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A perfectly intact coconut lay nestling at the water's edge. It's not what you expect when you're walking the eastern shore of Loch Lomond in early September. Any time of year for that matter. We're on Day 3 of the West Highland Way. Yesterday we weathered swirling mist and steady rain, made it up and over Conic Hill (it's all in the name), en route passing a stream of young women carrying huge backpacks and coiffed with the most extraordinary plaits out doing their Duke of Edinburgh Silver award expedition. And we survived the long-winded check-in process at the Rowardennan...

They stuffed me full of dirty washing – always the same on the way home. All that neatly-packed, fragrant load I had to carry on the way out exchanged for dusty shoes filled with socks or knickers and soiled tee-shirts on top. At least they’re not sweaty people, my owners. I’ve heard from friends on carousels or luggage racks what some of them have to put up with. So, I count myself lucky in a way. The lady at the check-in seemed OK. She put the sticky tag around my handle quite gently. I waved at my owners; I always do,...

We knew they spent part of the year here. But we had no address, just a vague idea of direction - somewhere far from the main town. Here is a small green island, high up in the Aegean, smothered with trees, dotted with pebble beaches, fringed with yachts and other small craft anchored in sparkling bays, surrounded by other, mostly empty islands large and small like green gems set in lapis lazuli, and lapped by a soft sea. Alonissos. We had thought, again vaguely, that we might try and track down our lost friends. when some other friends invited us to spend...

Summer warmth, autumn winds. August days tinged with October.  I walk the towpath on the north side of the river. Twickenham to Richmond. Dipping down from the broad, bustling, characterless main road through the ancient churchyard. Dark sarcophagi. Mossy gravestones bent over from years. Soulful.   The river.  Early morning. Still. Quiet. The road winds behind The Stables where local government officials are tethered to flickering machines. Past the White Swan. Droplets of last night’s downpour glisten on umbrellas above empty tables. A lone glass holds dregs of beer diluted with rain. Last night’s laughter echoes softly in the canopy of trees. Passing under...