I mean, how on earth could anyone stare at this, from the window of the school bus, every morning for 7 years, and not be irreversibly changed?
It’s the Doocot (Dovecot) 1638, at Auchmacoy, Aberdeenshire. I lived near it between 1986 and 1993. The surrounding landscape was layered with ghost tales, abandoned buildings, a haunted mausoleum, ancient fields that yeilded worked flints, grey fog over an eerie estuary
The landscapes were I grew up definitely shaped me. After Scotland, we moved to Devon and I lived there for another 7 years. In an ancient longhouse. Devon is so rolling and idyllic. Mystical and haunting yes, but nothing compares to the bleak horror of NE Scotland in winter
Here’s that mausoleum...
And the estuary...
The little bits of worked flint my dad and I used to find in the fields. Especially proud of the last find. I was 7 🪨
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