“For there is nothing hidden that will not be disclosed, and nothing concealed that will not be made known and brought to light.” (Luke 8:17)

My plans change, leaving me with a free Wednesday afternoon, so I send an email to a group of people who have been in touch after reading my previous blog posts. I ask whether any of them are available at short notice to walk with me today and soon receive a reply from David. We arrange to meet outside Billington’s. I don’t know David at all, so as I wait, I wonder about everyone who walks towards me. After several people rule themselves out by passing by without making eye contact, one wanders up the hill and identifies himself with a nod. We shake hands and introduce ourselves before we set off, joining the Moss at the station carpark.

David is a fast walker, and I am happy to match his pace. Our conversation moves on quickly, too. He works in insurance, attends a church under the Anabaptist umbrella, and has three children in their twenties, two of whom are still at home. We talk of a shared experience of ‘super commuting’ between Glasgow and London. David used to be a subeditor and for a short time worked on the earliest version of The Guardian website (which I happen to read every day). He is a North Londoner and grew up near Hampstead Heath, so access to greenspaces near urban areas has always been important to him. He says that heaths and parks are the lungs of the city. Like Richard, who I walked with last week, David often looks after his daughter’s dog (theirs is a fox labrador called Psalm) and while she isn’t with him today, they are regularly out on the Moss for exercise. Psalm is a fetcher and spends much of these excursions chasing sticks and bringing them back, covering significantly more distance than whoever is walking her. With a such a busy life, full of work, family commitments, and dog walking, the Moss is a place that David can come to slow down and reset. It means a lot to him.

When we reach the part of the boardwalk where I sat with Cathy watching the roe deer playing in the heather, we look out across the bog. David points out the sections of fencing at the far side. He is unconvinced by the need to manage access in this way. When the fences were being constructed, David spoke with the contractors and they claimed they were for safety, citing an incident many years ago when a child had to be rescued from the bog. This is the first time I have heard this explanation; I was told by Jackie that access was being discouraged to protect the fragile peat layer from erosion. David doubts that there was any real evidence used to justify these interventions. He says that he has always walked across the bog, but that he does so responsibly. With very few walkers diverting from the main pathway, and those who do taking care and sticking to the well-established routes, David doesn’t see why there needs to be such an effort and investment to block off paths and prevent access.

I understand that the barriers and borders can seem excessive, but I have learnt that small amounts of footfall over long periods of time can cause real damage to the bog. My own opinion on this thorny issue changes a little every time I complete a circle. Today, we pass a father with a sleeping toddler in a pushchair, a couple of joggers, teenagers on their way back to school, and several dogwalkers. Almost all of them follow the main pathway round the perimeter of the bog. One walks along the raised bank of the old railway line, his husky leading the way, seeming pure white in the sunshine. David’s internal map of the Moss is a network of interconnected paths, and he rarely follows the same route, but there are places he often returns to.

We turn off the boardwalk and David offers to show me a place that I might not have visited before. We follow the path for a while and then suddenly leave it at a point that he clearly knows well, but which I will struggle to find again. After walking a short way into the birchwood, we reach a clearing marked by a fallen branch. David steps over it and uses it as a seat. He talks about the sense of peace and calm that this part of the Moss offers him. He also encounters it as a spiritual place: it is a part of the Moss that he comes to for silent prayer. When he is walking with Psalm, she anticipates these moments, becoming quiet and still while David gathers his thoughts. David tunes in to the environment, slows down and listens to God. Sometimes, he senses meaning in the wind through the trees and the passage of deer. I tell him that while I am not religious myself, I share a sense of peace that for me arises from a connection to wild places.

As we return to the main path, we say farewell and go our separate ways. I walk the last few feet alone, back towards the turn off to Fern Avenue. While there is nobody else around, I stop for a moment. I breathe in and listen. I have to be aware and in tune; I have to be present. If I can do this, then the world might tell me something. I am searching for a sign. Then, the wind causes a dappled light to move in the bushes, and I turn to see hundreds of pure white flowers turned to where I stand. They are hedge bindweed – moments of light and beauty popping out of the tangle of nettles. If I am looking for meaning, these will do nicely. Later, I read that this plant represents an unyielding spirit – its strong roots and delicate flowers symbolising a connection between strength and fragility. I realise that I walked past this spot already, when David and I passed it by earlier, talking about the Moss rather than being present in it. By breaking from the walk and pausing in the clearing, we have shifted our mode of engagement with the environment. The things that went unnoticed now reveal themselves; those who stop to look will see what was always there.

Aug 20, 2025

Despite warnings of floods and thunderstorms, it is a beautifully calm and sunny Thursday afternoon when I meet Richard. Richard lives a few doors down from me. We have never met before, but he responded generously when I posted a call on my neighbours’ Whatsapp group. Now that the schools have started back (my son Ruairidh had his first day yesterday!), Richard is looking after his daughter’s dog a couple of days a week as she goes back to teaching. The dog needs tons of exercise, he tells me. He is therefore spending a lot of time on the Moss.

I arrive outside Richard’s house at 3pm and my first encounter is with a bright eyed and energetic collie, bounding up to greet me. Richard follows with a lead over his shoulders, used mainly as a visual cue that it is time for a walk rather than being needed. He introduces me to Caladh – named after the Gaelic for shore or harbour – a nod to her journey from a sheep farm on the tiny island of Kerrera, to the mainland, via the port town of Oban. Caladh now lives in the nearby town of Bearsden with Richard’s younger daughter and her family. I wonder if she remembers the sea, and Richard tell me she often goes sailing with them.

Caladh (pronounced Calla) is bright as a button. She walks ahead, stops, checks back – always aware of where Richard is and where he wants to go – anticipating every change of direction. It is clear why this breed makes good sheep dogs. In contrast, as I tell Richard, I have recently welcomed a canine companion of my own. Clyde is a cavapoo puppy who has been living with me and my children for a week now. His name is mainly because his sister (who lives with my friends) is called Bonnie, but also because of the river. Clyde is a firecracker. He runs off in random directions, has very inconsistent recall, sometimes seems to knowingly ignore me, and often steals my shoes. But we are getting there, and I think he will be ready for a walk on the Moss in a few weeks, after his vaccinations and when he is a bit more comfortable with the lead. So, this is a good week for the first dog to circle the Moss with me, and it is encouraging to see Caladh’s independence and reliability.

We turn onto the Moss and Richard is happy to walk my usual anticlockwise route, although he often travels in the other direction. One reason for this is that when his children were young, they would go first to watch the passing trains before heading over the bog. Caladh runs ahead, disappearing into the long grass. Richard has heard about my work in theatre, and he tells me he is from a musical and theatrical family. While he didn’t follow that precarious career path, he is a singer and a member of a local choir. As we walk and talk, we are met by my upstairs neighbour Shirley and her children on their way home after the first day back at school. This is at the exact spot where I met them on my first walk, and the children are in similar spirits after a long hot day. Richard knows Shirley and they chat about the choir, which she is interested in joining. I tell the children that I will be in the garden later with the puppy and I invite them to come and visit, which cheers them up.

We continue on our way and Richard notes that we had stopped at the ‘smelliest’ part of the Moss. He tells me that this corner used to be a rubbish dump and points out the old access road. There is no sign of the dump now but perhaps there are buried treasures here: discarded household items, deep down in the bog. Both Richard and I have discovered lots in our own gardens, both of which border an old lane connecting the Moss to the main road through the town – glass bottles, shards of pottery, toys. My best find was a large red fire extinguisher, probably from the old primary school on the other side of the wall. Richard’s was a Lion Rampant emblem. This is a place of layered histories.

As Caladh does her own thing, Richard’s guides me round the Moss like it is his back garden. He has an understanding of this place that can only be acquired from decades of regular visits and family memories. These days, Richard walks Caladh, takes a moment on the raised bank of the old railway line, or at the apex of the triangle of woodland that reaches into the bog, and collects deadwood to burn in his log burner. His knowledge of the Moss is seasonal (he notes that the bog cotton is in flower much later than usual), ecological (he thinks that the rewetting of the bog has reduced the occurrence of small fires, which in turn has allowed certain grasses to thrive over other plants, such as orchids), and historical (he points out the old railway sleepers from the peatworks). He tells me that in the early years of living in Lenzie, he attempted to cut some peat for use at home. Apparently, it was a nightmare to handle and filled the house with acrid smoke. It wasn’t an experiment worth repeating.

Richard has had a varied and fascinating career, including a long stint as a Local Government Officer, a few high-octane years in the Scottish Parliament, and roles in events and festival organisation. In the 2000s he was the Maritime Director for Glasgow’s River Festival. Like Caladh, Richard has a connection to the sea. He originally moved to Glasgow in the late sixties to study naval architecture at the University of Glasgow. Timing was bad, however, as his studies coincided with the liquidation of Upper Clyde Shipbuilders – the consortium of the major shipyards on the River Clyde. In the context of large-scale protest and occupation of the shipyards, Richard ignored misguided advice to learn Spanish and look to South America, and instead changed tack.

As we approach the boardwalk, Richard suggests a detour and we veer right to take the wider perimeter path, which I have yet to walk. The route takes us to the edge of the site and Richard points out the old boundary posts. We head through grass and sedge, and Caladh disappears from sight, but by now it is clear that she will always be close by. Richard tells me that he moved to Lenzie with his wife in the late seventies. His first two children were born while they lived in their first house. Just a few years later, the house began to move. Because these new houses were built on boggy ground, they were susceptible to something called ‘frost heave’ – an effect caused by the expansion of frozen soil, which raises the ground. It sounds like it was a stressful time, but in the end the housing company had to buy back the house at a good rate, which allowed them to move to their current home on Fern Avenue, just meters from the pathway onto the Moss.

As we return to the main path, Richard says we should ask Caladh which way she would like to go. She enjoys chasing the trains along the southern path but today she opts for the route across the bog. She leads us across the rougher ground, stepping over exposed tree roots and meandering round the birch trees. We come across a dead tree – standing deadwood – which is the best kind of wood for burning. All Richard has to do is wait for it to fall, then he will have a good supply of firewood. While peat cutting is no longer allowed, and I have not heard of anybody continuing this practice, it is interesting to know that the Moss still provides energy in this way. The ground may have reclaimed Richard’s old house and all those old objects that have been dumped or forgotten, but I am finding that there are lots of ways in which it reciprocates.

Aug 14, 2025