It is Tuesday April 21 and I'm sitting on a train from Glasgow to Stanraer, currently passing a golf course, both of which are running parallel to the sea. Sun is streaming down, even with clouds forming overhead. Spring is in abundance beyond the windows. Daffodils, flowering cherries, and the flaming gold of forsythia and gorse flash by.
Travelling through Troon, we pass by the back yards of houses, with laundry out to dry. Primary children in blue school jackets are playing in the school yard on their lunch break. Then we are out of town and it is another golf course, cut out of the sand dunes and blazing gorse. Whitecapped waves are in the foreground and in the distance I recognize the small domed shaped island - Ailsa Craig -where rock is quarried to make curling stones.
Prestwick Town and the train slows, but doesn't stop for pasengers. A bowling green and rows of brick cottages lined up, leading to the shore. The water is slate grey to green, and whitecaps roll under the shore wind.
I see a plane in the sky! Skies are open in the north U.K. today, at least for a few flights. (I hear later that after a few flights they closed again). Heathrow is still closed. Some fear a new ash cloud is on its way, and transatlantic flights remain cancelled.
Seagulls float on the wind and three women, inspecting the rhubarb in a back graden smile and wave, giddly, as we pass by.