There’s loads of quotes from big-brained folks on why perfection shouldn’t be the destination and why practice is more important.

​I want to share how a regret from years ago turned into a valuable lesson—one that’s dragged me out of my comfort zone and into the realm of self-promotion. Folk will know the court jester cap’n’bells sits naturally on my napper, so selling my strengths has always felt a wee bit uncomfortable and unnatural. Hopefully, sharing this experience—and some fruits of my efforts—might show others how to ease their own mental burdens by stepping out of their comfort zones, without too much sales pitch attached.

Now bear with me, because I’m going to start with the daft game of golf. Don’t be put off—it’s only used to explain my daft wee regret.

To achieve a golf handicap, all you have to do is hand three scorecards from three separate rounds to the course pro. They run them through an algorithm that figures out 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, obsessed with firing a wee white baw into a wee hole in the ground. This infatuation lasted about five years. All my spare time was spent on the course, out the back chipping balls into a bucket, or practicing my putting.

​Looking back, it does ma stainbrain in that I never actually got a handicap confirmed. I kept waiting for three perfect rounds, wanting to start my golf journey from the best possible place. But my interest in chasing after that wee white baw waned before ma pride ever let me hand the golf pro three scorecards.

So bumping ma gums about this daft regret, explains why I 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 something slightly credible (well, at least not completely embarrassing). Then it spent a further 4 or 5 years lying around in an interweb drawer before I finally said, “Funk it,” and signed the story’s soul over to bawbag Bezos.

​You might consider it lazy, or call me Scrooge McDuck for not splashing out and having it edited by a person who didn’t reek of dyslexia and had a smidgen of writing acumen. The text could have been enhanced using chat GeepeeTee, which would have sorted out most of ma errors, but I kinda wanted to present raw creativity. Once I resigned myself to pushing forward with the imperfect text, the dilemma of generating an artificially intelligent front cover instead of employing a graphic designer was pushed down ma worry list until it was completely ignored.

Dukes Pass began about a decade ago. I had been tapping out excessively long (and when I got lucky, nearly entertaining) swimming blogs that flaunted my passion for outdoor watery adventures, and I kind of fell into typing out a fictional tale.

​The initial idea was conceived during 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 past 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, ancient road with views across the flat carse of Flanders Moss and the Gargunnock Hills on the horizon looking south.

I was struck with the question: “What drives these folks on their bikes to sack a leisurely long lie in bed, risking life and limb on a razor-sharp seat and a pair of wheels while 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 trying to figure out how to expand on a borefest swim report—which mainly concentrated on me narrowly avoiding a watery demise by drowning, with some nonsense from my previous lives chucked in to keep folk engaged.

The concept of writing fiction was alien, and it took a couple of years to grasp that what I had imagined in my head actually had to be described for folk to understand it. I know it sounds like a rudimentary flaw. Initially, I thought folk could picture the cartoons playing in my head just through the basic, contrived conversations I’d tapped out on my screen. Eventually, I figured out that character interaction—which was the vertebrae of the story—required muscle, skin, and a description of clothing added to the skeleton to make it slightly absorbing.

The story grew as I dreamed up the characters and their scenarios. It was more like a scavenger hunt than a detailed storyboard with a precise development plan. Every time I started tapping away, the plot would swoop, surge, and alter, reflecting the characters’ imaginary bike rides or wild swims.

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.

At 60,000 words, it’s not the longest story ever written, but consider this: it was tapped out on a phone screen, one letter at a time. Every second letter had to be deleted or corrected because my chunky sausage fingers distributed a constant stream of errors. Come on, what’s the longest WhatsApp message you’ve ever sent, and how many errors did you have to fix?

Awe yeah—point proven. Unless yer a slim-fingered, perfect screen tapper. (In which case, I’m just jealous of yer skills.)

On the upside, this protracted process gave me plenty of time for story refinements. So please, accept my apologies for the basic errors and stick with it. I understand brains and attention spans switch off after recognizing a few mistakes. But in its defense, this tale has got the odd funny bit and some genuine human connection, tied together with grand descriptions of my beautiful homeland that I hope will reward folk for toiling through my scribbles and scrawls.

So yeah, this blog is a bunch of excuses to promote a poorly edited self-published story—but even more, it’s to highlight my new venture. No, not writing. One short story every decade isn’t very productive.

“Yer skin is waterproof” after all.

​I am trying to become a cold water immersion facilitator. This isn’t a get-rich scheme or even a paid thing. It’s about knowing how jumping into lochs, waterfalls, and puddles converted me from acting like an unhinged radge to behaving a wee bit sensible sometimes. I want to help guide folk to realise life doesn’t have to be an anxious hole of dread, fear, and overthinking. 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’m not going to lie—sometimes it’s a struggle. You’re 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 instills a calm, carefree effect on mental states that is 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’re feeling a wee bit lost, or you struggle to completely fill your lungs… if you haven’t noticed that you’re surviving on a constant stream of shallow breaths, with yer belly bar-tight with anxiety… or if you’re just curious to explore if all the wild swimming and cold water therapy hype is real or just a lot of pish: let’s go for a wee dook.

Or we could just 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 advice, or maybe we can reduce some of those 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 the perfect edit. The Dukes Pass story has a few duff shots that land in the rough, and some of the hits are worm-burners that never gain any height, though most of the shouts of “FORE!” have been adjusted to land inbounds.

​Mostly, it’s the 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. The views from the tees leave you feeling as though you’ve had a grand day out on a worthy scorecard, leaving you ready for some refreshments in the clubhouse.

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 of joy.

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

Swim Outside. Feel Better. 

Churs