OK, so it's the Loch Humphrey Path (again), but it might as well be called 'The Stairway to Heaven' for its steepness and its culmination in tranquility. In Siddhartha
Hermann Hesse speaks of the river's capacity to teach and inform, and to
communicate with one's own inner voice. Here, with the hills ('river' in
different form) it is no different. And you don't have to be 'in them' in order to hear this voice. I hear it every day from the centre of the city, from the city's many drumlins, through its telescopic streets, from my fourth floor window.
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Being up here mid-February, looking across the estuary shimmering in that late winter light, reminds me of a poem by the nomad Scot Kenneth White:
this is the summit of contemplation, and
no art can touch it
blue, so blue, the far-out archipelago
and the sea shimmering, shimmering
no art can touch it, the mind can only
try to become attuned to it
to become quiet and space itself out, to
become open and still, unworlded
knowing itself in the diamond country, in
the ultimate unlettered light.
Spacing out on Loch Humphrey...
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