There’s loads of quotes from big brained folks why perfection should not be the destination and why practice is more important. 

I want to share how a regret from years ago turned into a valuable lesson that has recently dragged me out of my comfort zone and could have me doing some self-promotion. Folk will know the court jester cap’n’bells sits naturally on my napper, but selling my strengths has always felt slightly erroneous and a wee bit uncomfortable.  Hopefully, by sharing this experience and some fruits of my efforts may lead me to show others how to ease their mental burdens and struggles by encouraging them to step out of their own comfort zones without too much self advertising.

Sorry, I am going to start with the daft game of golf. Please, don’t be put off, it’s only used initially to elaborate on my repentance.

To achieve a golf handicap all you have to do is give a score card for three separate rounds to the course professional. They have an algorithm that figures out how many shots you can remove from your following rounds or, in other words, what kind of advantage you should receive over your opponents or, in golf speak, your handicap. About 20 years ago, I was always stoating about manicured fields with an obsession of firing a wee white baw in a wee hole in the ground. This infatuation lasted for about five years, all my spare time was spent on the course, out the back chipping balls into a bucket or practicing putting, and looking back, it does ma stainbrain in, that I never got a handicap confirmed. I waited for perfect rounds, wanting to start the golf journey from the best possible place. My interest in chasing after the wee white baw waned before pride let me give the golf pro 3 score cards. .   

Sorry, for bumping my gums about golf. 

Ave been trying to highlight why I have eventually got off ma erse to self-publish a wee story I started tapping out on my phone over a decade ago.  It took around 6 years for it to evolve from an unintelligible collection of boring words to be slightly credible, well, at least not completely embarrassing and then a further 4 or 5 years lying around in an interweb drawer before I said “ Funk it “ and signed the story’s soul over to bawbag Bezos. It might be considered lazy or even call me Scrouge McDuck for not splashing out and having it edited by a person that didn’t reek of dyslexia and had a smidgen of writing acumen. The text could have been enhanced using chat GeepeeTee and would have sorted out most of ma errors, but I kinda wanted to present some creativity. Once I resigned myself to push forward with the imperfect text, the dilemma of generating an artificially intelligent front cover instead of employing a graphical designer was pushed down ma worry list and until it was nearly ignored.

Dukes Pass, as mentioned earlier,  began about a decade ago. I had been tapping out excessively long and the odd time I produced nearly entertaining swimming blogs, which flaunted my passion for outdoor watery adventures, and I kind of fell into typing out a fictional tale. The initial idea was conceived when I had a brainspunk moment traveling home from an early Saturday morning splash and paddle circuit of Loch Ard. It was a pack of road cyclists razzing passed in the opposite direction that got ma bouldernut bubbling away. We were close to the collection of houses called Ruskie near the village of Thornhill. It’s a gorgeous twisting and turning ancient road, giving views across the flat carse of Flanders Moss and the Gargunock hills on the horizon looking south. I was struck with the question of “What drives these folks on their bikes to sack a leisurely long lie in bed and risk life and limb on a razor sharp seat and pair of wheels wearing full on tight bright sports gear.” 

Starting to write blogs surprised me, I had always been academically challenged and I was still scratching my heed as I tried figure out the process of expanding on a borefest swim report that mainly concentrated on me narrowly avoiding a watery demise by drowning, with some nonsense from my previous lifes chucked in, to try and make folk stay engaged. The concept of writing fiction was alien, and it took a couple of years to grasp that what I had imagined had to be described for folk to understand. I know it sounds like a rudimentary flaw. Initially, I thought folk could picture and understand the cartoons from my head through the basic contrived conversations I had entered on my device’s screen. Eventually, I figured out that the character interaction, which was the vertebrae for the story, required some muscle, skin, and a description of clothing added to the story’s skeleton to make it slightly absorbing.

The story grew and developed as I dreamed of the characters and the scenarios that they were involved in. It was like a treasure or more like scavenger hunt than a detailed story board with a precise development plan.  Every time I started tapping away, the plot would swoop, surge and alter, reflecting the character’s imaginary bike rides or wild swims.  

At 60k words, it’s not the longest story ever written, although, it is tapped on my phone screen one letter at a time and required every second letter to be deleted or corrected because my chunky sausage fingers distributed a constant stream of errors. Come on, what’s the longest Whats-app message you have sent, and how many errors did you correct? Awe yeah,  proving my point, unless yer a slim fingered perfect screen tapper. Sorry, I am just jealous of yer skills. Although, this protracted process gave lots of time for story refinements. 

Please accept all my apologies for the basic errors and stick with it. I understand brains and attentions switch off after recognising a few mistakes, but in it’s defense, this tale has got the odd funny bit and some human connection that have been tied together with grand descriptions of my beautiful homeland, that I feel will reward folk for toiling through my scribbles and scrawls.

So yeah, this blog is just a bunch of excuses to promote a poorly edited self-published story but more to highlight my new venture. No, not writing. One short story every decade isn’t very productive. No, I am trying to become a cold water immersion facilitator. This is not going to be a get rich or even a paid thing. It’s more about knowing how jumping in Iochs, waterfalls and puddles converted me from acting like an unhinged radge, to behave a little sensible sometimes and I want to try and help guide folk to maybe realise life doesn’t have to be an anxious hole of dread, fear and over thinking, it can be enjoyable with the odd laugh and smile. All it takes is some baws to remove the protective clothing, keeping you warm on blustery, michty fearsome days. I am not going to lie. Sometimes, it’s a struggle, leaving you constantly doubting your sanity, standing toasty warm on the shoreside contemplating stripping off and jumping in, but submerging in cold water installs big smiles and instils a calm, carefree affect on mental states that are worth all the sacrifices.

“Yer skin is waterproof” after all.

So please have a wee squawatch of the Dukes Pass story.  https://amzn.eu/d/baOsc82 

If you are feeling a wee bit lost or you struggle to completely fill your lungs. You might not have noticed that you are surviving on a constant stream of shallow breaths, is yer belly bar tight full of anxiety? Are you curious to explore if all the wild swimming, cold watery therapy hype is real or a just lot of pish.  Let’s go for a wee dook, or we could have a chat, I will listen and try to understand, not just wait for you to pause so I can interject. You can ask for some advice, maybe reduce some of the fears about going for a swim and getting cold.

There is a separate Instagram account Swim.Outside (I am trying to keep the auld bike photos separate)

https://www.instagram.com/swim.outside

I don’t want to repeat my failed golf history by waiting for the perfect round or perfect edit. The Dukes Pass story has a few duff shots that land in the rough, some of hits are worm burners that never gain any height, although most of the shouts of “FORE” have been adjusted to land inbounds. Mostly though, I think it has some bangers that smash straight down the middle of the fairway, a few birdies, the odd eagle attempt, and some imaginative play from the 5 wood, 7 iron and sand wedge that would give a worthy score card and the views from the imaginary tees leave you feeling as though you’ve had a grand day out and ready for some refreshments in the club house.

Hopefully, Dukes Pass will clear some clouds from yer day, allowing for some sunshine and a smile. Here’s hoping with a little compassion for others and some effort this Swim Outside malarkey will help folk ease some tension and find a wee bit joy. 

Awe the photos are from adventures over the years in and around Trossachs that contains the road the Dukes Pass. This area is my paradise, and I feel blessed to live a few miles south from it in Stirling.

Swim Outside. Feel Better. 

Churs