A new baby, lockdown, a journey.
The drive, from the borderlands of Northumberland to the Pentland hills. Beside me the obligatory hand gel and face masks, meagre defence against this rampant virus. Covid. The radio chatters, talking of the R number rising, scary statistics of deaths and rates of infections. The world will close down again soon and this brief window in time to meet my new granddaughter grows narrow.
How quiet the roads, no buzz of traffic the landscape clearer, alive and more present. The A68 winds gently through the Scottish border towns and suddenly the Eildon hills appear, three huge sentries watching over the Tweed valley below.
I cross the river and as if for the first time see and feel power and strength in the body of water slowly flowing under the bridge.
The baby, newly home from hospital, is perfect. Her parents anxious, as all new parents are, confronted with an enormous responsibility of care. This world we now inhabit leaves us all isolated observers, unable to be physically present to support and help.
The time is short and bitter sweet.
I drive home.
September, still daylight as I cross the Tweed, the radio on. Restrictions will resume once more, and we will again retreat behind locked doors.
In the coming months the Tweed calls us, a confluence of lives from either side of the border, present but apart, “socially distant” exchanging moments and Christmas gifts. Surviving and moving forward like the river flowing beside us.
