Burnsinhell

No stranger to the outdoors,

I would often disappear into the wild when I was younger,

wandering along the undulating Welsh hillsides and rocky coastlines—

a lush, vibrant green landscape bespangled with dark forests, ruined castles, dank caves, and old graveyards.

I recall fond memories of exploring the countryside with my older brother, back when we were both in our early teens.

Always the first to venture into the darkest of places,

I would lead the way—my brother close behind.

Those places had a pull on me even then.

The moss‑slick stones, the echoing chambers,

the way the air changed as you stepped from daylight into shadow —

it all felt like an invitation.

My brother treated it as adventure.

I treated it as something closer to pilgrimage.

There was a thrill in the unknown,

a quiet dare whispered by the land itself.

Every ruined archway felt like a threshold.

Every cave mouth breathed a cold, damp welcome.

Even the graveyards felt less like warnings and more like markers on a path I was already learning to follow.

Looking back, I realise those wanderings shaped me more than I knew.

The solitude, the risk, the pull toward places other people avoided —

they were early rehearsals for the life I would eventually choose.

A life spent on the edges of things.

Little did I know back then — that the rugged cliffs of Orkney would eventually become my true Home.