Stefan Durkacz

We took the children out for the regular weekend wander - Aberlady this week, with the promise of fossils and Kit-Kats, and I found myself wondering: why? And what will stick? Slipping and sliding in the tidal mud, caught between trust and the anxiety of thinking for yourself as you follow me out to the ancient bones of scuttled boats, rotten ribs spilling their last meal of rocks, hoping the quicksand doesn't get you? The bubbling call of a curlew is wild music that grips me with a spasm of longing and loss, I don't know why. Oystercatchers carry me back to summer nights far inland, lying in the dark, the sound of a Cairngorm-born river outside. What will they mean for you? "Where's the sea?" you ask. We can only hear it, far out across the sand and mud flats. You see, the further out the tide goes, the faster it comes in. Maybe approaching walking pace across Aberlady Bay. It's cold. Your auntie found a coral fossil but you didn't. How much further is it

The wind was from the east, so I headed west - far west. It was only at Glen Coe that the grey sheet of cloud started to fray and tatter. A ferry hop at Corran across to Ardgour, then a drive along the coast into Morvern, onto a tiny B-road, hugging the cliffs, landed me at the foot of sunny Glen Galmadale. The biggest mountains in Morvern are here, Fuar Bheinn and, overlooking the head of the glen, the craggy cone of Creach Bheinn, looking every bit of its 853 metres from down here at sea level. It's a late start and I know I'll still be out when it's dark. Fuar Bheinn first. There's something a little Himalayan about this climb. Steep shoulders rise from the glen to an airy ridge, leading steeply to the snowy summit, white on blue, my favourite colour combo. My route takes me across the Allt an t-Seasglaich, draining Fuar Bheinn's wild southeastern corrie. Holly trees cling to the steep sides of the burn. The east ridge is corniced to the north, dropping precipito