didn’t roll an ankle. Just as she was getting fed up, the path suddenly opened onto a wide sandy beach, empty apart from a lone dark figure casting a net at the shoreline. She slowed to a walk, then impulsively dropped to one knee and pulled off her shoes. Running barefoot was best for your body, but there were so few opportunities for it in the city. Morag took one step and then another, testing the grip of her feet on the powdery grains, gradually gaining pace, accelerating away from the fisherman and her own relentless thoughts.
Within a kilometre she’d found her zone. Her legs sailed across the sand, strong and flexible; her shoulders dropped and relaxed; her mind shut down. This was why she ran: not because she was some sort of fitness fanatic, as Fiona seemed to assume, nor because she was worried about her weight. She ran for her health, yes, but her mental health. She ran to clear a space in her day. She ran so that for an hour every morning she ceased being a wife and a mother and an OT, and became simply bone and sinew and cool, clear air.
Only the air wasn’t so cool, Morag thought, slowing to a trot. Each breath she drew felt as if it was expanding inside her lungs, singeing her windpipe. The sun bit at her calves and the back of her neck; the glare from the white sand and the sparkling sea made her squint. She should have worn a hat and sunglasses, but who’d have dreamed she’d need either at six am? Morag peered along the coast. By her calculations she was west of the cove where they’d swum yesterday. She’d been gone about half an hour . . . if she turned around and ran to the cove she’d probably get back to her room quicker than if she returned the same way she’d come, but then she’d be under the full blaze of the sun the whole way, not sheltered by the bush.
Damn , she thought . Damn damn damn. She was always so careful with her skin, yet here she was getting sunburnt before breakfast. When would she ever understand Australia? Ten years she’d lived here now, and it still had the power to fool her. It was the size of the country, she supposed. It was too damn big. She had a handle on Melbourne, but Melbourne was nothing like Broome, and they were both light years away from Edinburgh. Edinburgh. Feeling her eyes grow moist, she swiped at them angrily. It was just the glare, she told herself. She really did need her sunglasses.
Morag gave up trying to run and moved down the beach to trudge along the waterline towards the cove, ankles sinking into the wet sand. It was the softness she missed. The Edinburgh light had a hazy quality, as if filtered through stained glass . . . it took the edge off the city somehow, made it glow and shimmer. It blunted the corners and lit the sandstone of the New Town, it made the castle appear to hover in the misty air above the Princes Street Gardens. Fiona would say it only looked like that because it was always raining, but Morag knew that wasn’t the real reason. It was the age of the place, the patina of history. It was the high grey skies and the blanketing haar, a sea fog that rolled in now and then from the Firth of Forth. Australia, in contrast, was too new, too bright. The colours were still fresh, and they hurt her eyes.
Morag smiled to herself. There’d been a haar on the day she’d first met Andrew. It was May, almost summer, and late in the season for such an event, but as her mother always said, The weather doesn’t check the calendar . Morag had been working behind the bar at the Cafe Royal, a pub just off Princes Street, and he’d come in and ordered a pint, a guidebook clutched in one hand and drops of condensed fog still caught in his hair. They’d looked beautiful, like jewels or beads of mercury, and it had been all she could do not to reach out and touch them. Later, when she cleared the empty glass from the booth where he was sitting, she noticed him frowning over a map and on a whim had sat down beside him and asked if she could
Within a kilometre she’d found her zone. Her legs sailed across the sand, strong and flexible; her shoulders dropped and relaxed; her mind shut down. This was why she ran: not because she was some sort of fitness fanatic, as Fiona seemed to assume, nor because she was worried about her weight. She ran for her health, yes, but her mental health. She ran to clear a space in her day. She ran so that for an hour every morning she ceased being a wife and a mother and an OT, and became simply bone and sinew and cool, clear air.
Only the air wasn’t so cool, Morag thought, slowing to a trot. Each breath she drew felt as if it was expanding inside her lungs, singeing her windpipe. The sun bit at her calves and the back of her neck; the glare from the white sand and the sparkling sea made her squint. She should have worn a hat and sunglasses, but who’d have dreamed she’d need either at six am? Morag peered along the coast. By her calculations she was west of the cove where they’d swum yesterday. She’d been gone about half an hour . . . if she turned around and ran to the cove she’d probably get back to her room quicker than if she returned the same way she’d come, but then she’d be under the full blaze of the sun the whole way, not sheltered by the bush.
Damn , she thought . Damn damn damn. She was always so careful with her skin, yet here she was getting sunburnt before breakfast. When would she ever understand Australia? Ten years she’d lived here now, and it still had the power to fool her. It was the size of the country, she supposed. It was too damn big. She had a handle on Melbourne, but Melbourne was nothing like Broome, and they were both light years away from Edinburgh. Edinburgh. Feeling her eyes grow moist, she swiped at them angrily. It was just the glare, she told herself. She really did need her sunglasses.
Morag gave up trying to run and moved down the beach to trudge along the waterline towards the cove, ankles sinking into the wet sand. It was the softness she missed. The Edinburgh light had a hazy quality, as if filtered through stained glass . . . it took the edge off the city somehow, made it glow and shimmer. It blunted the corners and lit the sandstone of the New Town, it made the castle appear to hover in the misty air above the Princes Street Gardens. Fiona would say it only looked like that because it was always raining, but Morag knew that wasn’t the real reason. It was the age of the place, the patina of history. It was the high grey skies and the blanketing haar, a sea fog that rolled in now and then from the Firth of Forth. Australia, in contrast, was too new, too bright. The colours were still fresh, and they hurt her eyes.
Morag smiled to herself. There’d been a haar on the day she’d first met Andrew. It was May, almost summer, and late in the season for such an event, but as her mother always said, The weather doesn’t check the calendar . Morag had been working behind the bar at the Cafe Royal, a pub just off Princes Street, and he’d come in and ordered a pint, a guidebook clutched in one hand and drops of condensed fog still caught in his hair. They’d looked beautiful, like jewels or beads of mercury, and it had been all she could do not to reach out and touch them. Later, when she cleared the empty glass from the booth where he was sitting, she noticed him frowning over a map and on a whim had sat down beside him and asked if she could
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