay. It knew of my plan you see, that I had not come just as tourist; that I was not there just for the ice cream and sea air, but that my desire was to get to know it, to walk in the footsteps of a history that was not mine; a history borrowed from the snippets of childhood memories of another. These memories were not mine, and I was not a local.

Would it embrace me? I considered if I had been discourteous in wanting more. I have always greeted the spirit of each town that I visited, being careful to show my respect. Smiling from the depths of my soul in the hopes that I would be received with a warm welcome.

But Pittenweem was an exception. It was the first town I had come across that had held back its embrace, at least on that first night, and at least in those first moments. Had I become too arrogant in my assumption that I would be welcomed?

Humbled, and feeling a little rejected, I walked again towards The House on the Rock and back, asking once more respectfully under my breath, "I understand I am a stranger. I am not of your blood, but I come with a sincere heart. Please accept me as a sister, as your own"

Finally the town lowered its guard, and released me from my torture. There was my door. I had walked past it, how could I have not seen it? I had found the number before it, the number after, but walked past the very number that had been leased to me for the week.

Still feeling frustrated but determined to reset my mood before I lay down to sleep, I ventured outside my door. It could not be, that the place I had been so eager to see and to paint, would be mired in unresolved memories of anxiety. That was when, to the right of me, I heard a familiar accent, one that I had heard before back home from a colleague, and his borrowed memories. I dared not look in the direction for long, not knowing what to expect, the memory of my first moments still fresh in my mind. Feeling encouraged at the familiar sound, I allowed myself to smile. Things were going to be alright. I had come to the right place, at the right time.