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Summer

Written on:August 17, 2021
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In English / Scots Gaelic / Scottish / French

In Saline, the grass is most certainly greener as t-samhraidh
Ambrosial and sodden, seemingly endless—le vert blanket
Stretching towards the nouveau whispers to the southeast
But leaving the bourgeois fanfare to the English at Marshall Meadows Bay
And so to peer towards Dunfermline san Lùnastal
Is to behold Dia the Painter’s tapestry
Upon completion of a masterpiece
When emerald was the only color available on the palette

Noo jist haud on
Whit’s fur ye’ll no go past ye

Antidotal, brisk, algid air vivifies the lungs in Saline
Submerging both the bronchi and spirit in restorative extrication
Disquietude is exorcised with deep, hallowed, pellucid breaths
Calming the soul and the body and easing one’s frantic neural exertion
Yet the mind cannot go completely unburdened
When it’s still fraught with the knowledge
That too much of an talamh—this expansive, wonderous world
Is currently on fire

Ach, it’s a lang road that’s no goat a turnin’
It’s gaein be awricht ance the pain has gane awa’

Yes, the Saline breeze is crisp and keen in summer
But on the farm—specifically, and in Fife—more broadly
One can find plenty of incandescence emanating from na beathaichean càirdeil
Sweet, lovely animals of all sorts
There’s Charlie the Horse, Betty Baa Baa the Sheep, and Lola the Pigeon, peaceful as she nests
There’s even Jeff the Fly, who stays in the Bothy—a steadfast companach, indeed
Passing through the narrow, winding roads of the kingdom’s hills, there’s a rare glimpse of heiland coos
Henri the Scarecrow is there pointing forward towards the next emprise—instructing, “Viva le tour”

If ae sheep loup ower the dike, a’ the lave will follow
Ae scabbed sheep will smit the hale hirdsel

The whisky flows down gently to Saline, as if conveyed by a spellbinding waterfall
The kind one might encounter while imbibing the Isle of Skye, in all of its mystical grace
Both Highland and Speyside uisge beatha converge into Fife—their plunge basin
A lazy afternoon, Jacobite glass, and an unquenchable tart are all one needs to soak in blas after blas
Like a single malt proviennent Blair Atholl—birthed from the Rivers Tilt and Garry, exquisite Provenance
Or a Glenfiddich nurtured in Portuguese oak at a distillery built by its founder stone-by-stone in Dufftown
And while drinking Speyside, why not taste a Caribbean Cask aged 14 years at the neighboring Balvenie?
Oh, the Bothy is dùisg all night with music, laughter, the rustling river, and maybe even a kilt and sporran

Tha uisge an-diugh uisge-beatha a-màireach
Freedom an’ whisky gang thegither! Take aff your dram! Slàinte mhath!

In Saline, ùine slows down—the grass, air, animals, whisky all need to be absorbed into its relativeness
A mionaid to glimpse a landscape or eile to take in a few rooted, pure, analeptic breaths
Spun together like a finely-woven Harris Tweed and resulting in san t-seachdain feeling like gach mios
This is sensed most definitively at night while gazing up at a clear sky bursting with stars
They wink down from hundreds of years past to share that one candescent, illimitable moment
Time spent at the Bothy is a treasured dispensation knowing a bhìoras is robbing so many of so much
Evidently, there is a path in the kingdom of Fife that leads to a gloriously spectacular view atop a hill
How much more to see? Ah dinnae ken. Looking forward to tomorrow and savoring the entire week of it.

Lang may yer lum reek
Be happy while you’re living for you’re a long time dead

Written August 2021 in Saline, Fife, Scotland


In English

In Saline, the grass is most certainly greener in the summer
Ambrosial and sodden, seemingly endless—the jade blanket
Stretching towards the trendy whispers to the southeast
But leaving the materialistic fanfare to the English at Marshall Meadows Bay
And so to peer towards Dunfermline in August
Is to behold God the Painter’s tapestry
Upon completion of a masterpiece
When emerald was the only color available on the palette

Now just hold on, slow down, take your time
Whatever will be will be

Antidotal, brisk, algid air vivifies the lungs in Saline
Submerging both the bronchi and spirit in restorative extrication
Disquietude is exorcised with deep, hallowed, pellucid breaths
Calming the soul and the body and easing one’s frantic neural exertion
Yet the mind cannot go completely unburdened
When it’s still fraught with the knowledge
That too much of the earth—this expansive, wonderous world
Is currently on fire

Don’t lose heart in dark times, things can’t keep going in the same direction forever
Everything is going to be ok, we will get through this

Yes, the Saline breeze is crisp and keen in summer
But on the farm—specifically, and in Fife—more broadly
One can find plenty of incandescence emanating from the friendly creatures
Sweet, lovely animals of all sorts
There’s Charlie the Horse, Betty Baa Baa the Sheep, and Lola the Pigeon, peaceful as she nests
There’s even Jeff the Fly, who stays in the Bothy—a steadfast companion, indeed
Passing through the narrow, winding roads of the kingdom’s hills, there’s a rare glimpse of highland coos
Henri the Scarecrow is there pointing forward towards the next emprise—instructing, “Long live the tour”

If a sheep jumps over a wall, the others will follow
A sick sheep will infect the entire flock

The whisky flows down gently to Saline, as if conveyed by a spellbinding waterfall
The kind one might encounter while imbibing the Isle of Skye, in all of its mystical grace
Both Highland and Speyside scotch converge into Fife—their plunge basin
A lazy afternoon, Jacobite glass, and an unquenchable thirst are all one needs to soak in taste after taste
Like a single malt coming from Blair Atholl—birthed from the Rivers Tilt and Garry, exquisite Provenance
Or a Glenfiddich nurtured in Portuguese oak at a distillery built by its founder stone-by-stone in Dufftown
And while drinking Speyside, why not taste a Caribbean Cask aged 14 years at the neighboring Balvenie?
Oh, the Bothy is awake all night with music, laughter, the rustling river, and maybe even a kilt and sporran

Today’s rain is tomorrow’s whisky
Freedom and whisky belong together. Drink your glass! Good health!

In Saline, time slows down—the grass, air, animals, whisky all need to be absorbed into its relativeness
A moment to glimpse a landscape or another to take in a few rooted, pure, analeptic breaths
Spun together like a finely-woven Harris Tweed and resulting in a week feeling like a month
This is sensed most definitively at night while gazing up at a clear sky bursting with stars
They wink down from hundreds of years past to share that one candescent, illimitable moment
Time spent at the Bothy is a treasured dispensation knowing a virus is robbing so many of so much
Evidently, there is a path in the kingdom of Fife that leads to a gloriously spectacular view atop a hill
How much more to see? I don’t know. Looking forward to tomorrow and savoring the entire week of it.

Long may your chimney smoke
Be happy while you’re living because you’ll be dead for a long time

Written August 2021 in Saline, Fife, Scotland

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