I have always found the days at the end of November difficult to bear; the skies seem leaden and low, and the rain relentless. Many years ago I invented a mythical season called Alumbria: it lasted between the falling of the first horse chestnut and the first snowflake. Now we are right in the middle of Alumbria and, as ever, I find the days long and melancholic.
All that having been said, I find it a very rich time from the perspective of ideas and the imagination. I am almost completely surrounded by woodland here at the heart of Highland Perthshire in the very middle of the only land-locked part of Scotland. When I go for walks up behind my house, whatever time of day, it's as though the world has ended and no-one is left but me.
The paths are misty and still left with a last coppery gold from the melted leaves. All I see, if I'm quiet enough, are one or two or three roe deer leaping away on moss hooves into the grey silence of the trees. All I hear, if I am lucky, will be the scrawling voice of a jay. Otherwise, the silence is complete, and so is the mystery of the woods. Anything could happen.
It's this part of the world, and these places, that inspired my short story 'The Ice' which was nominated for a Pushcart in the States. The story tied together all my impressions of the woods and their secrets, and my own memories of secondary school and bullying here in Highland Perthshire. Very little of it feels invented. The story's to be found on Kindle.
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