Today it is dark at 4.15 and fog has descended so completely it is impossible to distinctly see the buildings surrounding this flat. We are enveloped in cloud.
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In St. Andrews the waves crash directly against the city walls and famous people stroll the streets without anyone taking photos. It's a quiet murmur if someone is in town and the papparazzi never follow them there. It is too far north and too old and the paparazzi freeze like bacteria on an undected wooley mammoth in the snow.
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A black lab peers the water over a san dune, and as soon as I blink, he has torn off into the water, swimming out and delighted jumping into the waves, forward and backward. He runs to his owner all wet and if he could speak, might say, 'Why aren't you joining this unbelievable fun?'
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The nightlife in St. Andrews have the respectable golfers turn into sleezy men as the hit up university girls in one of two bars open that serve as a night club. The students keep to themselves, the men crowd the bar, and a group of older people, say in their forties, dress up and attempt to drink like they were students. All of them seem out of place.
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The following morning, the sun is gone, and a blanket of impenetrable grey greets us as we rise. Young families meet others for coffees and the pipers pipe in the street in honor of Rememberence Sunday. We sip our hot drinks, and I sketch badly (the elusive rim of the cup), and we return to the bus station for a bus whose driver did not appear, which made Andy cross, as he had to come on his day off to take us home.
1 comment:
This is beautiful.
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