As I overlook the Reserve, it sprawls out in front of me. The Sand Loch sits proud like a glistening jewel, skirted by moss and pretty yellow flowers – or gowans, as Burns would call them.

There are a myriad of things which are observable; first to sight, then to sense. The timid breeze – just enough to tickle my neck in a way which makes me uncomfortable. The sky always appears enormous; either so blue it’s almost too bright to look at, or it’s forbidding – threatening, dark. It’s so often punctuated by equally enormous clouds that look so large they could consume all that lies below. The Reserve sprawls out before me, as far as the eye can see. The Loch is some forty feet below me, with a descent winding round a stony path.

I know it well. It’s a place I’ve been in countless times over the years. It’s familiar to me, and it’s a place I can let my mind wander from thought to thought. It’s also a place that can feel threatening to me at times. The hills that skirt the path often cast shadows – depending on the time of day. The mixture of grasses – both hard and soft, rustle in the breeze, which creates a somewhat unsettling sound; almost as if someone – or something – is approaching, camouflaged, ready to pounce. It took me some time to realise that it’s not the place. Nothing will happen. It’s my brain’s way of telling me to open up; a symptom of my cerebral palsy. I once saw it as a negative, but it’s taught me to slow down. See more. Hear more. Perhaps what we all have to do in a world that is so loud, hectic, and uncertain, is simply learn to be.