I was, along with friends from the Greenock Cut volunteer’s group, on another ferry journey across the limpid waters of the Clyde. This time it was from Ardrossan to Brodick, on the island of Arran.
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After a two hours drive along the west coast of Scotland, past Largs, Kilwinning, Irvine, Troon and Ayr, on a journey through Inverclyde and the north and south Ayrshire, Alan, both Eddies and I found ourselves at the end of a lonely country road, in a car under the trees, on the shore of the Firth of Clyde, a location that was called, as far as I knew, Glenside Burn.
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The wind was unforgiving. It blew, relentless and ferocious, in violent, icy gusts whose buffets impeded our advance on the soggy slope, bereft as we were of protection from the elements. In those raging outbursts, the sleet, gaining in velocity, lashed out and pelted our exposed faces. Clouds rolled out in the sky with impressive speed and swathes of mist came as quickly as they went, in turn obliterating the scenery.
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As I yearned to escape the dreary monotony of urban life, I haunted the hills above greenock where the gorse and the heath grow and smudge the land with vivid gold and purple hues.
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Christmas had come and gone and, as the weather would have it, no snow came to soften even the hardest mind or thrill the heart of our children during this particular and dear winter period.
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