We have been in Edinburgh for 10 months, for half that time I have had a bad ankle. The first 5 months I walked and walked and walked, acquainting my self with the city. It was all so alien, I photographed the views from our 4th floor rented flat and got to know my art skills again on a different level.

When I visited down South, my body ached and felt punched with the sense of loss.

Since February, we have moved into our flat, I can bash holes in walls, and put up shelves. We have subterranean views and my foot is slowly getting better.

Last week I visited the IOW and Hamble with family. I have long associations with both, having visited on a weekly basis for years sailing on my parents boat.

I loved the knowing, every way I turned, it felt like I had an awareness of being there again and again and again. I could see views and turns in the road, on different days, seasons, times of the day. The layers of knowing over 50 years can’t be replicated in Scotland, it will never truly feel like home.

What is home? My sofa? My bed? Jon?
As a concept I can call the flat in Edinburgh home, but my body tells me otherwise when I visit the south of England and I experience the embodiment of having lived there



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