It’s the end of October and the weather is turning.  I stepped out and felt the blustery autumn wind on my face, still warm for this time of year, the rain was beginning to fall lightly on my cheeks. I walked down past the castle to the beach.  The tide was out and the water was crashing against the rocks on the lower shore, spilling over the shiny black surfaces, swirling and dancing amongst the kelp and wrack seaweeds.

Today is the day, 20 years ago, that I made my way over to Scotland for the first time. It was a spontaneous trip in many ways, full of anticipation for new adventure. I was young and trying to make a go of my art, learning to live and survive in the big city of Toronto.  But deep down, I was beginning to feel the urge for change and spaces faraway.

Sometime in early autumn I went to a talk given by a British film-maker I had read about in my philosophy course — someone who is now my good friend and colleague.  He was being hosted at the University of Toronto and spoke largely about film-making. Near the end of the evening he mentioned a place he had just bought in Scotland, inviting us all to come visit (this was to a crowd of 200+ artists, film-makers, writers, dancers etc.). My ears perked up at that and my friends, Rob and Marcia, two artists living in Toronto at the time, and I looked at each other. We were all thinking the same thing: ‘We need to go there!’. I left the university and walked home quite casually, but something significant had been planted in my mind that evening, even though I was hardly aware of this.

Soon afterward, I was up in Huntsville, Ontario, teaching watercolour painting workshops at Algonquin and Arrowhead Provincial Parks.   In my search for jobs on the local library computer one day, the idea of the north of Scotland popped into my head and I wrote an email to the screenwriter, never thinking I’d get such a quick and open response.

Some days, maybe even weeks later, I was sitting in a busy Toronto cafe with my friend, Andy, and I told him about this place in the north of Scotland that I was fantasising about. ‘Why don’t you go?’ He said. I said I’d love to, but included all the reasons why it might not be the best idea, the main one being the cost of getting over and staying there for a stretch. My idea, if it worked, was to spend some time there, painting.  He then told me that his Mom had some tickets to get rid of - Air Canada flights that needed using before Christmas. I could hardly believe my ears.  They were priority standby tickets and all I’d have to pay was a small amount of airport tax and travel before the end of the year.   What an incredible moment.  Suddenly my mind did a complete gearshift. It did not take me long to tell friends and family that I would be leaving for Scotland.  My plan was to go for 6 weeks.  Some were surprised, but supportive; others thought I was just crazy.

I packed my things into a large duffel bag and suitcase, taking along painting commissions I had in a black portfolio, and went to the Toronto Pearson airport for a 10pm flight to Glasgow. I waited in the main hall for my name to be called. Suddenly doubts poured in and I thought ‘If my name isn’t called for this flight, I’m not going.’ But it was 10 minutes before the departure: ‘Monique Sliedrecht, please go to gate for flight to Glasgow. Monique Sliedrecht, go to gate for flight to Glasgow.’ I had approximately 10 minutes to run to the other side of the airport with all my bags. Before I knew it, I was on the plane and heading to Glasgow.

I was in a bit of a daze when the pilot announced our arrival early morning the next day. I felt as though in a dream. Having landed and got my bags, I made my way to Queen Street train station and rang my host to let him know I was really on my way to the north...

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