After my visit to Catalonia last month, I came across a film about the Muga River, where I had spent a few days. In Caspar Daniël Diederik’s documentary, Muga: When She Stops Flowing, So Will We, the river itself narrates a story of the threats that it is facing – from drought to dams – and we meet the people and communities who work together to ensure a better future. The film creates a dialogue between landscape and human stories, and it gave me a better understanding of the place I had recently visited. This led me to wonder whether a film could be made about Lenzie Moss. Perhaps it could follow me as I walk round the site through the seasons – a way of sharing the 100 circles of this project with a wider audience. I would need to think about what story I wanted to tell and how best to film it. I knew just who to talk to.

Simon is a filmmaker and conservationist, who I have worked with a few times at the university. He has led film making and photography workshops for our students and presented on his conservation work in sub-Saharan Africa. He also directs the Edinburgh Conservation Film Festival. Simon is therefore very well placed to help me focus my idea for a Lenzie Moss film, so I send him an email. As I hoped, he is enthusiastic about joining me for a walk. We plan his visit from Edinburgh and arrange to meet at the station.

On a drizzly Wednesday afternoon, I introduce Simon to the Moss. Like so many people who have frequently travelled between Edinburgh and Glasgow, passing this place on the train, Simon had no idea it was here. On these walks, I have welcomed a lot of people here for the first time, and as I have got to know this place better, I am becoming a more natural host. As I tell Simon, I have also walked with people who know the Moss far better than me. There are no clear distinctions between the host and the guest in this project.

While Simon is discovering this place for the first time, he is a seasoned interviewer and subtly directs the conversation. I defer an early question about what I wanted to get out of this project, instead showing Simon the fences and introducing what I see as they main story that is emerging here: that of the tensions around conservation and access. This is a familiar story to Simon. Everywhere he has worked – from Bruntsfield to Botswana – he has encountered competing priorities, tensions, negotiations and attempted compromises.

Simon tells me about the ‘4 Cs’ model for conservation developed by Jochen Zeitz, the former CEO of the sports brand, Puma. Working from the Segera Conservancy – a 50,000 acre Kenyan wildlife refuge, the ZEITZ foundation advocate an approach that balances Conservation, Community, Culture and Commerce, ‘geared towards delivering tangible and sustainable benefits for land, wildlife and rural communities’. When Simon worked for a safari company in Botswana as a conservation biologist, they adopted this model and thought carefully about how their initiatives could navigate these different considerations.

We think through the 4 Cs as they apply to Lenzie Moss. I have learned a lot about the conservation work here and understand the reasons for the installation of the dams, fences and pathways; the rewetting of the bog after centuries of peat extraction has transformed this place in the last two decades. I have also got to know, and to be part of the community that visits and uses the Moss; and I have come to think of the relationships that create this place extending beyond the human to include all the various lives that are entangled here. I now understand the culture here, too. From the school children and dog walkers to the naturalists and foragers, and all the professional and voluntary work that goes on here, there are various codes and conventions, traditions and histories, that make this place what it is.

As Simon acknowledges, commerce is often the hardest C to reconcile with a place like this. When I walked with Stewart, he took a pragmatic and unromantic position on this. The ongoing maintenance and protection of this site needs to be funded from somewhere, and for Stewart, relying entirely on tax-funded council grants may not be the most sustainable model. The site itself has a history of exploitation for commercial gain, but practised sensitively with decisions guided by sustainability, could commercialisation make a positive contribution here?

As we walk, various flora and fauna grab our attention and I expect Simon to share his ecological knowledge. But he is a landscape and large animal conservationist, he tells me that he is ‘a terrible naturalist’. So, while we stop to explore the willow trees, meadow pipits and bog cotton, neither of us can claim any great authority on the more-than-human community here. We are both in the role of learners again, listening to the birdsong and looking out over the bog.

Our conversation returns to the film idea again, and this time I have a go at answering Simon’s earlier question. What do I want to get out of this project? I want people to know about this incredible place. I want people to understand how important environments like this are. I want people to be excited, moved and inspired by the birch and the kestrels and the roe deer and the sphagnum. I want people to recognise that it’s their responsibility to protect fragile landscapes. I want people to take action – to write, walk, campaign, volunteer. I want people to care.

Perhaps all that is too much for a short film. But it’s something to start with. How would we tell a story like this? I like the idea that the film could follow me walking round the site, but that each stage of the square (it’s a square really, not a circle) would be in a different season: autumn through the south woods; winter up Bea’s path; spring through the north woods; and summer down the boardwalk. I tell Simon about my plan to invite everyone who has ever walked with me to join for the 100th walk next summer. Perhaps that event could be filmed and the story could be about the need for communities to come together.

So the film would be about conservation – the careful and committed work of giving this place its best chance to thrive. It would also be about community – the people I have met and spent time with as I have circled the Moss. And the film would be part of the rich culture of this place – a way of sharing the joy and creativity of this project. And as for commerce… well, we just need to get some funding now!

Jun 10, 2026

One of my neighbour Marie’s earliest memoires of the Moss is from the 1970s. When she met her husband, John, he lived on Blackthorne Avenue to the northwest of the site. As they both worked in Glasgow, they would get the train together from Lenzie Station. Marie remembers running late one morning and the two of them making use of the old peatworks tracks to take a shortcut directly across the bog. They managed to dodge puddles and avoided muddy boots, making it just in time for their commute.

At that time, the Moss was a very different place. Lenzie Peat Development Company had closed down a few years earlier, but as I have been told before, people were still removing peat for their fires. Marie says that she didn’t particularly like the Moss back then. It was wilder and less popular, and parts felt dark and claustrophobic. Marie says it was a bit of a ‘no man’s land’ between the residential areas. This aligns with what I have been told by others who knew this place back then. It seems that the site was reeling from the shock of industry, and its identity was still being reformed.

Marie has lived on my street for just a couple of years longer than me. But before that, she spent most of her life in Kirkintilloch so knows the area well. She talks about the snobbery that she has sometimes encountered from those who regard Lenzie as superior to its adjoining town, but she has no time for this. Marie and John made the move to be close to their family, having been blessed with five grandchildren in quick succession – including Eloise, who I walked with last month. Their family’s close geographical connection has been important in recent years.

My own children don’t go to school in Lenzie, and my parents and siblings live far away (about 11,000 miles in the case of my sister). So I am envious of those with the ability to drop kids off with relatives or walk them to school. Iona is visiting her new high school on Wednesday. From August, several round trips to Glasgow’s Finnieston will become part of my weekly schedule. Marie tells me that she worked there in her first job, as an assistant at a men’s clothing store. Today, the area is known for its ‘foodie’ culture and hip bars, but its post-industrial history is still evident in the architecture, and its proximity to the old shipyards on the Clyde, including the iconic Finnieston Crane. I remember the area twenty years ago, when I started to frequent its new pubs and restaurants, and even then, it was very different to the place Iona will get to know well over the next six years.

Places change both physically and culturally, and the Moss has come to mean something quite different to Marie. Now it is a place that she has walked with her husband, and their son and daughter, and their grandchildren and dogs. It is a place that she has tentatively returned to after a hip replacement, slowly building strength and managing to travel further. And it is somewhere her husband walks when his health allows. The Moss is a place of growth and healing that she has come to love.

It has been raining today, but the weather has improved for our walk. We can smell the post-shower earthy aroma of petrichor. Marie has noticed the changing scents of the Moss through the seasons: in spring, buds awaken, triggering hay fever; in summer, the pollen and floral perfumes drift down from the trees; in autumn, the air thickens into a closer, damper smell; winter brings a boggy, muddy atmosphere to the Moss. Marie enjoys the seasonal shifts of this place, and she says she would much rather live here through the invigorating changes of the seasons than somewhere with a more stable climate that doesn’t have all this variety.

Marie mentions that she was unsure about joining me for this project since she doesn’t know very much about the Moss. It is clear to me that she knows a great deal more than she realises. Marie has great enthusiasm for the ecology of this place. She pauses our walk often to comment on the birds and the trees and the flowers. She loves the rich purples of the heather, and we notice the passage of a butterfly, which Marie notes with sadness have severely declined since the years when she crossed the bog from John’s house.

As we chat about the wildlife, Marie also says good morning to several people who she knows. Then, on the boardwalk, we pass another resident of our street, walking his dog. I don’t recognise him at first, but we have met a few times. I tell him about the walking project and without being rude, he sidesteps the implied invitation. Fair enough. Marie says that she usually bumps into someone she knows when she wanders around the Moss. That used to be the case for me in Finnieston, and it is becoming much more likely for me to see a familiar face as I wander around Lenzie. I am slowly becoming part of a community here. Spending time with several of my neighbours for this walking project has really helped with that.

As we reach the end of our walk, we pass a huge patch of ferns – the namesake of our street. Some ferns are deciduous and die back in the late autumn; others are evergreen and abundant here all year round. These ones are vivid green and growing strong today.

Marie says that for her, the Moss is a place of extremes: the seasons bring radically different conditions; various plants grow or die, and birds move in, or on, as the weather turns; these pathways have enabled journeys of health and resilience and have been the background to difficult times, as well as happy moments for their family. Over the years, Marie has come to understand and respect these extremes. This has allowed the Moss to grow on her. Just as the place has changed over the years, so has Marie’s relationship with it.

Jun 6, 2026

I have heard a lot about the Moss’ population of endangered fossorial water voles, but as yet I haven’t seen one. Unusually, these animals don’t live in water, but as Friends of Lenzie Moss explain, can be found in the grass-covered areas of the site:

The term “fossorial” means “adapted for digging”. Fossorial voles have moved away from water and established their burrows in open grassland. They construct a network of tunnels where they breed and sleep and spend most of their time. They prefer territory that has long grass on the surface to give them cover from predators when they come out of their burrows to feed. Their main diet is grass roots, leaves and seeds. They don’t hibernate, so can be seen throughout the year if you’re lucky.

I always keep an eye out as I pass the places where I know the voles are living, but luck is still to come my way.

It is thanks to the voles that I am meeting Colin today. On a recent walk, as he turned the corner from Bea’s Path to the north woods – at the exact spot where Tony shared his haiku about midsummer – there on a log sat a fat brown rodent. The vole seemed unfazed by human presence (Colin calls it nonchalant). Colin watched it for a while, then went on his way. Later, searching for information about the voles, he stumbled across my blog and my request for willing walkers to get in touch, which he did.

I meet Colin outside Billington’s, and we are prepared for the rain. When I walked with Sandro just yesterday, I wore shorts and a t-shirt after several days of glorious May sunshine. But alas, the spell of pleasant weather is over. But Colin and I are also aware that the Moss needs the water. It was becoming very dry and there is always the risk of fires. As we walk onto the Moss, we can smell the moisture in the air and it feels like the bog is breathing a sigh of relief.

Colin is a naturalist and forager and has been exploring the Moss his whole life. He grew up in Lenzie in the 1970s and 80s and after living elsewhere for several years (the same pattern I noted when I walked with Eloise earlier this week), he returned in 2006 to set up his own business as a computer engineer. He says that it was never the plan to stay here long term.

Colin says that the Moss is a completely different place today. Almost half a century ago, it was an abandoned and unloved place. As a child, Colin remembers searching through the historic dump for intact bottles buried beneath the grassland to the north of the site. There was a network of informal paths crisscrossing the bog, which was causing serious damage. He remembers exposed peat, birch growing all over the site, and a patchy and unhealthy layer of moss. For Colin, it is unquestionably the case that the modern conservation works have saved this place. With well-made, designated paths that keep foot traffic off the sensitive wetlands, the bog has been able to rewet, and all manner of life has returned.

For many decades and through all seasons, Colin has visited the Moss to forage. He is enthusiastic about the fungi that grow here, but says that at this time of year, we are between the last of the scarlet elf cup mushrooms (which I photographed with Kate) and his favourite, the wonderfully named yellow swamp russula. Other favourites include the shaggy ink cap (which can be made into a very useable ink) and the birch polypore (which I saw with my mum). Colin also comes here for leaves and herbs – dock leaves, clover, and nettle have all made their way into his kitchen. And like Kay, who I happened to spot on yesterday’s walk with Sandro, he recommends the blaeberries, which appear later in the summer. We stop to identify a dense patch of comfrey with its pink bell-shaped flowers. Colin tastes some and is unimpressed.

I ask Colin about the fauna of the Moss and he is equally as knowledgeable. He has seen buzzards hunting in the northern part of the moss, kestrels hovering over the bog, and a sparrowhawk being ratted out by a noisy bluetit by Bea’s Path. He tells me that he has often seen birdwatchers in a hide to the north woods, who told him of a pair of snowy owls who spent a few days here before they decided to move elsewhere. It seems that everyone moves away from Lenzie at some point!

As we walk, we examine the remnants of the wooden railway sleepers. The nails that still hold them down are possibly a century old. Colin suggests that this was probably a rickety wooden cart pulled by a pony, rather than a self-powered train, but I later confirm that two Lister petrol locomotives were used here. We talk about the routes along which the peat left the site, and I show Colin the Google Maps satellite image of my street, with the corridor of land linking the Moss to Kirkintilloch Road. Both Clare and Ann believe this to have been the location of the railway line. Looking at this image triggers a long-buried memory for Colin. He recalls exploring this pathway between the gardens with his childhood friends.

On our way back to the main path, we climb up onto the ruined peat plant. Colin remembers that the centre used to be filled with branches and a pond had formed, which was filled with frog spawn. He took some back to his parents’ house and to this day, there is a healthy frog population in their garden pond. I am reminded of Paul’s story about the birch sapling seeding from the brooms propped up beside his garage. There are many different routes that reach out beyond the Moss.

We follow our own route off the site, exiting the way we came in – through the station car park. A huge yellow machine has been parked in the entrance to the Moss. It has ‘RAIL-BOSS’ emblazoned on the front. The smell of diesel lingers, but the driver has gone. This vehicle is clearly part of the modern railway maintenance fleet. It is lucky that the peatworks closed down in the 1960s, before this scale of industry had reached it. The Moss is protected from all this, now. And that means that the peat, the fungus, the comfrey, and the water voles all have a chance to thrive.

May 29, 2026

Ten years ago, I moved on from my job as a lecturer at the University of the West of Scotland (UWS), where I had worked with Jo for five years in my first academic post. During my time there, I met Sandro – another early career lecturer – who had just moved from his home in São Paulo to the town of Hamilton to the south of Glasgow, where the university has a campus. While I worked in Ayr, our paths crossed several times and we found a shared interest in the performance of place, and embodied learning experiences. Sandro was part of a festival I worked on at the Arches arts centre, and he even saw one of my plays at Glasgow’s lunchtime theatre, A Play, a Pie and a Pint. I left UWS for a new post at Royal Holloway in 2016 and we didn’t stay in touch.

A decade later, Sandro – now a Professor of Tourism and Leisure Studies at UWS – was driving through Lenzie, where he lives with his family, and noticed me walking up Kirkintilloch Road. Shortly afterwards, he was chatting to one of the other parents at his son’s school. Knowing that she also worked in theatre, he mentioned this sighting, in case she happened to know me. This was my next door neighbour, Nalini, who was the first person I walked with for this project. Nalini confirmed that I was now living here too, and told Sandro about my walking project. So he got in touch and here we are meeting again after all these years, ready to walk round the Moss.

We catch up on major life events as the deer accompany us up Bea’s Path – they are enjoying the sunshine as much as we are. Sandro says this is only the second time he has seen them here. Sandro moved to Lenzie in 2017 between having his first and second child. His youngest is the same age as Ruairidh, having been born in the early weeks of the first COVID-19 lockdown. He is in the same class as both my next door and upstairs neighbours and will soon be attending a birthday party in the garden adjoining mine. The family began visiting the Moss quite regularly during the lockdown, as did many who I have walked with here. Their eldest learnt to ride her bike here – gathering speed and confidence along the boardwalk. Soon after lockdown, that part of the Moss was closed for a long time while maintenance work took place, and as they couldn’t walk round the site, and lockdown restrictions eased, the habit fell away. Since those years, Sandro hasn’t been here much, so he is pleased to have the excuse to return today.

I tell Sandro that over the course of this project so far, I have walked with a disproportionate number of academics – from professors and lecturers to postgraduate students. There are a few reasons for this: these are the people I see every day at work and who are more likely to know about this project; researchers have time to take part in unusual walking projects like this; and as an affluent town with good transport links to the university towns, there are a lot of educated folk living round here. I confess to being a bit uneasy about the ratio, but as I have also walked with plenty of people from different backgrounds and professions, I hope I am gathering enough diverse perspectives on this place, even if my ‘sample group’ is a bit imbalanced.

Sandro tells me a story about another academic and another restriction of access. A couple of years ago, several roads were closed near his home to the north of the Moss. Little information was shared by the authorities, but there was talk of hazardous substances at a private property. Speculation among the community was that this was the home of a professor of chemistry, who had lived alone and recently died. When his vacated house was valued for the market, an elaborate laboratory was discovered, full of potentially dangerous chemicals. Explosive Ordnance Disposal officers and police were in the area for the day, and the roads were opened again several hours later.

Now that roads and boardwalks are open, and the negative experiences of the lockdown have faded in memory, Sandro is happy to be walking here again. We sit on a bench and look out across the bog to the hills beyond. We discuss how this place is experienced and understood differently by all the people I have walked with and how – regardless of how academic these perspectives might be – the Moss is created and performed through the relationships between them. Sandro has experience in bringing diverse voices into a dialogue about place through his work in tourism.

Sandro’s research concerns the inequalities and injustices that can be created and exacerbated through the tourist industry. He talks about the commercialisation of leisure and the way that time becomes capitalised. While he and his family recently enjoyed a trip to Disneyland, where I also had a wonderful day with Iona back in September, we discuss these hyper commercial places as the antithesis of Lenzie Moss. For Sandro, places like this are vitally important – places that we can come to for connections to nature, relaxation and exercise that are not wholly determined by the commercial systems and structures that define so much of our everyday leisure.

Beyond the university, Sandro has chaired the Renfrewshire Tourism Leadership Group. Working in a wide geographical area with many competing interests and some big players like Glasgow International Airport and Braehead Shopping Centre, the group have ensured that members of the community have a voice, and that the natural environment is considered alongside transport and retail opportunities. The RSPB’s Lochwinnoch Nature Reserve and Castle Semple Loch are important wetland habitats that balance the heavily industrialised side of the council area. As tourists fly into Scotland and locals visit for shopping and entertainment, many others are drawn to the rich birdlife and beautiful landscapes of the parks. Sandro’s group has brought many stakeholders together to deliver Renfrewshire’s tourism plan. I remember my walk with Stewart, when he talked about the value of coordinated approaches to site management, and I wonder whether East Dunbartonshire has an equivalent project that includes Lenzie Moss.

As we complete our circle, it is clear that 60 minutes walking round the Moss is nowhere near enough time to bring each other up to speed on everything that has happened since we last met. So we switch modes and head to Billington’s for a beer, and Sandro also treats himself to an ice-cream. One of the things that I hoped would come from this project is a greater connection to the Lenzie community. I am delighted that my research project has helped me connect with Sandro again. As we chat away in the cafe, I am thankful for the opportunity to spend my leisure time in this way too.

May 28, 2026

Tired of walking, I stop and stand
Thinking back on my home town
But that road leading up the hill
Is telling me to move on
Country road…
(Hayao Miyazaki, Whisper of the Heart)

Lenzie is one of those towns that people move away from when they leave school. Often, they spend time living elsewhere, then move back when they have experienced more of the world and maybe had families of their own. I have walked with several people who followed that pattern – Paul, Alison, Michael. I have walked with young children (including my own) and those who have lived by the Moss for decades. But this is the first time I have persuaded someone in their teenage years to walk with me. And it is the first time I have walked with someone who has lived here their entire life.

Eloise is the granddaughter of my neighbours, Marie and John. She has recently turned 18 and has just finished her exams. Having received an unconditional offer from the University of Edinburgh, she plans to accept a place studying Global Law. There are many other subjects that she could have chosen – archaeology, international relations, and art were all possibilities. In the statement she wrote to apply for the archaeology course, she wrote about the Moss and the fact that we are always so close to history.

Eloise is feeling a huge sense of relief, and release, now that her school days are over. In the final couple of years, she doesn’t feel she found the right balance. Now that she anxiously awaits her grades (although some pressure has been taken away thanks to that offer), she looks forward to spreading her wings. Eloise will leave home for the first time, live in a city, and meet people from all over the world. As her course features a compulsory year abroad, she will also be living in another country in a little over two years. I sense that Eloise is ready for all this – that she needs it.

The tradition of ‘muck up day’, marking the last day of classes in the final school year, has become popular in Scotland over the last decade or so. I have often seen pupils creating (good natured) havoc round the town, wearing school shirts covered in messages and pictures, and sometimes armed with shaving foam and toilet paper for their pranks. At Eloise’s school – Lenzie Academy – the tradition is for everyone to head to ‘the Burroughs’, a part of the Moss to the south of the trainline, where school leavers gather after school is finished to get the party started, before they move on to celebrate in houses around the town. I haven’t heard of the Burroughs before, and I can’t find any references to it online. It is good to know that some local names and locations are known about through word of mouth still, and that not everything is captured by maps and databases.

Eloise tells me that she ended up hanging out with new people, who she hadn’t spent time with before that day. While she has often been seen as shy and lacking in self-confidence, she is coming out of her shell and finding new connections and opportunities. I think she will do really well at university, where there are so many different groups and societies and different types of people doing all sorts of things.

As we walk on a very hot day in May, the air is filled – as it was on my very first walk – with floating seeds. Eloise is a fan of Japanese anime and the films of Hayao Miyazaki, so she gets my reference to Nausicaä of the Valley of the Wind, in which the air is filled with toxic spores. The Moss looks like a scene from that film today, but these floating seeds are thankfully benign. Eloise recommends the Studio Ghibli film Grave of the Fireflies and I plan to watch it soon (although I know enough about the plot to emotionally prepare myself first). I try once more to photograph the air and once again the results are unimpressive. Another thing that can’t be captured digitally.

As we reach the far side of the Moss, Eloise tells me that as children, her friendship group used to come to the Moss to act like they were older, getting up to mischief and enjoying moments away from their teachers and parents. She says that her younger brother and his friends do the same now, and she looks back at her 13 year old self with a mix of pity and fondness. Over the years, others have been there too. Both Alison and Michael recalled their childhood visits to this place. Many have had some of their most formative experiences between the heather and the clouds.

This western border was the furthest point Eloise and her friends were allowed to roam. We are at the edge of her childhood geography, then. It is a perfect place to reflect on Eloise’s new phase of life, as she steps onto the threshold of new experiences in distant places. What a time of transitions! We look out beyond the Moss to an exciting future. I am reminded of my walk with Iona, when we stood here and looked out to Bishopbriggs and the Campsies, and imagined what the future had in store for her. I called this a liminal place then, and it seems so now as well.

Another of Eloise’s favourite Studio Ghibli films is Whisper of the Heart. In that film, there is a scene when 14 year-old Shizuku and a boy named Seiji cycle up to the top of a hill in Tama, Tokyo, and imagine their future together. She will be a writer and he will be a violin maker. They watch as the sun rises and casts its light over the city. The portrayal of place in these films is so vibrant and enchanting. I have wanted to visit Japan ever since I watched them for the first time. Eloise, also, wants to spend time in the metropolises of East Asia. She wonders about Hong Kong or Singapore.

As we talk of distant places and future possibilities, a plane flies overhead and I wonder where it is travelling to. The Moss feels like the starting point of a journey that could take Eloise anywhere she wants to go. But I am sure that like Shizuku and Seiji, she will often follow the country road back to her home town again.

May 26, 2026

Isabella is a first year PhD student in my research centre at the University of Edinburgh. She is interested in research and writing spaces and has started to explore the ‘knowledge-making and meaning-making experiences’ of history students. She is wondering how to use walking methods as part of this work and we recently met to discuss this aspect of her project, so I invited her to walk with me here. One of Isabella’s supervisors is my colleague James, who joined me for a walk round the Moss back in November. It is no surprise, then, that Isabella is thinking about postdigital education: recognising the entanglement of digital technologies in our research practices. As I found with James, there is no reason to discount a walk round a peat bog.

Isabella has not been to Lenzie before. She has only recently moved to Scotland for her PhD and is enjoying living in Edinburgh and exploring the nearby towns and cities. Isabella is from South Africa and has been studying history at the University of Cape Town. This is her first time living in another country. After our walk, Isabella will take the train to Glasgow and wander round the west end. As I lived there for two decades, I fully endorse her plans to visit the Botanic Gardens and the Kelvingrove Museum. I suggest stopping for a coffee on Ashton Lane. I am feeling nostalgic for this part of the city at the moment and I am excited for Isabella, discovering new places.

As we walk, we talk more about Isabella’s research plans. At a recent meeting with her supervisors, they discussed the possibility of expanding the scope of the project. Isabella is now thinking through the implications of working with other types of learners in different contexts. She feels that walking methods would be a good way of expanding the field of her studies. Could she accompany participants on their routes to work? Perhaps mapping and creative writing exercises would bring journeys into the project. Perhaps, like Brian, Isabella will start to explore learning spaces outside the academy.

When I walked with Ruby, she told me about a recent fieldtrip to Fala Moor in Midlothian, where a group of students worked with singer and composer duo, Karine Polwart and Pippa Murphy. It turns out that Isabella was also there. Isabella was inspired by their collaboration and the openness and responsiveness of their creative process. It prompted her to listen more to her environments and showed how a connection to place can be enhanced through creative methods like songwriting, composing, or poetry. Isabella wonders whether her own research methods could move in that direction.

Isabella asks me about my project and the approach I have taken here. I return to the conversation I had yesterday with Jimmy. We discussed the ‘openness’ of the exchanges and encounters that comprise this project and noted how loosely they might be defined as interviews. I agree that there can be huge value in the insights that writing prompts and artistic methods can provide. But last week in Spain, working with the Walking Assembly, I realised how the lightest of frameworks and plans can effectively hold space for unexpected experiences and outcomes to emerge. The theme of that gathering was ‘learning without teaching’ and I think that is what I am experiencing here.

Halfway round the route, I realise that we have been talking about place-based research, rather than doing the work (however that might be understood). Of course, talking is part of fieldwork, but sometimes the conversation can delay a connection with the site. I have walked with a lot of researchers, including several PhD students (Ada, Ali, Ellie, Deirdre, Kyriaki, Brian and Eilidh), and with many of them, also, there has been a careful discussion about their research before we have settled into the environment. It is hard for me to avoid falling into supervisor mode. But it has also been important to understand the specific interest that my co-walkers bring to the Moss: the questions that they are asking and the methods they are using to find answers.

But there is a point on this route when conversation gives way to something else. This happens on leaving the birchwood, when the path joins the boardwalk. As the vista opens up and the bog reveals itself, with all its muted colours and shifting scales, there is a moment of change in pace and purpose. Isabella and I pause our walk and take in the atmosphere of this place. We watch a great black corvid swooping down into the heather. I am sure it is a crow, but it seems way bigger than I expect it to be. Sometimes scale is hard to gauge here. As I attempt to verify my assumption with the Merlin app, I record a skylark – the first time I have encountered one here, although others I have walked with have told me they have seen them.

We walk along the southern pathway across the bog and encounter another chapter in the war of attrition that I have been monitoring here. I review the stages of this story:

First, a desire line emerged leading to the tree swing.
Second, a section of fence was rolled out over the boggy ground, as a makeshift boardwalk.
Third, the fence was moved aside, and contractors dug a series of ponds across the path.
Fourth, the fencing returned and was placed in a meandering route around the new pools.
Fifth, the fencing was removed from the site.

The sixth stage, which we encounter today, is the appearance of a brand-new desire line to the right of the original. This new route takes a completely different path to the wood. Check. I wonder what the council’s next move will be? Surely, we won’t see more barriers and ponds in this area? The oneupmanship seems unhelpful.

This part of the Moss, which I have studied for over a year now, is the best example of the contested relationship between the users and managers of this site. I have learnt about the context by speaking with both dog walkers and council officers, but I have only understood its implications by being here so often and observing the changes and developments over a long period of time. For me, walking methods have been an effective way to build a connection with Lenzie Moss as a more-than-human environment, of which I am a part. I am pleased to know that younger researchers see the value in this way of working as well, and I look forward to finding out what new pathways Isabella will follow.

May 21, 2026

For the grain of the tree consists of lines of growth rather than particles of matter, and it is held together by knots rather than by the equilibrating force of gravity. (Tim Ingold, Correspondences)

My colleague Jimmy is the only person I know who describes themselves as both a woodworker and an anthropologist. Maybe there are many others who combine these disciplines, but I suspect this is a bit of a niche job. For several years now, Jimmy has been working with the Binks Hub – ‘a network of academics researchers, community members, practitioners and policy-makers using creativity and the arts to co-create research that makes a difference to people’s lives’. I have often wondered how a co-creation process might benefit the Moss so I’m looking forward to introducing Jimmy to the stories that I have encountered here.

Jimmy tells me that despite working with wood (they make sculptures and furniture) they don’t know much about trees. But we are walking through birchwood now and the silver birches are easy to identify. Neither does Jimmy know much about peat. I tell them a little of what I have learnt: how the peat is formed as the slowly decaying sphagnum moss accumulates beneath the living layer – a phenomenon that can happen because this moss is alive and dead at the same time.

Jimmy is intrigued by this alive-deadness of sphagnum, particularly since they recently worked on a project that creatively explored death and dying. With the Utopia Lab, Jimmy and the other participants undertook a series of ‘imaginative experiments’. These included writing exercises and a group walk to Greyfriars Kirkyard in Edinburgh. Using the small makers kit that they always carry, Jimmy made a sculptural response to the site, using materials that they gathered there. They reflect on the connections these items had with death – including the earth itself, which is formed through myriad decomposing flora and fauna, including the dead people buried there historically.

I wonder what materials the Moss could offer, and show Jimmy the fungal growths on the branches above us – the ‘witches brooms’ that I saw with Iona, along with the unusual bulges protruding from the trunks. Woodworkers are often keen to work with these tumorous woody growths on trees, known as burrs, due to the unique patterns of the grain. I have been reading the anthropologist Tim Ingold’s ‘correspondences’ with trees recently and I mention his discussion of grain to Jimmy. ‘Lines of growth’ are important, but Jimmy tells me that grain is not held together by knots, as such. Rather, it is bound by a natural glue-like substance called lignum and also various processes of ‘interlocking’, wherein it wraps around itself. There are rich metaphors in the wood. In Jimmy’s sculpting and furniture making, they find and work with the shapes that are already there in their materials, rather than imposing a predetermined form. They are far less interested in the kind of design that prioritises silhouettes over surfaces, preferring work that responds to the irregularity and textures of wood.

We discuss the methodology of my work at the Moss, and Jimmy suggests that these are ‘research walks’ rather than interviews, but accepts my suggestion that they are ‘radically open interviews’. Although I sometimes have an instinct about what we might discuss – in Jimmy’s case, co-creative work with communities – I never prepare questions or suggest a particular agenda. The invitation is simply to walk and chat and see what happens.

The connection between woodworking and anthropology is becoming clearer to me. Could an analogy be made between the trees and the walkers? While Jimmy would take time to feel their way into the shapes and grains of the wood that they create new things with, during my walks round the Moss, I am taking time to feel my way into the stories and perspectives that different people bring to the site. When Jimmy makes a sculpture, it is a collaboration – or to use Ingold’s term, a correspondence – between the tree, the wood and the maker. My accounts of these walks on this blog are correspondences between the Moss, the walker and the writer. In both cases, we are establishing a process of emergence rather than deciding in advance what we want to create.

We pass the deadwood hedge and Jimmy admires the craft and aesthetic. I use this opportunity to explain some of the relational dynamics of this site. I have sometimes seen an opening appear in this barrier, as it blocks a pathway onto the bog so has been kicked down. These are swiftly repaired and today it is intact. Jimmy is surprised by this behaviour and has limited and ambiguous sympathy for those who feel entitled enough to impose their own preferences in this way. Jimmy, as a person made anxious by unleashed dogs, is critical of ‘some dog walkers’ and even though I consider myself respectful and sensitive to the places I am walking with Clyde, I bristle at the association.

Our walk down the boardwalk is accompanied by birds: stonechats and meadow pipits, and swallows overhead. Since I learnt the call of the willow warbler from Julia, I have been taking pride in telling others about them and I point them out to Jimmy now. I have realised recently how my way of being here has changed over the last year. When I walked with Nalini on the second walk, I felt ‘underinformed and unsure’. A year later, I have learnt so much about this place.

The final section of our walk takes us past the controversial fencing (which seems to have been accepted now, after the previous version was destroyed). I tell Jimmy about the tensions and conflicting viewpoints that I have encountered here, and suggest that a co-creative process with the community would be valuable. Jimmy doesn’t disagree with this, but does offer a new perspective. They are also clear about the difference between participatory research as a knowledge production methodology (which is mainly what they do) and community engagement and consensus building practices, which they don’t claim expertise in. This is a helpful distinction for me, and it explains why there is no clear route from my participatory research walks round the Moss, to the community-engaged initiatives that might be valuable here. There is overlap, of course. But some more careful thinking is required about how and whether this project has the seeds of something more impactful.

For those who engage openly and constructively, the workshops and creative methods that Jimmy uses can be powerful methods that increase engagement and provide a sense of ownership and agency. But there will always be those who don’t choose to engage, perhaps because they are unable to do so, and often those who claim to speak for others and assert their opinions without listening to alternative ideas. This is not to assign blame – Jimmy recognises that the material conditions of someone’s life may prevent them from being able to engage. But Jimmy suggests that community engagement workshops would offer no guarantees that barriers would remain standing.

Every time I think I have this place worked out, a new walking partner disrupts my direction of travel. I welcome this. The lesson I have taken from today’s walk is that we need to enter into correspondence with the site itself – the birchwood and the stonechats, the burrs and the willow warblers, as well as the people who visit. If we spent time with this place, we can get a sense of its grain and start to work with it without preconceptions. If we can do this, then the right form will emerge.

May 20, 2026

My client is not in a hurry. (Antoni Gaudí)

I have spent most of the last two weeks in Catalonia, first in Cap de Salou with Iona, then at the Walking Assembly 2026 in Girona and the Pyrenees, and yesterday as a solo tourist in Barcelona. I returned late last night. Today, I have been plunged back into the emails and tasks that have mounted up in my absence. It is hard to believe that just hours ago I was sitting on Montjuïc looking out over the city, with Gaudí’s Sagrada Família in the distance. Now, I am escaping the admin by walking round a peatbog with my friend, Jo.

Jo is an important person in my career journey. When I was working on my PhD in theatre studies at the University of Glasgow in 2010, on the recommendation of my supervisor, I wrote a letter (back when we used to write such things) to the heads of related degree programmes at local universities, asking if they might have any teaching work available. One of these landed on Jo’s desk at the University of the West of Scotland’s Ayr campus, just as she was looking for performance teachers who could bridge theory and practice. We met for a coffee in Glasgow and within two years I had a full-time academic post. I worked at UWS for five years and by the time I left, my life had changed completely. Jo has been a mentor and friend ever since and I have plenty to thank her for.

We have lots to catch up on. Not only do I want to regale Jo with stories of my recent adventures, but we also have all the news of our families, and our work in art and education to share. Jo is one of the most energetic and enthusiastic people I know; her conversation is fast-flowing and lively, and she is always interested in what I have been up to and how my children are doing. We will have to be disciplined if we want to keep our attention on the task at hand. So we agree to share a cup of tea after our exploration of the Moss and hold all the other topics for now.

Jo has had some challenging professional experiences over the years – often bravely standing up to injustices and always prepared to take on the egos in charge of cultural and education institutions. She is therefore particularly drawn to projects like this, which she sees as an antidote to the extractive and unethical practices that have become so prevalent elsewhere. Taking time to build relationships with people and place, de-centring the researcher, and learning how to be other – I am pleased that Jo sees all these qualities in this work.

Jo is now semi-retired and has more time for exploring places like this. She arrived at Lenzie on an earlier train, having never visited before, and has been wandering round the town. Jo initially wondered whether the enthusiastic waves of a passing van driver were due to the friendly disposition of the residents. In fact, this was Gavin – an actor she has worked with a lot, and who I also know, and once bumped into on a walk round the Moss. Jo is scoping out routes to take her husband on and says she will return to Lenzie. I point out the route through the woods to the canal, which they have often walked along closer to their home in the west end of Glasgow.

Jo asks me about the peat bog, and I learn that her interest is driven partly by a love of whisky. She recalls a trip to Highland Park Distillery in the Orkneys and says that the whisky that is made there has a light peaty taste, which she compares favourably to the intensely smoky whiskies most associated with the Isle of Islay distilleries. While Islay’s Laphroaig kilns are fuelled by ‘a heady mix of the heather, lichen, seaweed, moss and woodland that decayed over the centuries’, Highland Park burns Orkney heathered peat, ‘which delivers complex floral aromas’. I wonder what whisky would be produced by smoking barley with peat from Lenzie Moss.

As we are not in any rush, we sit on one of the benches and look out over the bog. We watch swallows darting over the bog cotton, which is now growing all around us. Various timescales coalesce in this moment. It is now two days short of a full year since I began this project. I have walked with the Moss as it has changed through its annual cycle and look forward to at least another year of this project. I have known Jo for over 15 years now and we have followed each other’s work through many other projects at various other places. Reflection on time and personal history comes easily as we sit above centuries-old peat, slowly accumulating again, despite that rate at which it was extracted from this place.

I think about Gaudí, who began work on the basilica in 1883, but did not live to see its completion (the building is still under construction to this day). With God as his client, he wasn’t in any hurry to finish his great project. But great it certainly was. When I stood before it yesterday, as I sheltered from the thousands of tourists behind a bin, I felt overwhelmed and conflicted. Famously, the Sagrada Família’s height of 172.5 meters (which was only reached earlier this year) was deliberately capped by Gaudí to remain lower than the tallest point of the Montjuïc hill (just over five meters higher), because ‘the work of man must not surpass that of God’. Nevertheless, the building is designed to induce awe. I watched a crane lift a section of stonework into place and went on my way.

24 hours later, I reflect on the qualities that Jo sees in my own durational project and think about how light the traces are that I will leave behind. How many hours will I have spent walking round this site and writing about my encounters here? But sitting here with Jo, looking back over 12 months of walking Lenzie Moss, I am pleased to say that I have created nothing visible or enduring. The materials of this project are relational, the medium is ephemeral, and the legacy is words and memories.

I am grateful to Jo for helping me see the value in this way of working. As we reach the end of our walk and head to my house to finish our meeting with that promised cuppa, I realise how central time is to this project. Committing to these 100 circles has given me many hours of close connection to the Moss, but it has also afforded time to get to know my neighbours, learn from my guests, and maintain my friendships. As Gaudí knew, as did the whisky distillers from Islay to Orkney, time is the most important ingredient in any creative endeavour.

May 15, 2026

Just before I meet Julia, a pair of herons fly over Lenzie. I have never seen two flying together before. They soar fast and high, riding the wind, determined to get somewhere; at odds with the lazy feeling of this sunny spring morning.

I meet Julia outside her house and say a quick hello to her husband, Tony. Since Julia had to accompany Tony when I walked with him back in January, we planned another walk so I could find out more about Julia’s connection to the Moss. It is now exactly three months later – a deliberate delay since I know that Julia is enthusiastic about the birds of Lenzie Moss, and at this time of year, on a day like this, the air is filled with all kinds of birdsong.

Before we set off, I open the Merlin app and place my phone upside down in the drinks holder of my rucksack, so that the microphone can capture everything clearly as we walk. We will check the screen for a ‘bird audit’ every kilometre or so. I am not sure that we need it, though. Julia talks me through the different bird habitats of the Moss: chiffchaffs to the east; wrens to the north; stonechats to the west; and treecreepers to the south. As we follow Bea’s Path, a chiffchaff obliges us and Julia easily recognises its call.

Julia tells me that she has always been enchanted by birds, and that her interest is shared by her daughter. As a family, they have explored places in Scotland with unique birdlife: the Arctic geese of Islay; the eagles of Mull; and the seabirds of the Orkneys. But the Moss is almost on their doorstep and they have also enjoyed some memorable avian encounters closer to home. Julia tells me about the sparrowhawk that has visited their garden. And while they didn’t see one themselves, they have heard about ospreys at the Gadloch. I tell Julia about my fleeting encounters with a sparrowhawk and a buzzard, and my more regular sightings of kestrels, which she has also seen here.

We stop to check my phone: goldcrest, bullfinch, dunnock, jackdaw, chaffinch, willow warbler, blue tit, robin, great tit, chiffchaff, wren, blackbird, sparrow, treecreeper, coal tit, and goldfinch. And we are only at the boardwalk. We then see, and hear, an olive-yellow bird, singing away, on its perch in a birch tree. Its cascading song is very distinctive, so Julia has no doubt that this is a willow warbler.

As we walk south, we see that the bog cotton has burst into seed with thousands of fluffy white clumps bobbing in the breeze. Last year, Richard noted how late that had happened. We pause at the bottom of the boardwalk, beside the bog rosemary enclosure. When I walked with Bob a month ago, we studied the sign that had been pinned to the fencepost at this spot. I returned the next day to find that it had been torn down. It has since been replaced. Julia feels that informing the public is an important dimension of the conservation work here.

As we chat, I notice a man on his knees further along the path. I don’t think anything of it at first, but when he stands up and walks towards us with his black labrador, I notice that he is covered in blood. He has tripped over the exposed roots and knocked his nose. We make sure he is okay and Julia gives him some tissues. Luckily, it seems that the injury looks worse than it is and as he lives nearby, he is happy to continue on his way.

We walk on across the boardwalk and add a meadow pipit to our cast of characters. Like skylarks, which Julia and Tony saw recently here, meadow pipits are ground nesting birds. From March to October, when they are raising chicks, it is best to keep dogs on the lead at the boardwalk side of the Moss. Julia feels strongly about our collective responsibility to prioritise and make space for the wildlife that makes the Moss so special. If this means staying off the bog or keeping dogs close by during these vital months of the year, then we may need to accept that our habitual or established ways of being here need to change. It is about finding the balance between our desires and the needs of the wildlife. We know enough about the ecological impact of our actions to make the right decisions about what we do here. Having said this, there needs to be a serious and sustained effort to involve the community in these decisions – a topic I have discussed with many of the walkers on this project.

Julia talks about the landscape here: the industrial history of the area; the distinct zones of woodland, grassland and peatland; the view of the city in one direction and the hills in another. All this is important to Julia and her family. But she talks about the soundscape as equally precious and meaningful. We listen to chiffchaffs in the birchwood as the wind moves through the branches, and a distant train sounds its air chime, while the school break adds the voices of children to the soundtrack. An aeroplane flies over and we can just hear its faint rumbling engines. There is so much human and nonhuman life here, and for now at least, it all seems to be co-existing peacefully.

While I am well aware of the environmental impact of air travel and try to limit my air miles, I will be on a plane myself tomorrow. For the next couple of weeks, I will be spending time in Catalonia – visiting Reus, Tarragona, Barcelona and Girona, before joining the Walking Assembly 2026 at the Muga River in the Pyrenees. Last night, I joined a video call to meet some of the group and hear about what we would be up to. Birdsong was played throughout the meeting, and we were introduced to some of the Catalonian species we would be encountering. I am particularly keen to spot a golden oriole – a striking yellow migrant from Africa. Missing from the list, though, was the common chiffchaff. But they, too, spend time in Catalonia. Maybe a Lenzie chiffchaff will be there with me and the orioles.

Since I moved here three years ago, I have been enchanted by the vibrant lives of the many birds who make the Moss their home. Walking with Julia today has enhanced my connection to them, and taught me to identify more of them by sight and song. I understand entirely why so many people like Julia and her family are drawn to birds and spend so much of their time travelling to meet them and staying in their company. Birds take us out of ourselves and show us that there is more to this world than our human limitations. They fly high above us and commune with the wind.

Apr 30, 2026

When I started this project in May last year, I ventured out to the Moss on a beautiful summer day, accompanied by blossom and birdsong. While it is not quite summer yet, and I am a couple of walks short of the halfway point, today is one of those days. I will wait until I reach the fifty-walk milestone before I allow myself a midpoint celebration, but after a year of changing seasons, including many walks in rain, snow and wind, I will enjoy a return to the Moss in the sunshine, once again surrounded by new life.

I am walking with Eilidh – an environmental artist from Kilcreggan on the Rosneath Peninsula on the west coast. Eilidh now lives near Forfar in Angus, where she is a PhD student at Duncan of Jordanstone College of Art and Design in Dundee. Eilidh’s supervisor is Professor Mary Modeen, who I worked with at the University of Edinburgh recently, where we co-examined a PhD together. Eilidh’s artistic practice includes writing, sculpture and installation. She is concerned with the sustainability of art-making and often works with natural dyes and clays, or found materials like plant ashes, egg shells and sand.

Eilidh is researching Scottish wetland regeneration, using her creative practice as a research methodology. She is interested in the role of artists in rewilding initiatives, asking how we can engage the public with processes of species reintroduction and habitat restoration. Her research will involve collaborations with communities, artists and scientists and will lead to maps and documents of her field sites. Eilidh’s work resonates with my research and the emerging story of Lenzie Moss that I have encountered through these walks. But there is one aspect of her PhD project that I am particularly interested in: her focus on landscapes shaped by beavers.

I have always thought that the woodland to the north of the Moss looks very similar to the ‘terraqueous’ (land and water) environments that beavers thrive within, and create for themselves. These shifting watery and earthy borderlands are shaped by routes for feeding and escape – pathways between the underwater entrances to their lodges and to their food supply of grasses, leaves and bark. I think we can learn a lot from beavers’ boundary-crossing ways.

I know beaver habitats well, having spent time in the years before the pandemic at Bamff Estate in Perthshire – the site of one of Scotland’s longest established beaver populations. Over several visits, I worked with a group of artists and scientists to explore the ways in which humans might collaborate and become part of the beavers’ worlds. We made sculptures, films and songs, wrote poems and essays, and I published a chapter about the project, which I am delighted to hear Eilidh has read. She has also visited Bamff, so we compare our experiences there. We chat about the contested politics of beaver reintroductions – a controversial subject in Scotland, due to the impact that beavers can have on waterways and the adjoining fields and woodland.

We see parallels in some of the tensions that I have encountered here. We investigate the paths and signs, and reflect on the dogs that run around us off their leads (as Clyde often does), and the impact this has on the environment. Eilidh says that as humans, we dominate every landscape; we strive for control over land and stomp wherever we like. For Eilidh, change is vital, however difficult that may be. She asks: as the rewilding movement grows in numbers and projects, how do we encourage the loosening of our grip on the land? How do we let go, and watch our terrain become patchy and messy, dynamic and unpredictable? Eilidh believes that this starts with community engagement and public education, listening to the people who live here and establishing relationships that can move forward together. There are lessons here for the beaver reintroduction movement, just as there are for peatland conservation.

While there are no beavers at Lenzie Moss, both beavers and bogs are connected through their relationship with water. As the Wildlife Trusts explain, beavers, who are often referred to as ‘ecosystem engineers’,

[…] make changes to their habitats, such as coppicing trees, damming smaller water courses, and digging ‘beaver canal’ systems. These activities create diverse and dynamic wetlands that can bring enormous benefits to other species, such as otters, water shrews, water voles, birds, invertebrates (especially dragonflies) and breeding fish, as well as sequestering carbon.

Bogs, too, sequester carbon, and both beavers and bogs can help to prevent flooding (‘the channels, dams and wetland habitats that beavers create hold back water and release it more slowly after heavy rain’). I wonder what beavers would make of, and make with, this place. As we walk along the north woods path, I point out that the gardens of the houses that border the Moss are prone to flooding. Perhaps beaver inhabitation would help solve this problem? (I am sure there are plenty of counterarguments to this suggestion, so I only make it speculatively).

Eilidh tells me that in 2023, when Storm Babet crashed through the country, her house was badly flooded. When she initially pitched her PhD research, Eilidh was interested in natural flood management. But she says that the experience is too recent and too raw for her to fully embrace an artistic exploration of flooding, at least for now. She is nevertheless drawn to wetlands and their water retaining qualities. Beavers allow an exploration of these dynamics from a different perspective.

During my fieldwork at Bamff, we studied maps of the site and examined aerial photographs that showed the landscape alterations that the beavers had brought about. I was struck by the difference between the fragmented mosaic of the beaverlands and the monocultural fields of the neighbouring farmlands. When Eilidh and I pass the ponds to the south of the Moss, we peer into the green algae filled water and I am struck by how reminiscent it is of those beaver pools – albeit on a much smaller scale. The sticks are fallen trees, brought down by roots weakened by expanded waterways, or by gnawing teeth; the leaves and moss are patches of earth amongst the ponds.

Mapping, aerial images, measuring and both qualitative and quantitative data are all important parts of Eilidh’s artistic practice. She makes sculptural forms through contour mapping, moulds with wild clay, and makes zines, maps and notebooks. Eilidh describes her practice as a form of ‘deep mapping’ – an expansion of traditional cartography through ongoing performances, exchanges, assemblages and experiments. I am familiar with the concept of deep mapping and have used it before in my own work (I once attempted to deep map my commute between Glasgow and Ayr). The point is to keep things open and moving, rather than fixing place into a ‘flat’ representation.

Discussing this method with Eilidh today reminds me that these 100 walks round Lenzie Moss might also usefully be thought of as a process of deep mapping, and the blog as a textual deep map. Ongoing conversations, reflections, documentation and dissemination are at the heart of this extended encounter with the site. Eilidh’s creative research has a similar aspiration. I am looking forward to following her deep mapping process over the next years.

Apr 24, 2026