All white sand and tall grass, preening like some displaced Caribbean hideaway: Findhorn Bay. The map doesn’t lie; this is the Moray coast of northern Scotland, and I could believe in teleportation at this moment. Ancient wooden handrails, stripped to the bone, beckon me down to the lips of the North Sea. The water piles onto the sand in slow, wintry waves. There are no souls with me on this beach, though the backside of the dune is littered with shops, kayaks, cars, and families. The sea mutters and I smell seaweed baked in the sun.
Who built this invitation? After passing through the scratchy grasses, a slight breeze on my skin, I forget where I am. Only the water spans under my vision, the sky above. There seems little reason for a horizon. Everything is as it should be, and I’m reminded that no matter how hard we try to remake this planet according to our imagings, it is both a fool’s errand and foolish.