It's 15 degrees centigrade outside as I write this. Up here in the NE of Scotland that's a heatwave. Indeed I've had to open the window to cool down. My good friends in Florida, Tasmania and Melbourne will probably think I'm a Siberian, from Siberia, where I believe it's cold. Very cold. Freezing cold. However maybe I'm exaggerating because, if truth be told, I've never visited the place and have only read books about this wilderness by Dostoyevsky and Solzhenitsyn. Basically I have to use my imagination, whilst wearing a balaclava and mittens, with the window open.
Way back in those halcyon days when the temperature would reach the dizzy heights of 19 degrees centigrade, I would often find myself on the Low Green in Ayr (a large expanse of green grass near the beach) with guitar and a bottle of wine (often two) with buddies, and there we would sing, drink, chat, reminisce and basically put the world to right through our pontificating and pondering.
Happy days indeed, and ones which I often remember.
The other thing I used to dream about, was buying a Vdub and taking off to Europe and beyond — possibly even Siberia. It never happened and that would be one of my regrets.
What get's in the way of our dreams or visions? Fear? Reluctance? I can't be bothered? What would people say?
Face the fear and do it anyway.
I wish I had.