DUDDINGSTON

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VILLAGE LIFE

If I could live anywhere, it would be in a tiny village. One with a small communal area: a village square maybe, or even a fire pit would do; a place where the other villagers would come to chat, and to hold celebrations and play the guitar.

It would be a village on the verge of the wild, where paddocks adjoin with forest and fen, and the blackberries grow wild. 

There will be a small pub, or an inn, where they brew the best beer in the region in large mismatched glasses. 

There will be spring days, and laughing children, and running through meadows, and there will be cold winters spent indoors reading books by an open fire, and of course there will be the huge communal garden where I can go and smell the tomato plants. 

But most of all, I look forward to the company. I take great joy in learning from the people around me, hearing their stories and their wisdom. There is nothing like a tiny community of people, sharing the strange and awesome moments of life.  

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DR. NEIL'S GARDEN

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HAVEN

noun /ˈhāvən/

1. a safe or peaceful place

2. a place of refuge for animals

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If one was to walk through the sleepy village of Duddingston on the outskirts of Edinburgh, through a small parking lot, to the back of the church where it borders on the loch, they would find an iron gate with a latch in the shape of a duck. 

Behind this is a secret garden.

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A HAVEN FOR ANIMALS

There are many animals in Dr. Neil's Garden. Birds of all kinds: doves, swans, waders. There are oftentimes frogs in the pond, butterflies above the flowers, and rabbits by the stone wall. And of course, each plant, each tree is home to thousands of smaller life forms, insects and the like.

All of these animals can find peace in the garden.

A HAVEN FOR ME TOO

Whenever I need a moment of silence, I leave the house to walk. It so happens that my feet know the way, and they will never fail to lead me to a space of greenery. 

Some unknown force runs through such spaces as gardens, this force is instantly calming. Almost soothing. In a garden I can straighten out my tangled thoughts and find some peace.

Gardens act as a refuge to all kinds of life forms, giving them a space that exists outside the everyday worries and bothers of the world.

EDINBURGH

I still have dreams of Edinburgh - those transformed subconscious memories that return to me when I am sleeping. In my dreams I am walking between tall townhouses, through closes and wynds, towards one of my favourite haunts... Probably some kirkyard or garden.

When I first began living in Edinburgh, I was struck by this feeling of coming home. Although I had never previously set foot in Scotland, everything felt familiar: the Georgian houses with moulded ceilings; the plethora of Indian restaurants; the bag-piping buskers; the wild heathered countryside encroaching upon the city; the street names - George, Princes, Albany; and the dismal fogs that surrounded the variously grey buildings. 

I thought to myself: The Scottish settlers of New Zealand must have felt like this. This odd sense of familiarity. 

My waking memories, however, are becoming dimmer now - as if they are being simmered in a pot till their contents are evaporated and concentrated. 

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INGREDIENTS:

CONCENTRATED MEMORIES - 80%
Whimsy - 20%

A scene: 

*Sticky notes scattered all over the carpet of a room furnished with only a couch. On the couch are some blankets and a pillow. A girl is crouched over her musings, arranging them in some unseen order. Beside her is a box of chocolates, half finished and about thirty books, dog-eared and opened upon their spines. She hadn't left the apartment in three days.*

My birthday:

Reaching down to put a pound note in her paper cup, I looked up and smiled at her, sensing she wished to say something. I was alone on my birthday, and I had all the time in the world to talk to this young woman. I sat beside her, she told me about her troubles at home in Ireland, her hair-dressing degree, and her children. I would like to buy you some dinner, if you will let me, I said. She accepted. 

A conversation between two Scots:

Friend: But whit ur ye gonnae dae abit it?
Guy: Oh, ah dunnae... Ah dunnae hae a scooby whit tae dae.

My favourite cafe for breakfast, where they served tea and crepes, and a conversation overheard between an old English couple:

Lady: I do not like sardines, you see. Ever since I was younger, at my parents summer-house, we would eat them for brunch, and I hated them."

Gentleman: *Reading the newspaper, briefly glances upwards* ... Mmhmmm...

Lady: Where is that tea I ordered for you? This place is just dreadful, the worst service! I cannot believe they have not brought it over yet.

Gentleman: Mmmm..? Oh yes, the tea, no, terrible isn't it?

An amalgamated vision of all those times I took the bus to Leith, to see my friends:
It was night, I was watching the other bus-riders curiously, and I listened to Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young through 5 dollar headphones. 

My own personal record:
Four months without a towel to dry myself.

A sunset:
Colours - purple in the air, gold of the lights glinting off the glass of the train station roof, and the black stones covered in mould in the cemetery where I sat talking to a perfect stranger about the wonders of travel.