Voices From The Crow's Nest

(After you have read these introductory paragraphs once, you can skip to the new/old content below. If you are listening, then the time stamp is around the two minute 45 second mark.)IntroductionThe word settled, to me, carries connotations I am keen to avoid. I have never felt settled or, perhaps, I cannot recall a time I felt settled. I do not feel settled now, writing this, and I’ve lived in the same house for three and a half years. Without even discussing the obvious issues of colonisation, I just don’t feel like I could, or should, settle; better to keep my constituent parts shook up, agitated perhaps, rather than separating and stagnant.Instead, I feel as though I have been travelling for years, maybe because I have not lived in my ‘home’ nation of Scotland for eight and a half years, perhaps because I know I won’t stay here forever, or maybe because I carry that concept of home in a way which differs from many?More precisely, I still think of myself as a slow traveller, globally feral. Recently, I have been revisiting places through the photographs and words I recorded when my feet crossed their soil. This is a way of reminding myself of where I have been, not just in space and time, but in mind, too. It is a wonderful thing, to come out of a low and rediscover myself through words I crafted, through the lens of a camera, when memory has wandered in the fog for too long. Thank you, past me.When I first started sharing letters with the world in this fashion, six or more years ago, I usually began them with a vignette of where I was, a sort-of travel diary, mixed with nature observation, locking in the setting for the reader, before I spoke of other things—and, by so doing, ensuring that place fed into the whole. It was a useful device, for reader and myself both but, as these letters were sent to so few readers, and now languish archived behind a paywall, I thought it a shame not to share these snippets again.As such, I am going to share a short series of these sketches, accompanied by a photograph from that time, sent to you in date order.I shall include the above paragraphs in each of the letters in this series, but I shall also include a link at the very start, so you can skip ahead once you are familiar with the above words. If you are listening and similarly want to skip, then the timestamp you want to navigate to will be in the same place.Taken without these paragraphs, each is a short read, and I hope you enjoy them.Isère, France. May, 2021.Of all the magics I have witnessed, the time of the mountain greening is perhaps that which quickens my heart the most.The bursting of spring is deliciously fresh, the bee drone of the long hot summer days sensuality itself, the roaring of the stags as the woodlands turn red and gold and yellow and russet thrills without exception, and the deep quiet of the snow-thick winter places the perfect hideaway for serious meditation.Yet, for each of the four readily-acknowledged seasons, there are many others shoehorned within their boundaries—and, increasingly, those boundaries and dates are themselves stretched and altered.Winter is not just deep winter, it is first-frost and first-snow, it is the shortest day, and the coldest time, it is when the wolves howl and the skies dance with the magic of the aurora, the sparkle of the stars and galaxies stretching out and out and out, far beyond our time and space. It is full of many things, each a season unto itself, each a moment which is reached, a step on a path winding through our lives.The mountain greening is a small portion of spring. I have been fortunate to be near mountains in spring on several occasions. Perhaps not as much as I would like, but there are other springs in other places, and I do not have that many years to experience every shift of the earth. Other springs, whether by the coast of Scotland and the changing of the birds and budding of the clifftop and dune flowers, or whether the end of the dry season and the coming of the rains in the tropics, the relief of clear air palpable—they are all wonders of their own.Watching that creeping line of fresh, bright green moving up a wooded mountainside, however, is something ancient, something primeval—buried within me so very deeply I cannot help but pause and stare, no matter how many times I look. There are days where the sun coaxes the trees to leaf almost before my eyes, another strata unfurling, pushing higher and higher, only to pause with the night, or a colder or overcast day, resting on this plateau, catching a breath in that corrie or below that ridge, before pushing over and beyond and ever up.Here, in Isère, the mountain greening is well underway, but not yet over. Every morning, as I look out the window at the view of the Vercors Massif to the west, I try and gauge whether the line of trees in leaf is higher than yesterday, whether the yellow tree flowers and catkins on the lower slopes have conquered another elevation, or have decided to camp and recover for a spell. As in Scotland, there are days in which the unfurling is almost visible to the naked eye, and others where nothing moves at all. (The two photos of the same scene below were taken a week apart, on the south shore of Loch Nevis—the Lake of Heaven—in the west of Scotland.)For me, this is true magic. It is not straightforward, it is not a yes/no response, does not follow a strict timetable or plan. Instead, it is chaos, diverse factors acting upon each tree, each branch and each leaf bud. The whole is a metaphor for the year, for life itself—we cannot fit everything into neat bundles of pre-ordained time: life and death happen, whether we want them to or not.The mountain greening also reminds me of something I studied back in the mists of time—the concept of refugia, of places in mountain valleys where life continues, no matter how strong the wind, how high the ice beyond. This is where certain tree species hid and waited, biding their time and outlasting the ice age, spreading forth once more across continents, a slow, inexorable march.Refugia are hope encapsulated. Each refuge an ark of genetic material, each carrying promise of life anew. As I look at the world we live in, how we are failing—or have failed?—to contain great change ahead, I remember these places, every spring a flush of green joy, every leaf a reminder that we have been mislabelling climate change for too long. The idea of global systems failing, of huge swathes of the earth becoming uninhabitable or too dangerous to live in is, of course, too esoteric, too obtuse—it does not engage the individual, or the tribe at large.Every civilisation before ours has been sure they would continue on and on. Every civilisation has looked at those before their own and deemed them lesser developed, less hardy, surmising their own had fewer chances of failing. Every civilisation has been wrong. Ours is no different.The real peril of climate change is not to the earth itself—the planet operates at different timescales remember, vast, vast timescales very difficult for the untrained to comprehend—no, the real peril is to humankind.If we relabel the battle to save the planet as the battle to save our species I suspect more might be done but, honestly, throughout all this, I simply prefer to remember the mountain greening, the refugia—those species which will survive beyond ours. It is a curious sense of hope, one entangled in a web of death and extinction and violent change—but it is hope nevertheless, and that is something joyful.Well, that turned out a little longer than intended. I had planned on merely sharing the joy of watching the mountain turn green, but my brain decided you should instead hear my wider thought-process. Sometimes this is the way, similarly with my fiction—what I think will be a quick scene turns into something more, something more dense, more chewy... [EDITOR’S NOTE, May 2026: This particular month marked the point when my briefer vignettes, those I’ve been sharing as my Witness Notes, began to take on a different appearance, longer, more entwined with the world and the events shaping all around us. I toyed with the idea of editing this down, just to include the place- and time-specific, but that felt reductive and a little sad. There was—and is—a reason why I talk about active hope and the great upheaval our species is creating and receiving both. As such, I have left the piece as it was, taking other parts of the same letter (separated by the photos) which followed on with the same theme. There will be other Witness Notes, shorter scenes and observations, but I think I need to share these as they were crafted, with only minor alterations, in order to do the words justice. I hope that they are still of interest.]It is May, my favourite month of the year, not because it contains my birthday, but because it is the month where new growth and new green consistently gathers pace and pushes the year forward into a burst of life. At least here in the northern hemisphere, of course—I do not forget there are many millions of people for whom May means something different.Although there are obviously other months with 31 days within them before May in the calendar, this is the first month I see as truly long. I suspect this is because the daylight continues to lengthen (again, up here in the north), and the sun works its magic upon me after the winter and early spring.The world we live in is at a point of great change. All too often, people assume things will continue along the same path they have in recent history, but recent history is just that, a snapshot in time. Move the scale a little and it is hard not to notice how we as a species are still relatively new. All of civilisation itself has occurred within a tiny timeframe, the portion since the industrial revolution even more microscopic. Yet, it is this portion which is altering our planet at a ridiculously fast rate.It is easy to place our heads in the sand and ignore the damage, ignore the issues. It is easy to overlook the changes, to simply focus on the day-to-day, the simple acts of making a living, eating, sleeping, rinse and repeat. And this is how you can be controlled, how you can lose a sense of your own individual power.Some people think about the changes in the world and then give in to despair, they do not see how they can make a difference. It is all too easy to lose hope.However, remember the refugia? Those small mountain valleys where trees rested, biding their time, to once more spread out across a continent?I would suggest we all take some time to acknowledge the good things in our lives: good food, the connection we feel to a powerful story, those lateral shifts in our brains when we play a game and, above all, perhaps, that sense of belonging we can achieve through the study of the nature around us.Take these things and consider yourself a mountain valley, a refuge of one—and reach out, spread your joy at a movie, your delight at identifying a species of fungi for the very first time, or the fact you can vote peacefully and safely in your country. Share it. Show others who may either have their heads buried in the proverbial sand, or may have given in to despair, to ‘I’m one person, what can I do?’; show them, and offer them something powerful.We are all refugia, we all carry the potential of hope, the potential of joy and rebirth and love. Times are perilous, times are changing—but I wholeheartedly believe we can all make a positive difference, nevertheless.FinallyIf you can afford to, there are currently two direct ways to support my work here. The first way is to take out a paid subscription.The second way to support me here is to use my Kofi button/link to send a tip of any amount. If you enjoyed this letter and wish to share it with others, please do so! I love it when someone shares my work.I also love it when you comment on a piece—really, really love it. Although I always read and appreciate these comments, during 2025, I was not as good at responding as quickly as I would like but, seeing as my word of the year for 2026 is ‘communication’, I like to think that will soon change (I’m getting there!).Finally, many thanks for reading. I truly appreciate each and every one of you who does. Get full access to The Crow's Nest at alexandermcrow.substack.com/subscribe

(After you have read these introductory paragraphs once, you can skip to the new/old content below. If you are listening, then the time stamp is around the two minute 45 second mark.)IntroductionThe word settled, to me, carries connotations I am keen to avoid. I have never felt settled or, perhaps, I cannot recall a time I felt settled. I do not feel settled now, writing this, and I’ve lived in the same house for three and a half years. Without even discussing the obvious issues of colonisation, I just don’t feel like I could, or should, settle; better to keep my constituent parts shook up, agitated perhaps, rather than separating and stagnant.Instead, I feel as though I have been travelling for years, maybe because I have not lived in my ‘home’ nation of Scotland for eight and a half years, perhaps because I know I won’t stay here forever, or maybe because I carry that concept of home in a way which differs from many?More precisely, I still think of myself as a slow traveller, globally feral. Recently, I have been revisiting places through the photographs and words I recorded when my feet crossed their soil. This is a way of reminding myself of where I have been, not just in space and time, but in mind, too. It is a wonderful thing, to come out of a low and rediscover myself through words I crafted, through the lens of a camera, when memory has wandered in the fog for too long. Thank you, past me.When I first started sharing letters with the world in this fashion, six or more years ago, I usually began them with a vignette of where I was, a sort-of travel diary, mixed with nature observation, locking in the setting for the reader, before I spoke of other things—and, by so doing, ensuring that place fed into the whole. It was a useful device, for reader and myself both but, as these letters were sent to so few readers, and now languish archived behind a paywall, I thought it a shame not to share these snippets again.As such, I am going to share a short series of these sketches, accompanied by a photograph from that time, sent to you in date order.I shall include the above paragraphs in each of the letters in this series, but I shall also include a link at the very start, so you can skip ahead once you are familiar with the above words. If you are listening and similarly want to skip, then the timestamp you want to navigate to will be in the same place.Taken without these paragraphs, each is a short read, and I hope you enjoy them.Isère, France. April, 2021.As the sun warms, the water flows. Everywhere on the mountainside, the sound of running streams, whether tumbling and brim-full of snowmelt, or thin rivulets, snaking to join their companions. Rhythm, rhyme, melody and music. Other than this, the sounds are mostly birdsong, each feathered bundle welcoming the spring with frantic activity. Nests are being built, relationships founded or reinforced, food collected and rivals discouraged. Birds and the water, wind in the trees, creaking of branches and the humming of bees.Bright flashes of fungi litter the forest floor, the warming days and wet conditions welcoming weird and beautiful shapes and sizes. Many I do not yet know, others old friends. Tracks in the ground, traces of those who came before, dropped deposits handy markers for identification: ermine and weasel and mole. The ground has been turned over by the snouts of the wild boar, the sanglier, capable of lifting rocks weighing half their hefty bodyweight, or more. Their disturbance is excellent for the soil, aerating and dispersing, encouraging seeds to sprout. Natures’ heavyweight gardeners are often accompanied by the robin, who has now also transferred his attention to the allotments and gardens of mankind.These woodlands are worked, tall giants felled individually, rather than the vast denudation of the clear-cut system. Piles of logs slumber by the road and trails, gently drying and beginning to season, often covered in bright flashes of identifying numbers, or scrambles of children, playing.Much of this area has altered in the last few generations. As small scale sheep and cattle rearing became economically unviable, their pastures and slopes were left fallow and in moved the birch, followed by others: Norway maple, linden, beech, oak, chestnut, poplar, mountain ash, larch, Norway spruce, silver fir, and various pines. Today these woodlands look older than they are, perhaps because the land still retains a memory of their cover from long before, perhaps because it feels right.As the woods returned, so did the animals, the deer, the boar, even the wolves. Higher, the remaining flocks of sheep and goats are sometimes interspersed with dogs, bred to look like the sheep they guard, but sheep with big teeth, loud barks and snarls. There are shepherds here, moving the animals from slope to slope, above the forests, in the places where the snow sits deepest in winter, the hillside ringing with the stone-crack of the raven call, the melancholy of the eagle, and the frantic shriek of the marmot.And, throughout it all, the importance of the water, plummeting and splashing, pooling and crashing. It carries snowmelt, carries tiny, suspended cloudy particles, the crushed rock of the glaciers, worn by centuries and gravity. It also carries those unfortunate enough to be caught in it, or those whose time came, only for their bones to fall into the streams and themselves tumbled smooth, heading down down down. Rivers and watercourses and beaches are the perfect places to find natural resources. Things are moved, things exposed, a natural store for creation and need. Flint nodules can be found beside iron, pyrites sitting near cracked slate. It is little stretch of the imagination to see these places as the supermarket of times prehistorical, banks explored, detritus collected, driftwood stacked to be used later, clay pulled out by hand, or antler tools.Water is life, and always has been, it is a channel to our own history, a lane leading to our ancestors. Wars have been fought over water, vast populations moved, sending ripples throughout history. It is all too easy to look upon a wave of refugees, the terminology liquid in itself, and not see what has created the disturbance in our ocean of humanity. Perhaps drought and failed harvests in Syria, or the Sahara pushing south, places where the flow and tinkle is no longer seen and heard, the birds themselves moved on. One can only guess how many other places will fall similarly silent in the coming decades.FinallyIf you can afford to, there are currently two direct ways to support my work here. The first way is to take out a paid subscription.The second way to support me here is to use my Kofi button/link to send a tip of any amount. If you enjoyed this letter and wish to share it with others, please do so! I love it when someone shares my work.I also love it when you comment on a piece—really, really love it. Although I always read and appreciate these comments, during 2025, I was not as good at responding as quickly as I would like but, seeing as my word of the year for 2026 is ‘communication’, I like to think that will soon change.Finally, many thanks for reading. I truly appreciate each and every one of you who does. Get full access to The Crow's Nest at alexandermcrow.substack.com/subscribe

(After you have read these introductory paragraphs once, you can skip to the new/old content below. If you are listening, then the time stamp is around the two minute 45 second mark.)IntroductionThe word settled, to me, carries connotations I am keen to avoid. I have never felt settled or, perhaps, I cannot recall a time I felt settled. I do not feel settled now, writing this, and I’ve lived in the same house for three and a half years. Without even discussing the obvious issues of colonisation, I just don’t feel like I could, or should, settle; better to keep my constituent parts shook up, agitated perhaps, rather than separating and stagnant.Instead, I feel as though I have been travelling for years, maybe because I have not lived in my ‘home’ nation of Scotland for eight and a half years, perhaps because I know I won’t stay here forever, or maybe because I carry that concept of home in a way which differs from many?More precisely, I still think of myself as a slow traveller, globally feral. Recently, I have been revisiting places through the photographs and words I recorded when my feet crossed their soil. This is a way of reminding myself of where I have been, not just in space and time, but in mind, too. It is a wonderful thing, to come out of a low and rediscover myself through words I crafted, through the lens of a camera, when memory has wandered in the fog for too long. Thank you, past me.When I first started sharing letters with the world in this fashion, six or more years ago, I usually began them with a vignette of where I was, a sort-of travel diary, mixed with nature observation, locking in the setting for the reader, before I spoke of other things—and, by so doing, ensuring that place fed into the whole. It was a useful device, for reader and myself both but, as these letters were sent to so few readers, and now languish archived behind a paywall, I thought it a shame not to share these snippets again.As such, I am going to share a short series of these sketches, accompanied by a photograph from that time, sent to you in date order.I shall include the above paragraphs in each of the letters in this series, but I shall also include a link at the very start, so you can skip ahead once you are familiar with the above words. If you are listening and similarly want to skip, then the timestamp you want to navigate to will be in the same place.Taken without these paragraphs, each is a short read, and I hope you enjoy them.Isère, France. March, 2021.In the morning, the great looming bulk of the Vercors Massif is lit pink with the dawn, a line sliding down the cliff face to meet the trees below, the tenacious patches of snow a constant switching of pastels; an artist who can’t quite decide on the right shade. The snow is no longer pristine white—instead, the desert came to the mountains, strong winds from the south bringing Saharan sand to dust and coat all, concealing the view and make breathing harder for many. Ridge-lines appeared and disappeared, orange haze obscuring then lifting, revealing the serried rows and points of peaks.We are all connected, parts of a whole, a puzzle beyond simple comprehension, full of chaos, full of new beginnings, often at the expense of something else’s end. The wind blows from Africa and the snow in the Alps turns brown.Here, in Isère, winter is settling down for her long summer nap. She may yet toss and turn, throwing off a fresh blanket of snow with her movement, or crisping all with frost, but the sun is lulling her to sleep, simultaneously charming catkins, blossom, and early spring flowers towards the light. The ground is a riot of primrose in particular, with the blues, purples, and pinks of other fresh-faced early flowers scattered betwixt and between.The birds are, in some cases, already nesting. Their songs strong and almost constant, here a great tit, there a serin, everywhere the blackbird, each defending their parcel of garden and urban oasis. I have my binoculars again, arrived from Portugal safe and in one piece, and I have an app or two to identify and suggest bird song. I did not know the call of the serin until last week—they hide in the trees, thrilling, trilling, then flitting across the field of view swiftly; blink and you will miss them.Yesterday, the cherry trees began to tentatively unfurl, unsure whether winter is definitely sleeping or not. With luck, she is—some years, I am told, they get it wrong, and all the fruit is frost-murdered, long before it gets a chance to properly form. In the recent winds, clouds of pollen were shaken loose from the Italian cypress, so thick and dense that I initially thought it smoke. I am very glad I no longer suffer from serious hay fever. The sharp, acid-green leaves of the very first deciduous trees punctuate the woodlands, arriving in one day, unfurling their flag and claiming this early spring sun for their own.In the evening, before the sun slips behind the Vercors, she backlights the catkins on the hazel and, especially, the aspen. They shimmer and dance, a host of wriggling, silvery caterpillars, each a-sparkle with promise. Then, suddenly, the sun has gone, and the temperature begins to drop, fast.These mountains, where the plates of Eurasia and Africa meet, divide the weather of Europe into the wetter north and dryer south. Each peak a part of a whole, each valley a connection to the next, every path, rock, marmot, chamois, or snowflake playing its own role in the drama.It is good to be here, at the start of spring. It is good to feel a part of a whole.FinallyIf you can afford to, there are currently two direct ways to support my work here. The first way is to take out a paid subscription.The second way to support me here is to use my Kofi button/link to send a tip of any amount. If you enjoyed this letter and wish to share it with others, please do so! I love it when someone shares my work.I also love it when you comment on a piece—really, really love it. Although I always read and appreciate these comments, during 2025, I was not as good at responding as quickly as I would like but, seeing as my word of the year for 2026 is ‘communication’, I like to think that will soon change.Finally, many thanks for reading. I truly appreciate each and every one of you who does. Get full access to The Crow's Nest at alexandermcrow.substack.com/subscribe

(After you have read these introductory paragraphs once, you can skip to the new/old content below. If you are listening, then the time stamp is around the two minute 45 second mark.)IntroductionThe word settled, to me, carries connotations I am keen to avoid. I have never felt settled or, perhaps, I cannot recall a time I felt settled. I do not feel settled now, writing this, and I’ve lived in the same house for three and a half years. Without even discussing the obvious issues of colonisation, I just don’t feel like I could, or should, settle; better to keep my constituent parts shook up, agitated perhaps, rather than separating and stagnant.Instead, I feel as though I have been travelling for years, maybe because I have not lived in my ‘home’ nation of Scotland for eight and a half years, perhaps because I know I won’t stay here forever, or maybe because I carry that concept of home in a way which differs from many?More precisely, I still think of myself as a slow traveller, globally feral. Recently, I have been revisiting places through the photographs and words I recorded when my feet crossed their soil. This is a way of reminding myself of where I have been, not just in space and time, but in mind, too. It is a wonderful thing, to come out of a low and rediscover myself through words I crafted, through the lens of a camera, when memory has wandered in the fog for too long. Thank you, past me.When I first started sharing letters with the world in this fashion, six or more years ago, I usually began them with a vignette of where I was, a sort-of travel diary, mixed with nature observation, locking in the setting for the reader, before I spoke of other things—and, by so doing, ensuring that place fed into the whole. It was a useful device, for reader and myself both but, as these letters were sent to so few readers, and now languish archived behind a paywall, I thought it a shame not to share these snippets again.As such, I am going to share a short series of these sketches, accompanied by a photograph from that time, sent to you in date order.I shall include the above paragraphs in each of the letters in this series, but I shall also include a link at the very start, so you can skip ahead once you are familiar with the above words. If you are listening and similarly want to skip, then the timestamp you want to navigate to will be in the same place.Taken without these paragraphs, each is a short read, and I hope you enjoy them.Cercal, Portugal. February, 2021.The bedroom—my office—window is open, despite the downpour. At this side of the building it mostly flies beyond the eaves, lashing into the orange grove and obscuring all but the nearest hill.Such is the threat of nest theft, a single stork stands guard, head down into the wind and rain, sodden and bedraggled and clearly remembering a time when its ancestors all left for Africa every winter, before the lure of landfill scavenging and warming European winters meant some chose to stay year-long.When there is a break in the rain its partner arrives and, after a brief clatter of beaks, display and reaffirmation of their bond, they switch places. In my mind’s eye I suddenly suspect whichever partner is no longer on the nest is under a bridge somewhere, standing around with his or her friends, chatting idly, complaining about the rain, talk of tasty insects, and whispering of Africa, as they all wait to switch positions. Maybe they loiter together in bus shelters, or beneath the same ancient, spreading cork oak.Today, the wind and the rain are back, piling in from the Atlantic to crash into these hills. It is hard to remember how dusty and dry it can be in summer, or how last year there were months and months with no rain at all, and barely a cloud to be seen. This direction may bring water—lots of much needed water—but thankfully it doesn’t bring the cold of January. The days are warming, the nights too.A few days ago, the sun appeared: sun and showers, rainbows and warmth. The clouds were majestic galleons, sailing across the blue, the rain sporadic, excitingly fleeting, pouring fast and true, before retreating in a gentle, misty steam. I stood in the kitchen, making a cup of tea, when a movement caught my eye. When you have watched birds and animals (and, indeed, trees and flowers and butterflies and…) for as long as I have, you sometimes only need a glimpse, especially when there is movement involved. Something ancient in my head, something instinctive kicks in, linking the pattern with memory, with knowledge.Swallow?I turned to check and, sure enough, my instinctive, sideways snatched glance was right. The first swallow of the year, on February the 7th. The following day, another snatched glimpse, another check, two house martins, chasing insects. Summer is whispering to the birds too.Now, as I redraft this piece, it is again raining, hard, harder than before, and has been for many hours. This morning, I heard a huge crash from outside, and the sound of falling rocks. I looked out and it didn’t take long to realise that part of an old wall of a nearby roofless ruin had collapsed. I watched as another huge chunk of stone, mortar and earth crashed to the ground, went to fetch Aurélie, and together we watched another portion crumble. The scent drifted up on a minor rippling shockwave, a scent of ancient places, freshly disturbed, earth long hidden, secrets whispered and trapped, left by masons centuries dead. The oldest part of this village is the church area, and this building backs on to the square surrounding it. Old, and very wet.It makes me think, about our own walls, how the damp and mould outline the courses and individual blocks. How long before this building goes the same way? How long before the damp in my own bones makes me crumble? Oddly, perhaps, I never find these thoughts too morbid or disturbing. After all, each atom of our beings has travelled for longer than we can envisage, has passed through many stages: there a great mountain, now long worn away, then a huge sauropod, a dragonfly, a tiny mouse-like creature, back to dust and earth once more, before being sucked in and absorbed by plant and animal, a recycling which never ends, a story incomprehensibly vast. How is that not incredible? How can that be morbid?No wall lasts forever, nothing does. And this is to be celebrated.FinallyIf you can afford to, there are currently two direct ways to support my work here. The first way is to take out a paid subscription.The second way to support me here is to use my Kofi button/link to send a tip of any amount. If you enjoyed this letter and wish to share it with others, please do so! I love it when someone shares my work.I also love it when you comment on a piece—really, really love it. Although I always read and appreciate these comments, during 2025, I was not as good at responding as quickly as I would like but, seeing as my word of the year for 2026 is ‘communication’, I like to think that will soon change.Finally, many thanks for reading. I truly appreciate each and every one of you who does. Get full access to The Crow's Nest at alexandermcrow.substack.com/subscribe

(After you have read these introductory paragraphs once, you can skip to the new/old content below. If you are listening, then the time stamp is around the two minute 45 second mark.)IntroductionThe word settled, to me, carries connotations I am keen to avoid. I have never felt settled or, perhaps, I cannot recall a time I felt settled. I do not feel settled now, writing this, and I’ve lived in the same house for three and a half years. Without even discussing the obvious issues of colonisation, I just don’t feel like I could, or should, settle; better to keep my constituent parts shook up, agitated perhaps, rather than separating and stagnant.Instead, I feel as though I have been travelling for years, maybe because I have not lived in my ‘home’ nation of Scotland for eight and a half years, perhaps because I know I won’t stay here forever, or maybe because I carry that concept of home in a way which differs from many?More precisely, I still think of myself as a slow traveller, globally feral. Recently, I have been revisiting places through the photographs and words I recorded when my feet crossed their soil. This is a way of reminding myself of where I have been, not just in space and time, but in mind, too. It is a wonderful thing, to come out of a low and rediscover myself through words I crafted, through the lens of a camera, when memory has wandered in the fog for too long. Thank you, past me.When I first started sharing letters with the world in this fashion, six or more years ago, I usually began them with a vignette of where I was, a sort-of travel diary, mixed with nature observation, locking in the setting for the reader, before I spoke of other things—and, by so doing, ensuring that place fed into the whole. It was a useful device, for reader and myself both but, as these letters were sent to so few readers, and now languish archived behind a paywall, I thought it a shame not to share these snippets again.As such, I am going to share a short series of these sketches, accompanied by a photograph from that time, sent to you in date order.I shall include the above paragraphs in each of the letters in this series, but I shall also include a link at the very start, so you can skip ahead once you are familiar with the above words. If you are listening and similarly want to skip, then the timestamp you want to navigate to will be in the same place.Taken without these paragraphs, each is a short read, and I hope you enjoy them.Cercal, Portugal. February, 2021.There are worlds within worlds: look closer and you will see.Here, in The Alentejo, it is the season of rain. Heavy, insistent Atlantic rain, or fine, cloud-like cover, blanketing all in moisture, swaddling in grey. Ridge-lines vanish, to reappear as suggestions, trees as spectres, and the woods mere hints. When they do appear, these ancient hillsides are clad entirely in emerald, gone is any vestige of brown, any trace of the bleaching of the long hot summer. Instead, all things grow, fast: from grass to trees, mould to citrus, and lambs to calves, they are all flourishing.The rain, coupled with winter bus schedules and lockdown routines, means there is little chance to enjoy the outdoors as I would like. The trails around here are fantastic for walking and cycling, but in this weather their unpaved nature makes both activities a sticky but slippy disaster waiting to happen. The apartment becomes a vessel on a sea of rain and green, sheets of water passing by, when they do not seep through the concrete and tiles.Yet there is much to see, if only you look. The storks are back, a war for the best nests underway, with much clattering, swooping, and delicate battle. To gain territory is one thing, to hold it in this weather, another—the present victors are miserable, sodden and bedraggled birds, heads down, feathers drooping and dripping. Beneath, the ground is strewn with the fallen cannonballs of oranges, some already green or white with mould, others fresh and tempting. There is so much fruit, just falling and rolling down the streets and lanes, like so many escaped balls.The birdsong is gaining in intensity, with the blackbird, the blackcap and something I do not know currently the most vocal. They are joined by others, occasional voices adding to the chorus, sometimes startlingly so, a strange new song trilling through the window, but nothing to be seen in the grove below. It will not be long before the first migrants reappear, depending on what is going on in Africa, the winds, and the rains and the outlook for the coming season. Perhaps some of them are already here.Look closer, and other worlds are present too. The rooftops here are nearly all covered in orange tiles, which fade with age, slipping into burnt ochres and deeper, brown-reds. Even as the clay ages, the tiles gain other colours—the greens, greys, oranges, yellows and startling whites of moss and lichen, cloaking and coating, spreading and demonstrating the cleanliness of this air, some of the best in the world. The irony that, outside, the air pollution index is at 0 but, inside, the constant battle against the spores and spreading black mould means that, on days we cannot open the windows, the air just feels wrong, is not lost on me. The very damp and freshness which brings this welcome breathability, means the mould flourishes.The lichens here remind me that despite lockdown, despite the inability to get out, there is much to learn, much to observe. These are tough colonisers, withstanding pouring rain and big temperature fluctuations. I dread to think how hot those tiles get on a sunny summer’s day. Yet they are also a wonderful indicator of the health of the air, pollution will kill many of them.Across this microflora ranges microfauna. The insect life here is rich, and there are times I wish I could take the time to observe this more, to take macro shots of the beetles, the flies, the bees and all the other tiny crawling and flying things. Entire epics can be imagined, tales of these tiny worlds, of their dangers and their viewpoints.Yesterday, I saw a Thing. I do not know what it was, but it was thin and brightly striped with reds, black, and yellow. No longer than my little finger nail, it sat on the wall outside, as I made tea, then it was gone. Then I noticed the first mosquito of the year, sitting on the kitchen window, staring in, seemingly looking longingly at me. Or so I like to imagine—and imagine I do, for stories tie all this together.(If you look hard enough, you will see nature staring back, everywhere.)FinallyIf you can afford to, there are currently two direct ways to support my work here. The first way is to take out a paid subscription.The second way to support me here is to use my Kofi button/link to send a tip of any amount. If you enjoyed this letter and wish to share it with others, please do so! I love it when someone shares my work.I also love it when you comment on a piece—really, really love it. Although I always read and appreciate these comments, during 2025, I was not as good at responding as quickly as I would like but, seeing as my word of the year for 2026 is ‘communication’, I like to think that will soon change.Finally, many thanks for reading. I truly appreciate each and every one of you who does. Get full access to The Crow's Nest at alexandermcrow.substack.com/subscribe

(After you have read these introductory paragraphs once, you can skip to the new/old content below. If you are listening, then the time stamp is around the two minute 45 second mark.)IntroductionThe word settled, to me, carries connotations I am keen to avoid. I have never felt settled or, perhaps, I cannot recall a time I felt settled. I do not feel settled now, writing this, and I’ve lived in the same house for three and a half years. Without even discussing the obvious issues of colonisation, I just don’t feel like I could, or should, settle; better to keep my constituent parts shook up, agitated perhaps, rather than separating and stagnant.Instead, I feel as though I have been travelling for years, maybe because I have not lived in my ‘home’ nation of Scotland for eight and a half years, perhaps because I know I won’t stay here forever, or maybe because I carry that concept of home in a way which differs from many?More precisely, I still think of myself as a slow traveller, globally feral. Recently, I have been revisiting places through the photographs and words I recorded when my feet crossed their soil. This is a way of reminding myself of where I have been, not just in space and time, but in mind, too. It is a wonderful thing, to come out of a low and rediscover myself through words I crafted, through the lens of a camera, when memory has wandered in the fog for too long. Thank you, past me.When I first started sharing letters with the world in this fashion, six or more years ago, I usually began them with a vignette of where I was, a sort-of travel diary, mixed with nature observation, locking in the setting for the reader, before I spoke of other things—and, by so doing, ensuring that place fed into the whole. It was a useful device, for reader and myself both but, as these letters were sent to so few readers, and now languish archived behind a paywall, I thought it a shame not to share these snippets again.As such, I am going to share a short series of these sketches, accompanied by a photograph from that time, sent to you in date order.I shall include the above paragraphs in each of the letters in this series, but I shall also include a link at the very start, so you can skip ahead once you are familiar with the above words. If you are listening and similarly want to skip, then the timestamp you want to navigate to will be in the same place.Taken without these paragraphs, each is a short read, and I hope you enjoy them.Cercal, Portugal, January, 2021 and Rendall, Orkney, April, 2016Specks of seedlings are strewn across the empty plant pots on the balcony. The flowers or salad they held are now mostly long gone, with the exception of a single nasturtium and a sprawling and exceedingly hardy lettuce, reverted to its more natural self.These green shoots were not planted, but found their way to the available compost. Here and there they have already grown: sow thistle, nettle, dandelion and others, all ready for the coming warmth. Despite being on the fourth floor, on a protected, north-facing balcony, the seeds have found a home. Nature, remember, will always find a way. Brought by wind or bird droppings, each verdant, hopeful delight is a reminder that life continues, no matter how pressing or stressing the news.The seedlings wait, the air is too cold right now for further growth, frost wreathing patterns on the windows and dusting all with fine sugar icing. This may be close to as far south as Iberia goes, but that does not mean winter cannot wreath all in her chill embrace. Inside, with no heating, the air is 9°C (48°F)—even with a newly purchased oil radiator and a handful of candles, the single room we heat rarely hits 18°C (64°F). I knew this before we arrived in Portugal last year, that the colder months mean layers and hats, scarves, gloves and extra bedding are essential, yet to experience it is different. I am colder inside, here, than when I lived wild in a natural shelter, even when the Scottish winter hit hard, with temperatures far below freezing and soil like rock.Yet the green scatter on the balcony shows life, as do the owl calls in the cold night, or the clatter of the returning storks, or flurry of small birds in the orchard and orange grove. When the sun is not concealed, her warmth can be felt, strong, ready to work her magic once more. There is a reason all the old houses have stone benches outside. The line of frost on the rooftops moves rapidly with the changing light, wintry sundial marking the passage of the earth through space. It is possible to stand and watch it melt as the sun rises higher. Clouds dance across the blues and greens, reds, oranges, yellows and greys of the wide sky.Once, on a dog walk in Orkney, on an April morning—the first time I had returned to spend a night since leaving as an 18 year old—I stood and watched the sun rise, at the edge of a similarly expansive sky. This is something I have done many times, and it surprises me that more people do not also allow themselves this wonder yet, this time, the memory has stayed with me, fresh, strong and magical. One of those moments in life, which I shall never forget.Across the bay, somewhere behind the island of Shapinsay, the sun appeared, fast and flowing, at a speed which I have never before or since witnessed. I watched a deep red ball appear, a sliver, then a segment, then a wedge, growing rapidly, my camera forgotten in hand, even Orlando the dog surprisingly silent and still, also watching, witnessing.To be reminded that the earth still spins, that the morning comes and the night returns, to see these things in action, through a lattice of frost, or a scatter of seedlings, or a parliament of owls—this is deep and ancient magic. We just need to use our senses, to be a part of a whole far beyond the scope of our comprehension and remember: warmth can be found in the coldest of places.FinallyIf you can afford to, there are currently two direct ways to support my work here. The first way is to take out a paid subscription.The second way to support me here is to use my Kofi button/link to send a tip of any amount. If you enjoyed this letter and wish to share it with others, please do so! I love it when someone shares my work.I also love it when you comment on a piece—really, really love it. Although I always read and appreciate these comments, during 2025, I was not as good at responding as quickly as I would like but, seeing as my word of the year for 2026 is ‘communication’, I like to think that will soon change.Finally, many thanks for reading. I truly appreciate each and every one of you who does. Get full access to The Crow's Nest at alexandermcrow.substack.com/subscribe

(After you have read these introductory paragraphs once, you can skip to the new/old content below. If you are listening, then the time stamp is around the two minute 45 second mark.)IntroductionThe word settled, to me, carries connotations I am keen to avoid. I have never felt settled or, perhaps, I cannot recall a time I felt settled. I do not feel settled now, writing this, and I’ve lived in the same house for three and a half years. Without even discussing the obvious issues of colonisation, I just don’t feel like I could, or should, settle; better to keep my constituent parts shook up, agitated perhaps, rather than separating and stagnant.Instead, I feel as though I have been travelling for years, maybe because I have not lived in my ‘home’ nation of Scotland for eight and a half years, perhaps because I know I won’t stay here forever, or maybe because I carry that concept of home in a way which differs from many?More precisely, I still think of myself as a slow traveller, globally feral. Recently, I have been revisiting places through the photographs and words I recorded when my feet crossed their soil. This is a way of reminding myself of where I have been, not just in space and time, but in mind, too. It is a wonderful thing, to come out of a low and rediscover myself through words I crafted, through the lens of a camera, when memory has wandered in the fog for too long. Thank you, past me.When I first started sharing letters with the world in this fashion, six or more years ago, I usually began them with a vignette of where I was, a sort-of travel diary, mixed with nature observation, locking in the setting for the reader, before I spoke of other things—and, by so doing, ensuring that place fed into the whole. It was a useful device, for reader and myself both but, as these letters were sent to so few readers, and now languish archived behind a paywall, I thought it a shame not to share these snippets again.As such, I am going to share a short series of these sketches, accompanied by a photograph from that time, sent to you in date order.I shall include the above paragraphs in each of the letters in this series, but I shall also include a link at the very start, so you can skip ahead once you are familiar with the above words. If you are listening and similarly want to skip, then the timestamp you want to navigate to will be in the same place.Taken without these paragraphs, each is a short read, and I hope you enjoy them.Isère, France. December, 2020.The air grips the lungs from the inside, mountain-cold and surprisingly dry, despite the thick fog weaving tendrils down streets and throwing a blanket over the valley. There are snow-covered peaks in all directions, but I only know this through memory, they are lost in the darkening grey.Sound is deadened, snow and mist absorbing, a crow call might come from any direction and none, the alarm of the blackbird echoing off unseen walls. The air itself smells of snow: dusty and ancient.Here, a persimmon laden with bright baubles, there the yellow of a tenacious aspen leaf.I cannot see them, but I imagine the ibex and chamois on their ridges, digging down through the windblown drifts, finding the food to sustain themselves through the winter. For winter, this is. It began to snow the night before I arrived, which was kind of nature, as if she wanted the mountains to look their very best—once they finally reappear, foggy curtains rolled back and stupendous reflected sun spotlighting peak, crevasse and cliff.Time and distance are twisted and folded here, maps need expert contouring, the eye translating the lines into the three-dimensional. Nearby, wolves have again been sighted, returning to an area they left years ago. Where one wolf is seen, there are others, many others, and camera traps have shown this to be the case. Whispers of approaching brown bears, the hidden, practically-invisible lynx, the great earth-movers of wild boar, and even the spreading European jackal—all are close by, as the crow flies. As this Crow walks, however, the trails and tracks into the high slopes, cliffs and wooded valleys above, would take considerably longer, and much further.That’s not to say these creatures do not venture down—they do and, during the confinement earlier this year, some did so in numbers. I like this. It is oddly reassuring, how quickly nature fills a void.Snow is an incredible canvas, whether to learn to track, or to simply decorate with footprints or designs. It is wiped clean by melt, revitalised by fresh fallen crystals, ever-changing and, to me, always a wonder. Here, stories are told and retold, new ones recorded afresh, each mark is just a tiny portion of an incomprehensible whole, yet each mark is also crucial—the tale would not be complete without it.FinallyIf you can afford to, there are currently two direct ways to support my work here. The first way is to take out a paid subscription.The second way to support me here is to use my Kofi button/link to send a tip of any amount. If you enjoyed this letter and wish to share it with others, please do so! I love it when someone shares my work.I also love it when you comment on a piece—really, really love it. Although I always read and appreciate these comments, during 2025, I was not as good at responding as quickly as I would like but, seeing as my word of the year for 2026 is ‘communication’, I like to think that will soon change.Finally, many thanks for reading. I truly appreciate each and every one of you who does. Get full access to The Crow's Nest at alexandermcrow.substack.com/subscribe

(After you have read these introductory paragraphs once, you can skip to the new/old content below. If you are listening, then the time stamp is around the two minute 45 second mark.)IntroductionThe word settled, to me, carries connotations I am keen to avoid. I have never felt settled or, perhaps, I cannot recall a time I felt settled. I do not feel settled now, writing this, and I’ve lived in the same house for three and a half years. Without even discussing the obvious issues of colonisation, I just don’t feel like I could, or should, settle; better to keep my constituent parts shook up, agitated perhaps, rather than separating and stagnant.Instead, I feel as though I have been travelling for years, maybe because I have not lived in my ‘home’ nation of Scotland for eight and a half years, perhaps because I know I won’t stay here forever, or maybe because I carry that concept of home in a way which differs from many?More precisely, I still think of myself as a slow traveller, globally feral. Recently, I have been revisiting places through the photographs and words I recorded when my feet crossed their soil. This is a way of reminding myself of where I have been, not just in space and time, but in mind, too. It is a wonderful thing, to come out of a low and rediscover myself through words I crafted, through the lens of a camera, when memory has wandered in the fog for too long. Thank you, past me.When I first started sharing letters with the world in this fashion, six or more years ago, I usually began them with a vignette of where I was, a sort-of travel diary, mixed with nature observation, locking in the setting for the reader, before I spoke of other things—and, by so doing, ensuring that place fed into the whole. It was a useful device, for reader and myself both but, as these letters were sent to so few readers, and now languish archived behind a paywall, I thought it a shame not to share these snippets again.As such, I am going to share a short series of these sketches, accompanied by a photograph from that time, sent to you in date order.I shall include the above paragraphs in each of the letters in this series, but I shall also include a link at the very start, so you can skip ahead once you are familiar with the above words. If you are listening and similarly want to skip, then the timestamp you want to navigate to will be in the same place.Taken without these paragraphs, each is a short read, and I hope you enjoy them.Cercal, Portugal. November, 2020.November is usually a time of grey, of bleaching and the last of the chlorophyll leaching away as winter drags her blanket over all. Some stubborn leaves remain, to fall later in gale or frost, others have long gone, tumbled to drifts or pulled by rivulets into streams into rivers into the ocean. Everything is muted: burnt sienna, brown madder, burnt umber, brown ochre; names from the paints and pencils of childhood.Yet, here, in the Alentejo, the opposite is happening. Summer was the browning, the hot sun and months with barely any rain drying all, water only available to those with long roots or clever placing near the streams and seeps. In the last week of October, with every passing day and, at times, hour, the hillsides and fields have greened: from olive green, through cobalt green, to the brighter sap green, avocado or mint, punctuated with the acid flash of citrus or the vibrant arc of a rainbow. These new shades are washed over the view, the land absorbing the rain and mist and cloud, the plants responding.Our skies are no longer clear and blue forever, instead there are storms and showers, constant rain or sudden, tableaux of clouds and tapestry of greys across which are swept returning storks, our resident Bonelli’s eagle, or wintering hen harrier and red kite. Breakfast has become the time for birding, each morning seemingly providing a new sighting, something from the north, a snow bird seeking sanctuary, replacing those who have decided a sojourn in Africa is sensible.The daylight hours are fading, true, but when I see photographs posted on twitter of a setting sun in the UK, I am reminded that we maintain longer winter days than much of Europe and, for that, I am grateful. Sun is a healing power to me, especially in the darker months.The air is laden with the scent of wet earth, infused with growing things. The days of eucalyptus tang and drowsy cork oak warmth are gone, replaced by a wildness, a primeval sense of nature in charge, new growth and new, old magic. Spells whisper at the edge of hearing, each new blade of grass or tendril of vine carrying another word, another verse, and soon the emerald enchantment will be complete.FinallyIf you can afford to, there are currently two direct ways to support my work here. The first way is to take out a paid subscription.The second way to support me here is to use my Kofi button/link to send a tip of any amount. If you enjoyed this letter and wish to share it with others, please do so! I love it when someone shares my work.I also love it when you comment on a piece—really, really love it. Although I always read and appreciate these comments, during 2025, I was not as good at responding as quickly as I would like but, seeing as my word of the year for 2026 is ‘communication’, I like to think that will soon change.Finally, many thanks for reading. I truly appreciate each and every one of you who does. Get full access to The Crow's Nest at alexandermcrow.substack.com/subscribe

I’m sending this bonus letter because I shared on Notes that our bear garlic (Allium ursinum) season is underway, and we’d spent much of Sunday gathering (the quickest bit!) and preparing different things (so far: pesto, fermented leaves, dried leaves, salt, and pickled flowerbuds). Several people commented and liked the Note (thanks!), and I know it is a popular, easily identified, plant. When Yasmin Chopin asked what recipe I used, I started to type a reply on my phone this morning—then thought it might be of interest to more of you, so decided to send this instead. Also, Substack has just (finally) introduced recipe cards, so I was interested to see how that might work/look. Definitely an experiment! I will undoubtedly turn a swift recipe/list into something longer than it perhaps needs to be, but with more flavour and depth. As usual, I’m recording the voiceover, so you can listen if you prefer.If this doesn’t show up in your email client, ensure you click through to have a peek.There we go! My first recipe here, in my own special style, probably not using the ‘cuisine’ ‘diet’ ‘category’ etc sections as they’re meant to be used, but hey! I hope this is useful, interesting, or just fun? I find there is a deep and ancient joy in turning wild ingredients into something to use in the kitchen, it connects us to the past and to the present, both. Do please send this to anyone you know who lives near bear garlic!What do you think to this recipe? Do you also make bear garlic pesto? Or anything else from the plant? What’s your favourite foraged ingredient in the year? If you enjoyed this and can afford to, you can send a one-off tip via this button:You can also subscribe, if you don’t already. As of 2026, I won’t be paywalling anything new, other than my fiction once a story is finished. As such, all paid subscriptions are a means to support me and my work, if you can afford it. I’m going to be sharing things this year which I think might help a lot of people, and hiding them behind a paywall does not sit well with me.And, as ever, thank you so much for reading, enjoy getting out to forage! Get full access to The Crow's Nest at alexandermcrow.substack.com/subscribe

(After you have read these introductory paragraphs once, you can skip to the new/old content below. If you are listening, then the time stamp is around the two minute 45 second mark.)IntroductionThe word settled, to me, carries connotations I am keen to avoid. I have never felt settled or, perhaps, I cannot recall a time I felt settled. I do not feel settled now, writing this, and I’ve lived in the same house for three and a half years. Without even discussing the obvious issues of colonisation, I just don’t feel like I could, or should, settle; better to keep my constituent parts shook up, agitated perhaps, rather than separating and stagnant.Instead, I feel as though I have been travelling for years, maybe because I have not lived in my ‘home’ nation of Scotland for eight and a half years, perhaps because I know I won’t stay here forever, or maybe because I carry that concept of home in a way which differs from many?More precisely, I still think of myself as a slow traveller, globally feral. Recently, I have been revisiting places through the photographs and words I recorded when my feet crossed their soil. This is a way of reminding myself of where I have been, not just in space and time, but in mind, too. It is a wonderful thing, to come out of a low and rediscover myself through words I crafted, through the lens of a camera, when memory has wandered in the fog for too long. Thank you, past me.When I first started sharing letters with the world in this fashion, six or more years ago, I usually began them with a vignette of where I was, a sort-of travel diary, mixed with nature observation, locking in the setting for the reader, before I spoke of other things—and, by so doing, ensuring that place fed into the whole. It was a useful device, for reader and myself both but, as these letters were sent to so few readers, and now languish archived behind a paywall, I thought it a shame not to share these snippets again.As such, I am going to share a short series of these sketches, accompanied by a photograph from that time, sent to you in date order.I shall include the above paragraphs in each of the letters in this series, but I shall also include a link at the very start, so you can skip ahead once you are familiar with the above words. If you are listening and similarly want to skip, then the timestamp you want to navigate to will be in the same place.Taken without these paragraphs, each is a short read, and I hope you enjoy them.Cercal, Portugal. October, 2020.The world is full of tracks and paths and routes, many invisible to our eyes, currents brushing the face of things, whispers, yesterday’s wind across the earth below. As I write, I am beneath one of these hidden roads, the exodus of birds heading south to Africa for the winter vast and, mostly, unseen. Much as I would like to, I cannot spare the time to sit on the balcony, binoculars in hand, watching for bird after bird, whether solitary, or in huge sweeps like the swallows, or the veritable melee of martins we keep receiving, day after day.One early morning in late September, I looked outside to see perhaps three hundred swallows frantically feeding, ahead of coming rain, swirling low and hurtling past the window, snatching insect after insect. Our swallows had already departed, bar some of the rebellious young, perhaps twenty or thirty of them, and I knew the migration from the north had begun in earnest. The previous night, the temperatures in Scotland had dropped to their lowest for September in around twenty years—no wonder the birds had gone. On twitter I saw tweet after tweet, each mentioning their swallows, a fixture on the wires for weeks, had departed, vanished in the night. I knew where they were; they were here in Alentejo, feeding up, then resting upon our wires, in the trees and the bamboo, waiting for the rain to pass before they were gone again, next stop, potentially, north Africa.Our nights are cooler, the land breathing mist as moisture returns after the months of dusty summer. The days are still hot, with temperatures approaching 30°C (86°F). As the moon waxed to full, the owls began holding a parliament, calls from every direction, with several species represented. The sky is bright planets, the moon painting clouds with silver filigree and making ghostly, magical shadow puppetry irresistible. As she wanes, the stars shine ever brighter, distant furnaces funnelled through unimaginable time and distance, to appear as pinpricks to our eyes, decorate our dark skies with heroes, legends, and beasts, cast a skein above, a net to guard us while we sleep, strands and knots connected by imagination and our position in a vast whole.On the 25th of October 2020, the clocks fall back an hour. Without Covid and Brexit, this would have been the last time this happened in Portugal, as the clocks were scheduled to stay on summer time after changing next March. However, this has been postponed, for now, as the EU deals with these other issues.Throughout this, unknowing and uncaring, the birds will continue to fly, using the sun, using the earth’s magnetic field, navigating their way via invisible track-ways in the sky, stopping to feed in this insect-rich corner of the continent, where the plains and ocean meet the ancient hills and forests.It is good to be reminded, good to remember—we are all linked by invisible bonds, secret ways between places, paths between time, more threads tying us together than anything trying to pull us apart.FinallyIf you can afford to, there are currently two direct ways to support my work here. The first way is to take out a paid subscription.The second way to support me here is to use my Kofi button/link to send a tip of any amount. If you enjoyed this letter and wish to share it with others, please do so! I love it when someone shares my work.I also love it when you comment on a piece—really, really love it. Although I always read and appreciate these comments, during 2025, I was not as good at responding as quickly as I would like but, seeing as my word of the year for 2026 is ‘communication’, I like to think that will soon change.Finally, many thanks for reading. I truly appreciate each and every one of you who does. Get full access to The Crow's Nest at alexandermcrow.substack.com/subscribe

(After you have read these introductory paragraphs once, you can skip to the new/old content below. If you are listening, then the time stamp is around the two minute 45 second mark.)IntroductionThe word settled, to me, carries connotations I am keen to avoid. I have never felt settled or, perhaps, I cannot recall a time I felt settled. I do not feel settled now, writing this, and I’ve lived in the same house for three and a half years. Without even discussing the obvious issues of colonisation, I just don’t feel like I could, or should, settle; better to keep my constituent parts shook up, agitated perhaps, rather than separating and stagnant.Instead, I feel as though I have been travelling for years, maybe because I have not lived in my ‘home’ nation of Scotland for eight and a half years, perhaps because I know I won’t stay here forever, or maybe because I carry that concept of home in a way which differs from many?More precisely, I still think of myself as a slow traveller, globally feral. Recently, I have been revisiting places through the photographs and words I recorded when my feet crossed their soil. This is a way of reminding myself of where I have been, not just in space and time, but in mind, too. It is a wonderful thing, to come out of a low and rediscover myself through words I crafted, through the lens of a camera, when memory has wandered in the fog for too long. Thank you, past me.When I first started sharing letters with the world in this fashion, six or more years ago, I usually began them with a vignette of where I was, a sort-of travel diary, mixed with nature observation, locking in the setting for the reader, before I spoke of other things—and, by so doing, ensuring that place fed into the whole. It was a useful device, for reader and myself both but, as these letters were sent to so few readers, and now languish archived behind a paywall, I thought it a shame not to share these snippets again.As such, I am going to share a short series of these sketches, accompanied by a photograph from that time, sent to you in date order.I shall include the above paragraphs in each of the letters in this series, but I shall also include a link at the very start, so you can skip ahead once you are familiar with the above words. If you are listening and similarly want to skip, then the timestamp you want to navigate to will be in the same place.Taken without these paragraphs, each is a short read, and I hope you enjoy them.The Alps, Isère, France. September 2020.It comes not through taste or sight, sound, or touch, or scent, but through something other, another one of our senses the majority somehow forget we possess. It is a pressing down inside, something foreboding, ancient, deep and utterly, utterly untamed.The clouds build, towers of moisture tumbling and billowing, trying to outdo one another, ever higher, faster and faster. Their bases widen, their tops level and they begin to move together, energy gathering, a meeting of lovers, their dance electric.Here, in the glacial valleys of the French Alps, it is a time of storms. My head often hurts a warning, my brain whispering of coming downpour, sometimes long before I even notice the genesis of the clouds. Then azure skies are darkened, summer glare disappearing into dim murk and sudden, swift, gunmetal grey. My head continues to be tightened within atmospheric vice; wine helps, paracetamol surprisingly less effective.Then the first distant rumble is felt through the air, through the ground, inside my chest. Another. And another. Before five minutes have passed, the mountains funnel the storm, echoing from cliff-face to cliff-face, ricocheting from building to building, cracks and booms, or the deepest bass you could possibly hear, rolling, loud, long, at the very edge of hearing.They say that the buildings of Grenoble and this corner of Isère are utilitarian, simply because how could they possibly compete with the surrounding beauty? Yet the same, otherwise nondescript, sheer surfaces of tower blocks and modernity come into their own during a storm, channeling the sound, adding reverb and returning the same thunder from an entirely unexpected direction. The effect is powerful, a reflection of the sheer thumping beauty of the storm itself.Then the gap between peals lengthens and the centre of the downpour moves away as quickly as it arrived. Thousands of litres of water have been dumped in the valley and on the steep slopes all around the city. This all feeds into the Isère—a river of considerable power and danger, never placid—which, in turn, flows to the mighty Rhône.Yet, even with the funnelling of storm along the valley, this is not the end. Often, the shape of the earth itself will play a surprise hand of its own, the clouds bouncing—a mountain and storm pinball—back into the direction from which it came.Then it is spent, and the air is fresh, my head recovered, the loam and soil rich in my nostrils, puddles and pools begin to gently steam in the summer warmth and birds bathe and drink their fill.I love storms, no matter where I am. It is the same sensation as when I climb to a high place, or stand in the shadow of a wonder of nature—I feel small and, by feeling small, I grow.FinallyIf you can afford to, there are currently two direct ways to support my work here. The first is to take out a paid subscription.The second way to support me here is to use my Kofi button/link to send a tip of any amount. If you enjoyed this letter and wish to share it with others, please do so! I love it when someone shares my work.I also love it when you comment on a piece—really, really love it. Although I always read and appreciate these comments, during 2025 I was not as good at responding as quickly as I would like but, seeing as my word of the year for 2026 is ‘communication’, I like to think that will soon change.Finally, many thanks for reading. I truly appreciate each and every one of you who does. Get full access to The Crow's Nest at alexandermcrow.substack.com/subscribe

(After you have read these introductory paragraphs once, you can skip to the new/old content below. If you are listening, then the time stamp is around the two minute 45 second mark.)IntroductionThe word settled, to me, carries connotations I am keen to avoid. I have never felt settled or, perhaps, I cannot recall a time I felt settled. I do not feel settled now, writing this, and I’ve lived in the same house for three and a half years. Without even discussing the obvious issues of colonisation, I just don’t feel like I could, or should, settle; better to keep my constituent parts shook up, agitated perhaps, rather than separating and stagnant.Instead, I feel as though I have been travelling for years, maybe because I have not lived in my ‘home’ nation of Scotland for eight and a half years, perhaps because I know I won’t stay here forever, or maybe because I carry that concept of home in a way which differs from many?More precisely, I still think of myself as a slow traveller, globally feral. Recently, I have been revisiting places through the photographs and words I recorded when my feet crossed their soil. This is a way of reminding myself of where I have been, not just in space and time, but in mind, too. It is a wonderful thing, to come out of a low and rediscover myself through words I crafted, through the lens of a camera, when memory has wandered in the fog for too long. Thank you, past me.When I first started sharing letters with the world in this fashion, six or more years ago, I usually began them with a vignette of where I was, a sort-of travel diary, mixed with nature observation, locking in the setting for the reader, before I spoke of other things—and, by so doing, ensuring that place fed into the whole. It was a useful device, for reader and myself both but, as these letters were sent to so few readers, and now languish archived behind a paywall, I thought it a shame not to share these snippets again.As such, I am going to share a short series of these sketches, accompanied by a photograph from that time, sent to you in date order.I shall include the above paragraphs in each of the letters in this series, but I shall also include a link at the very start, so you can skip ahead once you are familiar with the above words. If you are listening and similarly want to skip, then the timestamp you want to navigate to will be in the same place.Taken without these paragraphs, each is a short read, and I hope you enjoy them.Cercal, Portugal, August 2020.No place has but four seasons, and Alentejo is no different. Summer, yes, of course it is, but it is no longer the days of the wildflower-rich, high-sun summer, nor the screaming-swift summer, nor the misty, haar-wreathed nights summer. Now is the time for the wind, for warning of extreme fire risk, of small but perfectly succulent blackberries, bursting with flavour, of the nights cooling, and the ever-swelling green globes of the next crop of oranges, hiding in plain sight. This is the summer which whispers of autumn.The swifts have gone. For a few weeks their numbers had halved, the adults bidding tchau! to their progeny, leaving them to swoop and swallow, to carve the air with new wings, calling to their classmates and then, suddenly, disappear themselves. When this happened, I am unsure. I just noticed they were all gone on the 1st of August, the skies still speckled with swallows and martins, but silent of swifts. The summer whispers of autumn.At night, the owls call, and the comet has passed, no longer a feature to be admired with naked eyes or, even better, with binoculars. All ages of change have a fiery-tailed star, and ours is no different. I wonder what those in this corner of the world thought of the comet’s last appearance, 6800 years ago? This was also a period of great change, hunter-fisher-gathering beginning to be replaced by farming. Here, in this period, the very first Dolmen, or Cromlech, tombs anywhere in the world were first constructed (and we do not really know if they were tombs, or something else). It is tempting to wonder what this same comet meant to those long ago people. For me, it was a chance to be reminded of how fleeting life is, how marvellous and how wonderful it is to be such a small part of an intricate whole and, I suspect, they felt a similar way. The owls still hoot, as their ancestors undoubtedly did then; they call to one another across the valley, reciting the story of summer, of a summer now whispering of autumn.FinallyIf you can afford to, there are currently two direct ways to support my work here. The first way is to take out a paid subscription.The second way to support me here is to use my Kofi button/link to send a tip of any amount. If you enjoyed this letter and wish to share it with others, please do so! I love it when someone shares my work.I also love it when you comment on a piece—really, really love it. Although I always read and appreciate these comments, during 2025 I was not as good at responding as quickly as I would like but, seeing as my word of the year for 2026 is ‘communication’, I like to think that will soon change.Finally, many thanks for reading. I truly appreciate each and every one of you who does. Get full access to The Crow's Nest at alexandermcrow.substack.com/subscribe

(After you have read these introductory paragraphs once, you can skip to the new/old content below. If you are listening, then the time stamp is around the two minute 45 second mark.)IntroductionThe word settled, to me, carries connotations I am keen to avoid. I have never felt settled or, perhaps, I cannot recall a time I felt settled. I do not feel settled now, writing this, and I’ve lived in the same house for three and a half years. Without even discussing the obvious issues of colonisation, I just don’t feel like I could, or should, settle; better to keep my constituent parts shook up, agitated perhaps, rather than separating and stagnant.Instead, I feel as though I have been travelling for years, maybe because I have not lived in my ‘home’ nation of Scotland for eight and a half years, perhaps because I know I won’t stay here forever, or maybe because I carry that concept of home in a way which differs from many?More precisely, I still think of myself as a slow traveller, globally feral. Recently, I have been revisiting places through the photographs and words I recorded when my feet crossed their soil. This is a way of reminding myself of where I have been, not just in space and time, but in mind, too. It is a wonderful thing, to come out of a low and rediscover myself through words I crafted, through the lens of a camera, when memory has wandered in the fog for too long. Thank you, past me.When I first started sharing letters with the world in this fashion, six or more years ago, I usually began them with a vignette of where I was, a sort-of travel diary, mixed with nature observation, locking in the setting for the reader, before I spoke of other things—and, by so doing, ensuring that place fed into the whole. It was a useful device, for reader and myself both but, as these letters were sent to so few readers, and now languish archived behind a paywall, I thought it a shame not to share these snippets again.As such, I am going to share a short series of these sketches, accompanied by a photograph from that time, sent to you in date order.I shall include the above paragraphs in each of the letters in this series, but I shall also include a link at the very start, so you can skip ahead once you are familiar with the above words. If you are listening and similarly want to skip, then the timestamp you want to navigate to will be in the same place.Taken without these paragraphs, each is a short read, and I hope you enjoy them.Cercal, Portugal. July 2020.Time, at some points and places, stretches. Days seem longer, the mind translates the passage of the sun in ways which are not, perhaps, normal. When I was eight, my family moved to Stromness, Orkney. The month was March, so the daylight was practically the same across the single face of our globe yet, as the months passed and I ventured out to play and explore, to search for lost gold in the burns, plan raft voyages to the Amazon, and torment the bull in the field below Brinkie’s Brae, the evenings grew beyond anything I had ever witnessed.Time stretched. The sun would be high in the sky, long before I woke, and would still be there when I went to bed. It was as though our relocation had gifted me with unlimited playtime, unlimited potential adventure. This was, of course, before that first, dark, and long winter and subsequent SADness.For me, as for many of you, I suspect, the last few months have also stretched. Think about this time last year, where you were, what you were doing—it seems half a lifetime away (and yet, strangely, also near enough to touch). I am fortunate, in that I live in the northern hemisphere and, even as I was locked down, the daylight extended. Not by Orkney standards, nowhere near, but each evening was brighter longer, each morning the sun higher in the sky than the previous. Now that the solstice has passed, the days already feel shorter, the screaming of the swifts more frantic, as their insect-snatching hours condense, the moment of departure for Africa ever closer. For this year’s young, they will not land for nearly three years.Imagine that—sleeping on the wing, never landing, never stopping, constant movement. Nature is ridiculous and wonderful and inspiring.I try to maintain a healthy balance of positivity in this place, to resist my natural tendency to raise uncomfortable, urgent and, I’d argue, essential questions. At least on balance—asking these questions is important. In the earlier drafts of this paragraph I moved from the joy of nature being so inspiring to the bigger issue, to the damage we wreak and sow. I have edited this out, it is a long section, all about our place on this planet, living in a tiny strip of breathable gas, on a floating and equally narrow section of rock. I shall think about how best to use this but, for now, I’d just like to reiterate—nature is ridiculous and wonderful and inspiring.FinallyIf you can afford to, there are currently two direct ways to support my work here. The first is to take out a paid subscription.The second way to support me here is to use my Kofi button/link to send a tip of any amount. If you enjoyed this letter and wish to share it with others, please do so! I love it when someone shares my work.I also love it when you comment on a piece—really, really love it. Although I always read and appreciate these comments, during 2025, I was not as good at responding as quickly as I would like but, seeing as my word of the year for 2026 is ‘communication’, I like to think that will soon change.Finally, many thanks for reading. I truly appreciate each and every one of you who does. Get full access to The Crow's Nest at alexandermcrow.substack.com/subscribe

This is a sort-of companion piece to my Third State of The Nest Address I shared back in November, on the anniversary of sharing a regular letter via Substack for six years. In that piece, I discuss the growth (or otherwise) of my letter (I don’t like the phrase ‘I have a newsletter’ and I dislike the phrase ‘I have a Substack’ even more—to my mind, I have a letter, a letter which comes from me, to you. That’s it. Like in the olden times, when we would actually touch paper and move a pen across its blank face, lick an envelope, likewise a stamp, then walk to the postbox, feel air on our faces).One of the possible reasons I believe my letter has not grown recently is simply because I have not been sending it with the regularity I did in 2024 or in 2023. Or, for that matter, at any point since 2019.I’ve been sharing a letter for a long time now (6+ years) and writing on the internet for a lot, lot longer (my first steps on the World Wide Web were actually pre-WWW, at school back in the early 1990s) and 2025 was the quietest I have been online since those days, especially if we include email or messages.The why behind this is what this piece is all about.Why Go Quiet?In short, there are two principal reasons I have not been sharing online as much as I did previously.The first is one of personal development, of a sort. I have taken the time to examine my wiring beneath the board, to look at why I am as I am, to work out the details, then to try and see a way forward which will not replicate the boom/bust/depression/burnout cycle I have followed in the past.I will continue to share things about this process, which is, of course (of curse, as I just mistyped, also works admirably well), ongoing. All self-development should be—we should all keep asking questions and all keep listening to the answers even—or especially—when they make us feel uncomfortable.The second reason is, well, all of this *the author waves around generally at the world*. We are living in dark, dangerous times. That is a simple fact. And the dark and the dangerous seeps into everything we are, whether we intend it to, or not.Imagine a blind man, who happens to also be deaf, walking slowly in a straight line. He doesn’t know he is walking to a crumbling cliff edge.Now, imagine a blind man who is no longer deaf and, although he can hear the sound of approaching waves crashing ahead, keeps on walking.Now, the man is also no longer blind—a miracle! Science!—and he can hear the waves and see the cliff edge ahead, feel that spray on his face, and yet he keeps walking.Others, wise people, normal people, your neighbours, friends and family, are all nearby, shouting at him to stop walking but, yes, he keeps walking.The walk feels familiar, each step like the last, right up until the ground gives way beneath his feet and he falls, faster, gathering pace, to smash upon the rocks below.That man is, rather obviously in this ridiculous extended metaphor, humanity, at this point in time. Today.We are no longer blind and deaf, we have all those voices telling us what is happening to the only home our species has ever had—and, at this rate, may well ever have. And yet, we keep not only walking, but pick up the pace a little.I’m sure if you’ve ever read any post on Substack (or elsewhere) from one of the various scientists, or climatologists, or even someone ‘normal’, saying ‘guys, maybe we should rein this in a little?’ you’ll also have picked up on some of the frankly ridiculous comments these posts receive. Some are horrible, vile, cruel. Others just plain laughable. Still others try very hard to manipulate the figures to show something they do not show, irrevocable proof that climate collapse is just a gold-plated hoax.Some of those voices, the naysayers, are probably not even human. Russia has been quietly waging a war against the world over the last decade or more. A war fought through fingertips. Fair play to them, they saw the future, and they knew the power of words in that future—trust the Russians to understand how words and stories are truly powerful, after all. Their literature was perhaps a warning, a hint of the troll factories and deliberate misinformation to come.In the First Worldwide Story War, Russia has certainly won.Many nations are only just waking to the fact they’ve lost control of their own messaging; that it doesn’t matter what they say, the damage is already done. Trust is gone, belief has evaporated, and hope is somewhere down the back of the sofa, picking up dust and fluff, perhaps adhering to a sticky, lost delicacy, slowly returning to a sugary base.Only, there are those who keep going, who seek to redress the balance in the ways they know how. Some share their practical tips for preparing for disaster, whether on a local, regional, or national (or even global) level, others talk about the data, what it demonstrates, what it might mean to us all, and how it ties in with yet more data. Still others share what is precious and beautiful, what is real, what triggers emotions, and reminds us we are human—the good parts of being human.Which reminds me of this Note I saw recently, which hits the mark perfectly.All of these are valid, all are crucial (I never understand those who criticise others for sharing beauty and wonder when times are dark—this is precisely when such things are most important and, maybe it’s my British upbringing, but see also: humour), what is essential is that we all work out our own path forward, we all look at where we are, then seriously consider the road ahead, and how best we can navigate it, sudden twists, washouts, failing bridges, cracking surface, ice, rain, storm, deep snow, and all.What is My Path?For a long time, I’ve tried very hard to keep sharing a positive message, to share with you the beauty, majesty, and wonder of nature, or how we can perhaps reclaim our place as a part of it.Over the last couple of years that belief, that urge to keep fighting the good fight, has increasingly wavered.I had to pick my battles (NOTE: I really dislike military, violent metaphors but, horrifically, there is now no denying or getting away from the fact we are actually in the fight for the very lives of our species.), and the battles I chose were for my own mind, my own way forward, mentally, emotionally, physically.After all, if I am not whole and strong, then it becomes harder to help others. Not impossible, but harder. As we are told—always put on your own oxygen mask first.Now, after an extended break of a sort—from talking about things here, certainly—I feel I am capable of returning. Slowly, at least. And I’m not quite there, yet:How I continue to fight, however, is still something I am considering. I think I have a few options, which I shall discuss below.The OptionsThe problem as I see it, as with many of the world’s issues, stems to money. I simply cannot afford the time to write essay after essay for free, or next to no financial recompense. It isn’t viable. I do not have the time to do so, sadly. Yet the idea of increasingly paywalling work leaves me cold.I thought I was being clever with how I paywalled things—take my fiction, for example, where I share story after story, novel after novel, for free, only paywalling after the whole is shared (and, in the case of some of those stories, no paywall at all). Much of my oldest work here is paywalled, true, but in reality there are very, very few people who ever go back through an archive with a fine-tooth comb—no one really has the time (thanks! capitalism!).So, going forward, what should I do?There are several options I can see:* Maintain the current system, only paywalling certain things after a time, with occasional paid subscriber-only posts; including links to my Kofi account (which has proved more useful than paid subscriptions over the last year) in each post.* Remove the paywall completely, which will also mean removing all my fiction, as I shall be selling that in book form very soon, and never paywalling a thing again.* Keep the fiction paywalled, perhaps with bonus material if people pay for a subscription to read it, and make everything else free from hereon-in, with the option to subscribe ‘simply’ to support my work.As I am soon releasing some of my fiction in book-format, as mentioned here, my current thinking is to go with the third option.There is another reason for this, one which is mildly irritating, and I feel a bit annoyed to have to share. Substack itself—the platform which shares this letter and Notes, their twitteresque feed—no longer drives discovery as it once undoubtedly did.I’m not saying this simply based on my own experience (again, see the Third State of The Nest I shared back in November, 2025), but also what others are reporting. I’m not sure who now profits from either Notes, recommendations, or any other method Substack used to use, but it doesn’t seem to be me or almost anyone else I talk to. (EDIT: I was literally about to send this letter when Substack crashed completely, telling me I had no posts saved, whether posted (should be 319), queued (3), or drafts (15). I waited for half an hour but, as it did not come back in that time, I also could not reply to comments, as I had intended. There’s definitely an irony in this, somewhere.)This happens: platforms deteriorate over time. I am used to that—not that it makes it any easier, of course. At present, I shall keep using Substack, but I shall also be adding another method of sharing my words, that of a good, old-fashioned, website. I shall launch this soon, to go hand-in-hand with the launch of my fiction books and, going forward, each letter will be copied there, too, with some older work also uploaded and shared there.As I work on that site, I shall also be updating the pages and tabs of my Substack home, too. The ‘Start Here’ page, for example, is now out of date. I’d like to have all of this done in the next few weeks, if I can squeeze out the time for it, I think doing so will help lay a solid foundation for the other work to come.These Things Are MeAs much as a part of me is irritated at the increasing lack of discoverability on Substack, I do want to keep continuing to share words with you about the subjects I love or find interesting. That is the bedrock of this space, and will also underpin the work on my website. Nature, ancestral skills, fiction, writing and reading, neurodivergence—these things are me, they are the blocks from which I am carved and, I think, the things you want to read. One thing which will always help immensely is if you the reader take the time to share my work. I am so very touched when you do so, thank you.Our world is experiencing change on a scale never before seen. That point bears repeating. This change is conceivably across every facet of our (and the planet’s) very existence.In September last year, I shared an essay called The Balance of Hope, but I only shared it on my Substack homepage, pinning it there and never sending it as a letter. I wanted to see if that was a useful way to share my work. At the time, I said this:This post is something of an experiment. By not sending it out to my subscriber list, I suspect not many people will read, comment upon, or share it. However, I am more than willing to be proven wrong!I actually did have some great comments on this piece, and it was shared a little, but it was only read 148 times. Which is not great, when I have 2285 subscribers and 5215 followers on Notes. For reference, I sent this piece, Build The Wall, the day after and, whilst it only had a 29% open rate, it was viewed 1060 times, 10x the other. As such, after I send this letter, the one you are reading now, I am also going to share that unsent essay, too. It goes into much greater detail about the issues I discuss above, with talk of hope, of direction, and reference to the work and words of Ursula K. Le Guin. It is a longer read but, I think, one which contains words which might help, if you are also finding our times difficult (“difficult” here is probably an understatement?).One other thing The Balance of Hope shows is how I have not moved forward in my own work here as I had hoped at the time—not outwardly, at least. Five months later, I am sending similar words to you now, after all. One reason for this is probably due to my day-by-day sharing of A Fall In Time, and all the work that entailed, even if it was mostly simply copying and pasting. In 2024, A Fall In Time likely increased my readership by 40%, perhaps more. In 2025, I actually lost 50 people from the balance of subscribers in the same timeframe. That was a little demoralising.However, I have made substantial progress on offline projects, those which will only be readable once they are published in a more traditional manner (traditional here being both self-published and, with luck, and a lot of work, traditionally published).I have also made substantial progress on me. And that is not to be underestimated in this dark and dangerous time. My emotional, mental, and physical health is better now than at any point in perhaps four years. I can safely say I’ve now firmly attached my own oxygen mask, which leaves me with free hands, able to help others once more.This process of focussing on learning how to move forward as myself has also meant I can actually focus better on what needs to be done, something I have struggled with in recent years, whether self-work, paid work, or work which will pay in some shape or form in the longterm—and all of this feels hopeful. It feels like spring, whispering in the forest.FinallyAs I have mentioned recently, in my series of weekly letters sharing snippets from the past, Witness Notes, my word for this year is communication. (Last year, it was compassion, which worked very well, indeed.)As such, I am trying to reply to your comments faster, although this is still a work in progress. I am also working back through the comments you’ve left on my pieces last year, which I still have yet to reply to—and I am also beginning to read your own work more, too, engaging here and there. I have the whole year to get to the point I’d like to be, where I can reply quickly, where I can send out emails, messages, and letters, even look at other ways to communicate (anyone use Substack Live? How did it go for you? What about the chat function?). I love and appreciate every comment you take the time to share. In our attention-based economy, the simple fact you do comment is a wonder. Thank you.Have you also been struggling to see a path ahead in these dark times? Are you deliberately seeking out signs from nature for connection and grounding (I have noted down the date for the first snowdrop, first purple archangel, first drumming woodpecker, first morning and evening chorus, and first [probably rather cold] honeybee)? How have you strengthened yourself for what comes next? If you have enjoyed reading my words, I offer two current, direct ways to support my work here. The first is to take out a paid subscription—as I say above, this is a super way to support my work. (Just subscribing, even if it is as a free subscriber, is also a wonderful thing. Thank you.)The second way to support me here is to use my Kofi button/link to send a tip of any amount. I think this is easier for many people, in these tough times, as it doesn’t feel the same as a monthly or annual subscription.Leaving a comment, sharing my words, subscribing, these are things I do not take for granted. I appreciate that you can do these things, too, that the technology makes it easier for you to do so and, if I do move my letter somewhere one day, it will have to be somewhere which still allows this with ease.Thanks for reading. Get full access to The Crow's Nest at alexandermcrow.substack.com/subscribe

(After you have read these introductory paragraphs once, you can skip to the new/old content below. If you are listening, then the time stamp is around the two minute 45 second mark.)IntroductionThe word settled, to me, carries connotations I am keen to avoid. I have never felt settled or, perhaps, I cannot recall a time I felt settled. I do not feel settled now, writing this, and I’ve lived in the same house for three and a half years. Without even discussing the obvious issues of colonisation, I just don’t feel like I could, or should, settle; better to keep my constituent parts shook up, agitated perhaps, rather than separating and stagnant.Instead, I feel as though I have been travelling for years, maybe because I have not lived in my ‘home’ nation of Scotland for eight and a half years, perhaps because I know I won’t stay here forever, or maybe because I carry that concept of home in a way which differs from many?More precisely, I still think of myself as a slow traveller, globally feral. Recently, I have been revisiting places through the photographs and words I recorded when my feet crossed their soil. This is a way of reminding myself of where I have been, not just in space and time, but in mind, too. It is a wonderful thing, to come out of a low and rediscover myself through words I crafted, through the lens of a camera, when memory has wandered in the fog for too long. Thank you, past me.When I first started sharing letters with the world in this fashion, six or more years ago, I usually began them with a vignette of where I was, a sort-of travel diary, mixed with nature observation, locking in the setting for the reader, before I spoke of other things—and, by so doing, ensuring that place fed into the whole. It was a useful device, for reader and myself both but, as these letters were sent to so few readers, and now languish archived behind a paywall, I thought it a shame not to share these snippets again.As such, I am going to share a short series of these sketches, accompanied by a photograph from that time, sent to you in date order.I shall include the above paragraphs in each of the letters in this series, but I shall also include a link at the very start, so you can skip ahead once you are familiar with the above words. If you are listening and similarly want to skip, then the timestamp you want to navigate to will be in the same place.Taken without these paragraphs, each is a short read, and I hope you enjoy them.Cercal, Portugal, June 2020This morning, as I draft this, it is raining, for the first time in weeks. Everything is cool and crisp, the air fresh and clear. It is a joy to feel rain like this, and something I do not ever take for granted, despite a damp Scottish upbringing. I know that in the weeks and months ahead, here in Alentejo, the rain will be rare and welcomed even more than today.When we lived in Thailand, each rainfall—from late October onward—began to take on special significance; would this downpour be the last before the long months of the dry season? Or would there be one tomorrow, or in a week? I feel a similarity here, today, but I also know that this location, so close to damp Atlantic winds, will not be the same as northern Thailand, the air will stay fresh, any pollution blown away. The air here in this corner of Portugal is exceptionally clean and clear, and a big reason why we chose this as our home after Chiang Mai. Whether there will be months of drought, without any rain, remains to be seen. After the extensive wildfires in 2018, just south of here, I hope not.I, like so many others, have done the vast amount of my recent nature observation from the windows of our home. Here, in the west of Alentejo, even on the fourth floor, sometimes nature also tries to bring itself closer to us. Butterflies lay their eggs on our salads and nasturtiums, Moorish geckos hide behind the plant-pots, tiny spiky dragons, who would not surprise me if they hiccuped smoke. Birds have been known to fly in and then out again, sometimes pausing on the open bedroom window and depositing tiny calling-cards on the floor. In the corner of the kitchen sits a fat, elegant spider, high up and patient. She is well fed, for this corner, above the door to the balcony, is where the insects rise and where, subsequently, a constant rain of desiccated corpses falls to the floor. This is not a bad thing, even spiders need love and feeding and, to be honest, I prefer them to mosquitoes who, in turn, love me.We have managed to install a magnetic bug screen in the bedroom, which is rather wonderful, as it means we can leave the window open and let the cool evening air replace the heat of the day. As a welcome bonus, it also enables me to stand in the dark, looking out at the view at night, inhaling the scent and hearing the voices of the night-shift.I have previously mentioned the joy of watching a pair of barn owls dance together and, ever since, I have tried to see them again. This new arrangement, where the shutter and window is only closed when the night is cool enough and we are about to sleep, means I can watch and wait, with no fear of that high-pitched whine, signalling a night of misery. The screen went up on Monday, I saw my first owl on Wednesday.Below us is an orange grove, leading to a hill with trees, more oranges, flowers and grasses in abundance. During the day, small birds flit and call beneath, in, and above these: warblers, sparrows, treecreepers, tits, finches and more. I know there are nests; I have watched birds disappearing into the emerald shade, beaks carrying caterpillars or flies. Yet I never really thought about what became of the birds at night, how they slept, or the dangers they faced.The owl, a white, silent ghost sailed in from the east, sweeping around the grove widdershins, circling in a tighter and tighter spiral, until it was turning around a single tree, perhaps trying to scare a small bird into making a mistake, to flee into sharp talons and the eager beaks of owlets. I missed what happened next, as I myself turned away to ensure Aurélie did not miss the show and, when I turned, the owl was disappearing back to the east, towards the church. Moments later, a white cat leapt onto the wall beside the oranges, from beneath the same tree. Were these two working together, flushing out prey? Is there an ancient treaty here in Alentejo, where white cats and white owls share the spoils, a union of hunters? Or perhaps there is further magic at work, one owl of the pair cursed to spend the summer in the body of a feline?Just before we gave up watching, the owl reappeared, passing up the hill, silent and beautiful. Did it see us, standing there in the dark? I imagine it did and, later, told the cat. The next morning, as we prepared for the weekly grocery shop, I heard a yell from the living room. The same white cat had jumped in through the open window. On the fourth floor.FinallyIf you can afford to, there are currently two direct ways to support my work here. The first is to take out a paid subscription.The second way to support me here is to use my Kofi button/link to send a tip of any amount. If you enjoyed this letter and wish to share it with others, please do so! I love it when someone shares my work.I also love it when you comment on a piece—really, really love it. Although I always read and appreciate these comments, during 2025, I was not as good at responding as quickly as I would like but, seeing as my word of the year for 2026 is ‘communication’, I like to think that will soon change.Finally, many thanks for reading. I truly appreciate each and every one of you who does. Get full access to The Crow's Nest at alexandermcrow.substack.com/subscribe

(After you have read these introductory paragraphs once, you can skip to the new/old content below. If you are listening, then the time stamp is around the two minute 45 second mark.)IntroductionThe word settled, to me, carries connotations I am keen to avoid. I have never felt settled or, perhaps, I cannot recall a time I felt settled. I do not feel settled now, writing this, and I’ve lived in the same house for three and a half years. Without even discussing the obvious issues of colonisation, I just don’t feel like I could, or should, settle; better to keep my constituent parts shook up, agitated perhaps, rather than separating and stagnant.Instead, I feel as though I have been travelling for years, maybe because I have not lived in my ‘home’ nation of Scotland for eight and a half years, perhaps because I know I won’t stay here forever, or maybe because I carry that concept of home in a way which differs from many?More precisely, I still think of myself as a slow traveller, globally feral. Recently, I have been revisiting places through the photographs and words I recorded when my feet crossed their soil. This is a way of reminding myself of where I have been, not just in space and time, but in mind, too. It is a wonderful thing, to come out of a low and rediscover myself through words I crafted, through the lens of a camera, when memory has wandered in the fog for too long. Thank you, past me.When I first started sharing letters with the world in this fashion, six or more years ago, I usually began them with a vignette of where I was, a sort-of travel diary, mixed with nature observation, locking in the setting for the reader, before I spoke of other things—and, by so doing, ensuring that place fed into the whole. It was a useful device, for reader and myself both but, as these letters were sent to so few readers, and now languish archived behind a paywall, I thought it a shame not to share these snippets again.As such, I am going to share a short series of these sketches, accompanied by a photograph from that time, sent to you in date order.I shall include the above paragraphs in each of the letters in this series, but I shall also include a link at the very start, so you can skip ahead once you are familiar with the above words. If you are listening and similarly want to skip, then the timestamp you want to navigate to will be in the same place.Taken without these paragraphs, each is a short read, and I hope you enjoy them.Cercal, Alentejo, Portugal. May 2020We live around 12 kilometres, or 7.5 miles, from the ocean. Here, as I have mentioned, the ground begins to fold and hills rise around us, stretching above crinkled, complicated valleys, all the way down to the Serra de Monchique.Hills to the south, rolling cork oak pastureland and fields to the east, plains all the way north, and the vast, roiling waters of the Atlantic to the west.There are mornings where a fresh wind from the west brings the scent of the sea; hike to the crest of the first hills in that direction and you can see the haze of salt spray spreading out below you, all the way to the coast. It is barely a stretch of the imagination to imagine a 16th century farmer watching as Barbary Corsairs destroyed the village of Vila Nova de Milfontes, taking away the inhabitants, condemned to a life of slavery. There is a reason there are so few old settlements along this coast, and that reason was piracy.When I look at a landscape, I tie it to my imagination and what I know from history, archaeology, and reading. Sometimes, this is unconscious thought, ideas and ghosts of stories flickering across my mind; at other times I deliberately wonder what the young Alex would see if transplanted to this place and time. He would undoubtedly have read the tales of the pirates and made up fables of his own. There are deep caves here, tunnels from the mines which date back many centuries. Now, they are important for the local bats but, perhaps, young Alex would have been convinced some contained pirate treasure. He would definitely have climbed up and down the crumbling cliffs, leaping across fissures here, ignoring the drop and possibility of injury, flush with the fearlessness of the young and invincible.When I inhale the scent of the early morning, watering the plants on the small balcony, catching the familiar salty tendrils on the breeze, I am reminded of other early mornings near the sea. I still recall the first time I awoke in Stromness, the way the air tasted utterly different from what was then called South Humberside. It left a deep sense of magic, which has not faded with time.The sea is within me, in a way almost impossible to describe for those who did not grow beside her, have never sampled her moods and tasted her fury, and this creeps into my writing.Eventually, everything does.FinallyIf you can afford to, there are currently two direct ways to support my work here. The first is to take out a paid subscription.The second way to support me here is to use my Kofi button/link to send a tip of any amount. If you enjoyed this letter and wish to share it with others, please do so! I love it when someone shares my work.I also love it when you comment on a piece—really, really love it. Although I always read and appreciate these comments, during 2025, I was not as good at responding as quickly as I would like but, seeing as my word of the year for 2026 is ‘communication’, I like to think that will soon change.Finally, many thanks for reading. I truly appreciate each and every one of you who does. Get full access to The Crow's Nest at alexandermcrow.substack.com/subscribe

(After you have read these introductory paragraphs once, you can skip to the new/old content here. If you are listening, then the time stamp is around the two minute 45 second mark.)IntroductionThe word settled, to me, carries connotations I am keen to avoid. I have never felt settled or, perhaps, I cannot recall a time I felt settled. I do not feel settled now, writing this, and I’ve lived in the same house for three and a half years. Without even discussing the obvious issues of colonisation, I just don’t feel like I could, or should, settle; better to keep my constituent parts shook up, agitated perhaps, rather than separating and stagnant.Instead, I feel as though I have been travelling for years, maybe because I have not lived in my ‘home’ nation of Scotland for eight and a half years, perhaps because I know I won’t stay here forever, or maybe because I carry that concept of home in a way which differs from many?More precisely, I still think of myself as a slow traveller, globally feral. Recently, I have been revisiting places through the photographs and words I recorded when my feet crossed their soil. This is a way of reminding myself of where I have been, not just in space and time, but in mind, too. It is a wonderful thing, to come out of a low and rediscover myself through words I crafted, through the lens of a camera, when memory has wandered in the fog for too long. Thank you, past me.When I first started sharing letters with the world in this fashion, six or more years ago, I usually began them with a vignette of where I was, a sort-of travel diary, mixed with nature observation, locking in the setting for the reader, before I spoke of other things—and, by so doing, ensuring that place fed into the whole. It was a useful device, for reader and myself both but, as these letters were sent to so few readers, and now languish archived behind a paywall, I thought it a shame not to share these snippets again.As such, I am going to share a short series of these sketches, accompanied by a photograph from that time, sent to you in date order.I shall include the above paragraphs in each of the letters in this series, but I shall also include a link at the very start, so you can skip ahead once you are familiar with the above words. If you are listening and similarly want to skip, then the timestamp you want to navigate to will be in the same place.Taken without these paragraphs, each is a short read, and I hope you enjoy them.Cercal, Alentejo, Portugal. April 2020My local world is bounded by windmills. Round hilltop towers, now shorn of their sails, some falling back to nature, others repurposed into circular homes. Many of the taller hilltops near this village are capped with a windmill, their curves juxtaposing with the angles of the distant line of pylons stepping southward in great cable-linked, invasive metallic strides.Throughout the day, from the first light until the last, these stunted sentinels act as giant sundials, barometers against the azure or beneath the grey, sometimes vanishing for hours at a time, only to reappear in evening brilliance, all between us bejewelled by fresh spring rain and the low angle of the sun.I live beside ancient hills, just where the flat plain rises to my back, to the south, the east and, for a short distance, the west. The dawn is swift and the sun stays in the sky, no cover once the day breaks. The dusk, however, is the opposite, a ballet of light and shadow, as the sun slips behind a hill, to usher in night, only to suddenly reappear, before repeating this dance, forest-clad hills skirted, and the patchwork of fields and white of the buildings lit again.Throughout the evening, the windmills are points in this play, bright pinnacles, gnomon, casting long fingers of shadow. As the sun moves into hiding I swear the world begins to whisper, only to regain its voice as the daylight returns once more; birds sing, dogs bark, the sheep reassure one another, as a wave of technicolor rolls towards my position, at a speed which serves to reminds me how fast our planet spins, making me feel a little dizzy.I wonder whether the missing sails once cast corkscrewing shadows of their own. Whether they were broad and slow enough to add to this marvel, or whether the miller had always locked them by the time the sun was setting. I wonder who else gazed from this village to this interplay of light and dark, what they thought at the end of a long day in the fields, or working with the local iron. You can find slag from the smelting here, dating back to the time of the Romans, or earlier, when the Miróbrigenses spoke the now long-extinct Tartessian. Names, an alphabet, lumps of melted rock, all surviving long after their makers are dust.All those days spinning into years, those years into centuries and millennia, time adding layers to this place, sunset after sunset, no two ever alike. The windmills watch, as do I, one day both to return to dust, as the hills themselves are worn away as the world turns. I find this oddly reassuring.FinallyIf you can afford to, there are currently two direct ways to support my work here. The first is to take out a paid subscription.The second way to support me here is to use my Kofi button/link to send a tip of any amount. If you enjoyed this letter and wish to share it with others, please do so! I love it when someone shares my work.I also love it when you comment on a piece—really, really love it. During 2025, I have not been as good at responding to comments as quickly as I would like but, seeing as my word of the year for 2026 is almost certainly going to be ‘communication’, I like to think that will soon change. Finally, many thanks for reading. I truly appreciate each and every one of you who does. Get full access to The Crow's Nest at alexandermcrow.substack.com/subscribe

(After you have read these introductory paragraphs once, you can skip to the new/old content here. If you are listening, then the time stamp is around the two minute 45 second mark.)IntroductionThe word settled, to me, carries connotations I am keen to avoid. I have never felt settled or, perhaps, I cannot recall a time I felt settled. I do not feel settled now, writing this, and I’ve lived in the same house for three and a half years. Without even discussing the obvious issues of colonisation, I just don’t feel like I could, or should, settle; better to keep my constituent parts shook up, agitated perhaps, rather than separating and stagnant.Instead, I feel as though I have been travelling for years, maybe because I have not lived in my ‘home’ nation of Scotland for eight and a half years, perhaps because I know I won’t stay here forever, or maybe because I carry that concept of home in a way which differs from many?More precisely, I still think of myself as a slow traveller, globally feral. Recently, I have been revisiting places through the photographs and words I recorded when my feet crossed their soil. This is a way of reminding myself of where I have been, not just in space and time, but in mind, too. It is a wonderful thing, to come out of a low and rediscover myself through words I crafted, through the lens of a camera, when memory has wandered in the fog for too long. Thank you, past me.When I first started sharing letters with the world in this fashion, six or more years ago, I usually began them with a vignette of where I was, a sort-of travel diary, mixed with nature observation, locking in the setting for the reader, before I spoke of other things—and, by so doing, ensuring that place fed into the whole. It was a useful device, for reader and myself both but, as these letters were sent to so few readers, and now languish archived behind a paywall, I thought it a shame not to share these snippets again.As such, I am going to share a short series of these sketches, accompanied by a photograph from that time, sent to you in date order.I shall include the above paragraphs in each of the letters in this series, but I shall also include a link at the very start, so you can skip ahead once you are familiar with the above words. If you are listening and similarly want to skip, then the timestamp you want to navigate to will be in the same place.Taken without these paragraphs, each is a short read, and I hope you enjoy them.Cercal, Alentejo, Portugal. April 2020Outside the window, the world warms, stories of life everywhere.Swirls of storks climb invisible spirals. Beneath, strata of swallows manoeuvre, twist, brake and snatch, manoeuvre, twist, brake and snatch. Lower still, plummeting sparrows, falling from our eaves to the orange grove below, a constant squabble. Beyond the storks rises a bird of prey, perhaps a buzzard, perhaps something else, I do not have my binoculars to confirm and the angle is off. Three crows mob and give chase, an explosion of collared doves below, flashing from thicket to thicket. Earlier, two ravens headed west, scaring the same doves and a brace of wood pigeon, a cycle which continues throughout the day.The shepherd is moving the sheep from the field with the olives to the one with the holm oak shade. His dog, at this distance, could be a hunting wolf. Further, a field of brown and well-fed cattle move along the edge in single file, a solitary dark horse in the field between, geese, chickens, and vegetable gardens closer still. Dusty tree-lined trails mark boundaries, arteries to the wilder places beyond this village.Here, the trees and bushes are mostly green, with the others in blossom or still awaiting their moment, to burst into leaf once more. This is a reversal from the land I grew up within, where the verdancy of holly or ivy was welcome in the winter, whilst all else slept, drained of colour, a monochrome hibernation. The cork oaks, the oranges and lemons, the satsumas, the eucalyptus, the holm oaks and others I am still trying to identify: this is a rolling land of green winters and blue, blue, azul skies. It is a land of surprisingly cold winds and reassuringly warm sun, sudden dawn and swift sunset, a land chiming with the church bell, toll unchanged through centuries. Sleek cats cross the village on terracotta clay tiles, a highway in the sky, a stratum of their own. Below, the dogs bark at their scent and the ink shadow of a returning stork brushes across shining paper-white walls, today’s approach to the nest directly parallel to our kitchen window.The local Grandmothers hush the dogs, shoo the hens and sit for a spell, short woollen cloaks over their shoulders, sun seeping into leathery tanned skin, heating old bones, mimicking the lizards in the grass. Warmed, they move fast, determined: sweeping, hanging laundry, cooking on braziers, moving heavy wooden furniture outside to clean. Another pause and an animated discussion with neighbours, arms are raised, fingers pointed, chins are jutted. World affairs on a tiny, mostly-unchanged street; these cobbles heard tell of other diseases, of wars, of births and deaths, of love. Countless stories of life. If I were to open the window I would hear their words, drifting upward to me and to the stork nest to the left, as the fragrance of the blossom fills the room and the rising warmth of spring flows into the kitchen.Stories of life, lives forming stories, constantly.FinallyIf you can afford to, there are currently two direct ways to support my work here. The first is to take out a paid subscription.The second way to support me here is to use my Kofi button/link to send a tip of any amount. If you enjoyed this letter and wish to share it with others, please do so! I love it when someone shares my work.I also love it when you comment on a piece—really, really love it. During 2025, I have not been as good at responding to comments as quickly as I would like but, seeing as my word of the year for 2026 is almost certainly going to be ‘communication’, I like to think that will soon change. Finally, many thanks for reading. I truly appreciate each and every one of you who does. Get full access to The Crow's Nest at alexandermcrow.substack.com/subscribe

(After you have read these introductory paragraphs once, you can skip to the new/old content here. If you are listening, then the time stamp is around the two minute 45 second mark.)IntroductionThe word settled, to me, carries connotations I am keen to avoid. I have never felt settled or, perhaps, I cannot recall a time I felt settled. I do not feel settled now, writing this, and I’ve lived in the same house for three and a half years. Without even discussing the obvious issues of colonisation, I just don’t feel like I could, or should, settle; better to keep my constituent parts shook up, agitated perhaps, rather than separating and stagnant.Instead, I feel as though I have been travelling for years, maybe because I have not lived in my ‘home’ nation of Scotland for eight and a half years, perhaps because I know I won’t stay here forever, or maybe because I carry that concept of home in a way which differs from many?More precisely, I still think of myself as a slow traveller, globally feral. Recently, I have been revisiting places through the photographs and words I recorded when my feet crossed their soil. This is a way of reminding myself of where I have been, not just in space and time, but in mind, too. It is a wonderful thing, to come out of a low and rediscover myself through words I crafted, through the lens of a camera, when memory has wandered in the fog for too long. Thank you, past me.When I first started sharing letters with the world in this fashion, six or more years ago, I usually began them with a vignette of where I was, a sort-of travel diary, mixed with nature observation, locking in the setting for the reader, before I spoke of other things—and, by so doing, ensuring that place fed into the whole. It was a useful device, for reader and myself both but, as these letters were sent to so few readers, and now languish archived behind a paywall, I thought it a shame not to share these snippets again.As such, I am going to share a short series of these sketches, accompanied by a photograph from that time, sent to you in date order.I shall include the above paragraphs in each of the letters in this series, but I shall also include a link at the very start, so you can skip ahead once you are familiar with the above words. If you are listening and similarly want to skip, then the timestamp you want to navigate to will be in the same place.Taken without these paragraphs, each is a short read, and I hope you enjoy them.Vila Nova de Milfontes, Alentejo, Portugal. February 2020In the last ten days, I have been joined by old friends: the salt-tang of the ocean carried on powerful, iodine-strong winds, the sun a force, capable of burning quickly, the roar of waves an ancient lullaby. The nights are cool, the days warm, the land surprisingly green and already covered in flowers; flashes and banks of yellow, pebble-dash of pinks and reds. Here, farmers are already harvesting and baling grass, there a shepherd tends sheep or goats.Citrus splashes cover verdant small trees, oranges and clementines dotted everywhere, often fallen and rolled, ditches and dips full of gathered sweet balls, unclaimed, rotting. Lemons are equally common, sometimes almost too large to be believed, their yellow so obvious it is a colour of its very own.Bamboo tracks the waterways, here and there giant stacks have been collected, bundles of canes to be used later in Spring. The cork oak trunks are a spectrum, darkest where they have most recently been peeled, lighter where time has passed and a new cover awaits silently, to seal the wine or port of many miles of vineyards.I am learning this language, the language of a landscape that feels ancient and lived-in—how fields are maintained, how there is space for nature above the terraces, in between settlements, or on the long coastal edge. Portugal feels full of stories; old stories and new, whispers of tales to come. It is into this land that we venture, seeking a home, filling in the gaps in our knowledge. The land whispers back, tells us what we need to hear, and we listen.FinallyIf you can afford to, there are currently two direct ways to support my work here. The first is to take out a paid subscription and, as it is the midwinter (or midsummer) season and to celebrate six years of sharing this letter, I’m offering 20% off both monthly and annual subscription plans. If you subscribe at that price, it will lock in for the rest of your subscription, for as long as you remain a subscriber. I shall be raising my subscription fees slightly in the new year, so taking advantage of this might make sense. The offer ends mid-January, 2026.The second way to support me here is to use my Kofi button/link to send a tip of any amount. If you enjoyed this letter and wish to share it with others, please do so! I love it when someone shares my work.I also love it when you comment on a piece—really, really love it. During 2025, I have not been as good at responding to comments as quickly as I would like but, seeing as my word of the year for 2026 is almost certainly going to be ‘communication’, I like to think that will soon change. Finally, many thanks for reading. I truly appreciate each and every one of you who does. Get full access to The Crow's Nest at alexandermcrow.substack.com/subscribe

(After you have read these introductory paragraphs once, you can skip to the new/old content here. If you are listening, then the time stamp is around the two minute 45 second mark.)IntroductionThe word settled, to me, carries connotations I am keen to avoid. I have never felt settled or, perhaps, I cannot recall a time I felt settled. I do not feel settled now, writing this, and I’ve lived in the same house for three and a half years. The Crow's Nest is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.Without even discussing the obvious issues of colonisation, I just don’t feel like I could, or should, settle; better to keep my constituent parts shook up, agitated perhaps, rather than separating and stagnant.Instead, I feel as though I have been travelling for years, maybe because I have not lived in my ‘home’ nation of Scotland for eight and a half years, perhaps because I know I won’t stay here forever, or maybe because I carry that concept of home in a way which differs from many?More precisely, I still think of myself as a slow traveller, globally feral. Recently, I have been revisiting places through the photographs and words I recorded when my feet crossed their soil. This is a way of reminding myself of where I have been, not just in space and time, but in mind, too. It is a wonderful thing, to come out of a low and rediscover myself through words I crafted, through the lens of a camera, when memory has wandered in the fog for too long. Thank you, past me.When I first started sharing letters with the world in this fashion, six or more years ago, I usually began them with a vignette of where I was, a sort-of travel diary, mixed with nature observation, locking in the setting for the reader, before I spoke of other things—and, by so doing, ensuring that place fed into the whole. It was a useful device, for reader and myself both but, as these letters were sent to so few readers, and now languish archived behind a paywall, I thought it a shame not to share these snippets again.As such, I am going to share a short series of these sketches, accompanied by a photograph from that time, sent to you in date order.I shall include the above paragraphs in each of the letters in this series, but I shall also include a link at the very start, so you can skip ahead once you are familiar with the above words. If you are listening and similarly want to skip, then the timestamp you want to navigate to will be in the same place.Taken without these paragraphs, each is a short read, and I hope you enjoy them.The Alps, Isère, France. January 2020The silence of snow is thick and cushioned, the light diffused, reflected, refracted, contradictory. Twigs, branches and trunks are blanketed on one side only, crystal-white creating contrast, highlighting their twisting shapes, calling out their identity to those who know their coded winter pattern.The sky is gunmetal and thick, brown at the edges, rusting clouds silently slipping lower throughout the day, with occasional tickles of flakes tessellating where they fall.Here and there are the traces of those who have already passed, footsteps telling tales we trackers delight in—this the nursery of tracking, as with wet sand, the details are beautiful, each trail a story clearly written. We can take these and learn, understand where to look in spring or summer, how the animal moves to avoid a fallen tree, or to step over—or on—a branch. Whispers of a past, with another living thing at their end.The mountains are a place I adore. Here, in the Alps, the seasons are constantly changing, each major quarter of the year broken down into smaller bites. Winter woodland snows are a delight, something magical, always carrying a hint of Narnia.If a lamppost had appeared along the trail I followed, I would not have been surprised.FinallyIf you can afford to, there are currently two direct ways to support my work here. The first is to take out a paid subscription and, as it is the midwinter (or midsummer) season and to celebrate six years of sharing this letter, I’m offering 20% off both monthly and annual subscription plans. If you subscribe at that price, it will lock in for the rest of your subscription, for as long as you remain a subscriber. I shall be raising my subscription fees slightly in the new year, so taking advantage of this might make sense. The offer ends mid-January, 2026.The second way to support me here is to use my Kofi button/link to send a tip of any amount. If you enjoyed this letter and wish to share it with others, please do so! I love it when someone shares my work.I also love it when you comment on a piece—really, really love it. During 2025, I have not been as good at responding to comments as quickly as I would like but, seeing as my word of the year for 2026 is almost certainly going to be ‘communication’, I like to think that will soon change. Finally, many thanks for reading. I truly appreciate each and every one of you who does. Get full access to The Crow's Nest at alexandermcrow.substack.com/subscribe

(After you have read these introductory paragraphs once, you can skip to the new/old content here. If you are listening, then the time stamp is around the two minute 45 second mark.)IntroductionThe word settled, to me, carries connotations I am keen to avoid. I have never felt settled or, perhaps, I cannot recall a time I felt settled. I do not feel settled now, writing this, and I’ve lived in the same house for three and a half years. The Crow's Nest is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.Without even discussing the obvious issues of colonisation, I just don’t feel like I could, or should, settle; better to keep my constituent parts shook up, agitated perhaps, rather than separating and stagnant.Instead, I feel as though I have been travelling for years, maybe because I have not lived in my ‘home’ nation of Scotland for eight and a half years, perhaps because I know I won’t stay here forever, or maybe because I carry that concept of home in a way which differs from many?More precisely, I still think of myself as a slow traveller, globally feral. Recently, I have been revisiting places through the photographs and words I recorded when my feet crossed their soil. This is a way of reminding myself of where I have been, not just in space and time, but in mind, too. It is a wonderful thing, to come out of a low and rediscover myself through words I crafted, through the lens of a camera, when memory has wandered in the fog for too long. Thank you, past me.When I first started sharing letters with the world in this fashion, six or more years ago, I usually began them with a vignette of where I was, a sort-of travel diary, mixed with nature observation, locking in the setting for the reader, before I spoke of other things—and, by so doing, ensuring that place fed into the whole. It was a useful device, for reader and myself both but, as these letters were sent to so few readers, and now languish archived behind a paywall, I thought it a shame not to share these snippets again.As such, I am going to share a short series of these sketches, accompanied by a photograph from that time, sent to you in date order, beginning with the second oldest. I shall include the above paragraphs in each of the letters in this series, but I shall also include a link at the very start, so you can skip ahead once you are familiar with the above words. If you are listening and similarly want to skip, then the timestamp you want to navigate to will be in the same place.Taken without these paragraphs, each is a short read, and I hope you enjoy them.Wick, Caithness, Scotland. December 2019Here, in the town at the end of the world, where the railway and road run out of room and the sea has a beginning, the light is always magically special. This is the land of skies and seas, of wind and weather. The clouds here are a language of their own, telling stories as old as the very air itself. At this time of year, the sun barely manages to pull herself above the long line of the horizon—she is tired and needs her sleep after seemingly-endless bright summer parties when she provides enough daylight to read outside all the night through.Skeins of geese and swirls of starlings are flung into the air, decorations of constant movement, reminders that not all sleeps in the winter. Occasional hen harriers, merlin, and short-eared owls fly low, using the land as cover, the river to guide their passage. The waters of the sea themselves are a blue so subtle as to be almost silver, or perhaps grey, then they are azure for but a moment, before another wave carries them along a spectrum of cold, colours of perfect pastel clarity.This icy winter sea is, like all waters, a mystery—cloaked and ready to change at no notice at all. The storms in this corner of the world can be legendary, ripping away an entire beach and depositing it elsewhere, wrecking ships year in, year out, bringing secrets from the deep and hiding others in their place. It is good to be back in the north, good to be reminded all life is in flux, change is constant and change is good. We merely ride the wind, we do not control the steed.FinallyIf you can afford to, there are currently two direct ways to support my work here. The first is to take out a paid subscription and, as it is the midwinter (or midsummer) season and to celebrate six years of sharing this letter, I’m offering 20% off both monthly and annual subscription plans. If you subscribe at that price, it will lock in for the rest of your subscription, for as long as you remain a subscriber. I shall be raising my subscription fees slightly in the new year, so taking advantage of this might make sense. The offer ends mid-January, 2026.The second way to support me here is to use my Kofi button/link to send a tip of any amount. If you enjoyed this letter and wish to share it with others, please do so! I love it when someone shares my work.I also love it when you comment on a piece—really, really love it. During 2025, I have not been as good at responding to comments as quickly as I would like but, seeing as my word of the year for 2026 is almost certainly going to be ‘communication’, I like to think that will soon change. Finally, many thanks for reading. I truly appreciate each and every one of you who does. Get full access to The Crow's Nest at alexandermcrow.substack.com/subscribe

As I send this, it is precisely midwinter, here in the northern hemisphere at least. Summer feels a long time ago.However, despite the darkness, midwinter has always been a time of light, a time of warmth, and a time of celebration. The sunlight is about to return, as we sneakily pilfer it from our friends in the south, a few minutes here, a few minutes there, day by day, slowly—so slow they barely notice. Sorry, friends.In our little valley on the side of our mountain, direct sunlight has been blocked by the mountains and hills for weeks now. There is still daylight, of course and, when the sun does arise from behind those ridges to the east, it can still be felt, warm on the face but, for the last two weeks or so, when it disappears behind the big peak at lunchtime, it no longer appears on the other side, instead illuminating a hair-thin line of cornicing on the snow, a teasing montane tracery of potential and temptation. The snow is brighter on the other side of the mountain.This is the dark time when, to see the sun for all but an hour or so a day, I have to look to every other side of the valley but ours. To feel it would involve a long walk and, seeing as the river valley is oft wreathed in thick mist, a climb too.When I was peedie in Orkney and, later, when I was larger, in Caithness, the sunlight at midwinter carried little to no warmth. She is watery and pale, exhausted by the constant late-night parties of summer, barely capable of dragging herself above the horizon—a horizon frequently obscured by cloud and approaching weather systems, spun out across the Atlantic.I appreciate the sun, she is a gift to me. She always has been. Sunlight in a blue sky, even in midwinter, tingles through me. When the snow arrives and the sun reflects, I feel dizzy with the simple, pure joy of daylight. I do not take that for granted.You may already have seen my somewhat epic post about six years of sharing a letter, mostly on Substack? In this, I mention that I am offering a discount on both monthly and annual subscriptions, 20% off, for as long as you stay subscribed. This offer will run until mid-January—the 18th, to be precise. It is a sort-of gift but, of course, you still have to pay.Actual Free Gift (s)Therefore, I thought I’d send another gift your way—one for which you do not have to pay, not a penny.For a limited amount of time (yet to be determined, but probably until the end of January, 2026), you can read each and every chapter of each and every novelette, novella and novel I have shared here on Substack.In total, this is 140k words, more or less. For free.I shared these stories with subscribers as weekly chapters, also for free, then paywalled the stories after a time, when the next was due to be shared. As such, most of these stories have only been available to a fraction of my subscribers and followers.It being midwinter, a cosy time to curl up with a book—or six—I thought I’d offer you the chance to have a read.If you enjoy fantasy fiction and, especially, darker fantasy fiction—there are no merry singing elves here, no happy hobbits, just characters who feel real, who have real struggles (along with some very unreal struggles), and who are not trying to be heroes or kings, just live their lives as best they can, without being killed or, in some cases, eaten—then you might enjoy these tales.This is what I said about the series on my Fiction page.This is not Grimdark—there is hope here—but it is certainly on the darker end of the spectrum. And a quick glimpse at the titles might give you an inkling that there is a lot of death…I have six stories—whether novelettes, novellas, or novels—which I have crafted in this sequence, with a further pair drafted. Once these are complete, I shall be working on a longer trilogy featuring many of the characters and locations introduced in these tales. In short, consider the Tales of The Lesser Evil a very long prologue.(I do seem to enjoy slipping sneaky secrets into these letters, so here’s another—I’ve already begun work on that trilogy, just a little, but the idea is growing teeth, it is sharpening its claws and, soon, I am sure, it will start to devour me.)The fiction page I link to above also includes a brief backcover blurb for each book, with links, and each book has its own introduction and navigation page, as well as quick links to the next chapter embedded within every post.As I mention, this is a limited time offer—in 2026 I shall be releasing these books in print and digital form, something I talked about before, when I said this:Self-published books live and die by the algorithmic small gods. And the ambrosia of these gods is reviews.In that letter, I talked about how important reviews are for a writer, especially for sales. I asked if anyone would like to receive an advance reader copy of the ebook I shall be publishing next year, in exchange for leaving a review on Amazon (and no, I do not like the platform, not one bit, but I have to be realistic about where potential sales are likely to come from. I shall also be selling copies directly from my website).If you would like to be included in the list of people who want to receive such an ebook, pop a comment below, or hit reply to this email; I’ll add you to the list, thank you!However, you don’t have to wait until the ebook is ready to read the stories, you can start now, if you wish.I have already received some lovely comments on my fiction here, in posts, in emails, and on Notes, and I know many of you are already engaged with the characters. I can’t wait to share what is to come. If you have friends or family who also enjoy fantasy fiction, do please send this post their way.That’s it, for now. Just a free gift (or six free stories).I might send out some older work again over Christmas and New Year, as I did last year, but I might not. It really depends on time.As such, I am going to wish you the very best for this festive midwinter (or midsummer) season, and I hope you have been good enough for Santa to visit. I am generally of a mind—a mind born out through experience—that the vast, vast majority of the people of the world are good, are friends I’ve yet to meet, rather than potential enemies, so I suspect poor Santa might be exhausted.Here’s the link to my fiction page again, just head there to select any stories you wish to read: Get full access to The Crow's Nest at alexandermcrow.substack.com/subscribe

I recently shared the final part of A Fall In Time with those of you who are subscribed to that section; this was the day-by-day and week-by-week communion with nature I was lucky enough to experience back in 2010—there shall be more to come on A Fall In Time, next year. If you are new, or have no idea what I am talking about, essentially I left my job, my friends and family, and headed out into the woods. The introduction page, here, tells you more and also includes a linked list of the contents of this adventure.Today, I am delighted to share this piece, crafted by my sister, Lydia Crow, who was also the key element of my remote support team back in 2010 (actually, she pretty much was the support team!), along with being the editor of the original blog posts I shared with the world about that time (being my editor is a role she excels at, not afraid to disagree or point out where something is either lacking or is over-embellished).I shared this last year but, as it now has a new voiceover from Lydia herself, I thought it worth sharing with all of you again. Also, I like it.When Lyd originally said she would write this piece, I did not know what to expect, but I did know it would be worth reading. And I was right.Un Frère In TimeIt’s strange thinking back to the people we were over fourteen years ago, when Alex first told me about his idea to head off to spend some time in nature on his own on the west coast of Scotland. I can’t remember the details of all the conversations now, but I do know that I thought it was a great idea from the very beginning. Alex needed to make a change, to do something different. It might not be obvious from Alex’s updates how much of a change this was from his way of life before. He was living in Sheffield, with a broad circle of friends and (occasionally rotating) housemates, and had a conventionally active social life. The August before Alex left, we’d been to the Fringe in Edinburgh and seen several shows, including Smoke and Mirrors, featuring iOTA, in the Spiegeltent. Life wasn’t boring, but I could also tell it was missing something for Alex. A key piece of the jigsaw.I mention this, because I think it is important. We all have these times in our lives when we know we need to make a change. It might seem superficially small, it might include physically walking away from civilisation (or “civilisation”) for a few months—but we know deep inside that it represents an important turning point, after which we’ll never quite be the same. The decision, once made, is accompanied by an increasing sense of urgency, an all-encompassing clarity, that drives us on. And, though we often try to explain the significance of such events, we will inevitably fall short, because it is our turning point, nobody else’s.Yet, by bringing everyone into his personal story in the way in which he has done, Alex has managed to at least scratch the surface of explaining this significance. It’s not that people can or will—or even should—have the same experiences, it is that we should all be encouraged to consider what it is that might act as that turning point for us, should we need one.The weeks running up to Alex’s departure were full of planning. For a start, Alex needed somewhere to store all his belongings, so they were delivered to my house. It was quite amusing going through some of them—a desire for minimalism doesn’t run in our family. His worldly possessions ranged from items from our childhood (including some of Alex’s early hand-drawn maps, which called for a daft photo-op), to glass scientific instruments, to books. Books, books, books. My role as Custodian of Arcane Knowledge had officially begun (and continues to this day, as what will eventually be my dining room is still full of Alex’s boxes).As is evident from Alex’s writing, we kept in touch via mobile regularly, usually messages rather than calls. I had set up a literary website the year before, and Alex was one of the regular contributors. Writing a series under the name “Vague Wanderings”, Alex shared his experiences throughout his time on the west coast. There were several people following along—friends, family, and others we didn’t know. Alex also shared other, separate updates under the title “Vague Preoccupations”, but these (along with nearly all other content) has long since been archived on the site. I don’t have access to the messages we sent during that time (though they’re possibly on an old hard drive somewhere), but I can see when Alex switched to emailing me the images of his handwritten Moleskine notebooks with his next post (as it took much longer to send picture messages than emails). I would transcribe these posts, then message back to check any words I couldn’t quite read. Several hundred miles away, Alex would carry his notebook with him to where he could get signal to check and answer my queries the next day or so.I have the emails back and forth when I confirmed with Alex which specific things he needed me to order to have sent out, poste restante. A bow saw, planisphere, memory card, silk socks, amongst other things. There are other notes I’ve made: leather, runes paperwork. At the time, I was working at the University of Essex, and there was a social mailing list for staff. Some of the smaller quantities requested meant that I opted to see if anyone had any throwaway scraps rather than order in bulk. Emailing to see if anyone had any leather they didn’t want any more certainly raised a few digital eyebrows, and resulted in more than a few intrigued responses.I don’t remember being too concerned for Alex’s safety at the time, though the illness he picked up in Fort William during his resupply was worrying as was, towards the end of his time on the west coast, the public transport system across swathes of Scotland shutting down. In those last few days—hours, even—the pace of everything changed. Transport was booked, then rebooked as the severity of the change in the weather became clearer. Options were dwindling fast and, by the time Alex made it home, we had managed to figure out the only route from the west coast to Wick that was possible before everything completely shut down for several days. I messaged ticket details to Alex’s mobile, monitoring the weather and the transport options, sending through updates. I remember receiving Alex’s message from the car after he had been collected by Mum and Dad in Inverness, describing the blizzard they were travelling through. In the evening, after they’d had to abandon the car, I stayed online constantly refreshing the National Rail site watching the expected train arrival time into Helmsdale get later and later, hoping it would get through. I remember Alex messaging to say how worried he was about Mum and Dad, and that he had them marching up and down to get their circulation going.Alex and I have always been friends as well as siblings. When I was younger, I used to go exploring and climbing with him and his friends. When I was at sixth form, Alex would come out drinking with me and my friends (though I made it quite clear at that point that he was not to Be A Big Brother). Later, there would be trips to see each other for parties, or visits to Edinburgh with friends. Later still, Alex stayed with my friend Heather and I the weekend before he left the UK. We hosted a farewell party (that somehow ended up having a Gin Cruise theme), and on the Monday night we went to see Kishi Bashi playing down Cowgate. On the Tuesday morning, Alex left the UK, and has only been back for a handful of visits since.As well as all this, I have always respected Alex as a writer. And I have always known that he was interested in what he now refers to as ancestral skills. Thinking back to when we were younger, I can’t remember when Alex didn’t have—and regularly reference—his very well-read copy of the SAS Survival Handbook. He knew who Ray Mears was years before he became even remotely mainstream. Alex taught my sisters and I how to start a fire, and we would head off to play down the burn with our backpacks loaded with all sorts of things that we might need in an emergency. He used to carry little circles of copper wire in case we needed to snare a rabbit for food, and I can’t remember him ever not carrying his pocket knife. Strangely, such an emergency never actually came to pass in late 1980s and early 1990s Orkney.It is so strange writing this now, several lifetimes later. These memories create flashes of what it felt like to be me fourteen years ago, but more than that they specifically remind me of what it meant to be Alex’s sister and friend (and editor!) during that time. That sense of knowing that what he had chosen to do was absolutely the right decision for him, and the excitement that I and other friends shared of not knowing what would come next for him—but the certainty that, in some way, this was the beginning of something important. A much-needed change, a spur.It is interesting how Alex’s reflections on this time of his life have changed, how what he originally thought might be the focus of his planned book on A Fall in Time has shifted slightly due to his iterative auto-ethnographic approach. Specifically, this year’s series of notes have had an added level of interest as Alex compared his previous notes and saved photographs with his original journals, noting things that he had broadly forgotten over the years, as they had become less important to the person he is now.More than anything, however, when I think back—and forward—I can’t shake off the feeling that it was a privilege to be able to play some part in making elements of Alex’s adventures a reality, and being able to offer some support in helping him do what needed to be done, whether by providing a platform for his voice or just by looking after his worldly belongings. And I would urge anyone who has the opportunity to help a friend in a similar way to leap at the chance to be even such a tiny footnote in their story, because you will never for a second regret helping someone find the clarity they need to become more comfortable in their own skin.I do still want my dining room back, though.Help Lydia get her dining room back—become a paid subscriber now! Until mid-January, there is a 20% discount on all paid subscriptions.What About You?Have you ever done this, asked a friend—or sibling—for their recollections on an event which was fundamental to your growth? How did those recollections differ from your own? What do you think this tells us about our memories? Have you been able to help a friend or family member achieve the sort of clarity Lydia mentions? Scribbles and Sketches and MoreLydia, like me, has had a presence on the internet for a long time now, in various differing iterations. She has a Substack letter of her own, sharing four seasonal notebooks, each a month long, throughout the year. The latest such notebook is entitled Vignettes, and is also a very handy introduction to all the other places she can be found. As this notebook is a series of snippets from the past, it is an ideal place to start to discover Lydia’s work. (And do please have a look at the links there, too, especially TessaHedron, that is something you need to be watching carefully.)Lyd also has a website, which also contains links to her upcoming not-on-Substack newsletter (found here) and Bluesky account (I have one too, but haven’t really used it). It is a privilege and joy to have a sister who is also such a good friend. To have such a constant in your life is something many can take for granted yet, when you think about it, such a relationship is truly magical. I am exceptionally grateful to Lydia for sharing her thoughts above, but also for being there—and continuing to be here, now. That is a wonderful thing.FinallyThis letter feels a good way to tie up the entirely-free version of A Fall In Time. Thirteen weeks of letters, daily posting on Notes, hundreds of original photographs, and thousands upon thousands of words. It is quite an undertaking to share such a thing, for free, trusting that, eventually, that work will be worth it. Both last year, and this, I have treasured each and every little heart on my letters and Notes, every time someone shares them and, especially, every single comment from you. This form of two-way relationship is not to be underestimated, it can enhance the work, make it clearer to the writer what it is they are trying to achieve and say, and also suggest extra pathways to explore.Thank you, all. If you wish to support me financially, but do not want to take out a subscription, you can send a one-off tip via this button:And please don’t forget about that special 20% offer on all paid subscriptions, it will only be active until the middle of January, 2026.Finally, I want to leave you with a thought, one which has been running around my mind for a while now, but one which I have only been able to recently articulate (or semi-articulate, you be the judge). The biggest lesson I learnt from those weeks living out in nature was not how to keep warm in sub-zero temperatures, it was not how to find food and water and process them, it was not how to recognise the right fuel to burn, or how to light those fires I needed every single day. It was not even how to understand the language of the birds, telling me what else was nearby, nor to follow the paths and tracks of the deer, learning how they moved through the land, and why. It was not even how important family, friends, community and people to rely on are, even if you are alone in the woods. These things, and many, many more were and remain crucial to my life, but the biggest lesson was something different—and something a little alarming when I realised it.If you (or I) do something like this, go and live in nature, as we are arguably meant to, it changes you (and me). It changes us for the better, but it also creates a huge problem and disconnect with the vast, vast majority of everyone else we will ever meet.Most of us reading live in a world where corporations essentially rule. All is about the power of money and its seeming ability to get us everything we need. The moment we begin to learn those skills I list above, and all the others essential to a self-reliant, small-community-centric, natural life, we step beyond that world into something else.You may not realise it (perhaps ever, or perhaps not for a long time), but you are now someone other, someone those ruling corporations greatly fear. By learning to live as our ancestors all did, by understanding nature on a far, far deeper level, we become out of time and timeless, we become something rebellious, simply by wanting to understand what it means to live this way. We—and our ideas—are not what the rulers want to hear, and certainly not what they want to help promote. There is no money to be made in that.No one in charge likes rebellion.This is the big lesson I learnt, and one I shall finally be discussing in far more depth in the coming months, how my own experience can perhaps help others to refocus and how, perhaps, a natural life is precisely what is needed to rebalance our world into something stronger, something more wonderful, something real. Get full access to The Crow's Nest at alexandermcrow.substack.com/subscribe

This podcast is also available as a series of letters (technically emails, but I prefer to think of them as letters), with an introduction featuring navigation links for each post as I share them, lots of photos, and more:The link for this particular episode is here:https://alexandermcrow.substack.com/p/a-fall-in-time-week-twelve-2025If you have enjoyed listening to this, please do leave a comment. I welcome all questions and will reply, even if it takes a while to do so.If you are considering becoming a paid subscriber, you can currently take advantage of a special 20% reduction in price off all subscriptions, to celebrate six years of sharing a letter (ends mid-January 2026). In the new year, I shall be raising my prices but, if you take up this offer, your subscription rate will be locked in at that price, forever.And, finally, if you find value in listening to my words and wish to support me financially, but do not want to take out a subscription to my letter, you can also send a one-off tip via this button:To head to the introduction and navigation page for this adventure, click here.To go back to week eleven, click here.Many thanks for listening. Get full access to The Crow's Nest at alexandermcrow.substack.com/subscribe

IntroductionSometimes, a thing becomes a habit almost by accident. I’ve never been one for looking at a year from the point of view of our manufactured calendrical New Year, a retrospective which never seems to fit, to me. Instead, I like to look for different places to mark the passing of time (obviously, the solstice is the beginning of the year, right?). Seasons, macro and micro, or anniversaries which only really have relevance for me (or even future ghost dates, as I discuss here).　　The 25th of November is one such date. This marks the point when I started sharing a newsletter with regularity, back in 2019, when we still lived in Thailand and were preparing to move to Portugal (which, for those of you who don’t know, we did, securing an apartment in rural Alentejo less than two weeks before the first Covid lockdown [after a Christmas in Scotland and New Year in England—a New Year when I was very, very sick, with something suspiciously proto-covid-esque]. Unlike many other nomadic or travelling types, we stayed where we were, in Portugal, rather than heading back to our home nation/nations. It was a strange year, to be in a new-to-us country, but not really to be there in the normal way). Take advantage of 20% off the price of a subscription, locked in for as long as you subscribe, an offer I’m sharing to celebrate six years of this letter.When I started this letter, it was a way to keep in touch with family and friends, whether old friends, or those I had met on travels, or whilst living on a different continent, let them know what we were doing or, for example, try to describe how it feels to wake up early and feel the jungle breathing behind our house: At this time of year, in this place, the mountain exhales at night. Her breath is cool and descends to the city below, bringing with it the scent of the deep, dark places she hides, of lush flowers and constant decay, accompanied by a whisper of secrets and charms. The nights end still in darkness, when the monks in the temple begin their chants and ring their bell or strike their gong, setting off a daily cascade of soi dogs, each howling their welcome to the day, barking their devotion. The sun rises some hours later, tropical-swift, giving only slightly less daylight than in the middle of summer, framed by the harsh calls of myna birds and the roar of the waking airport.or perhaps talk about Selkies:Some stories are so deeply entwined with a place that it is impossible to untangle them. Whenever I hear of selkie stories I cannot place them anywhere else in my mind’s eye but Orkney. Those selkies—Orcadian selkies—they don’t travel. They stay close to their shores, even as their tales spread far and wide. After all, in the Orkney dialect, selkie simply means seal, there is no difference between those who can walk ashore and those who cannot—technically, they all possess that option.or offer a personal perspective on travel, and how it entwines with my fiction:I am first and foremost a writer, and travel adds substantial depth and substance of flavour to my words, my stories both real and made up. My series of fantasy novels and novellas—The Lesser Evil—are undoubtedly considerably richer thanks to my own travel experiences.We writers are hoarders of observation, keeping notes, remembering the little details. These things are stored away until they reappear, subtly altered, percolated, ready to enhance a story.Since those first few tentative steps into sharing my words in this manner, I’ve sent over 300 letters. (I completely missed the 300th, by the way, an anniversary which went uncelebrated—this is the 308th letter [or 309th, if you are listening to the podcast version].) Given that the majority of these letters amount to several thousand words each, that is a lot, mostly shared for free.In time, I began to share more about my fiction, then promote and market such, utilising this letter as a part of that process. A wee while later, I began to move essays from the websites I ran and the other locations my virtual self inhabited over the years, eventually starting to craft new pieces exclusively for this space, Substack effectively replacing my websites. As you will see below, I am now at the point where I am once more moving things back to a platform I control (but keeping and expanding this space too, for now), circling around, always reconsidering what is best for my words.Today, as I edit this piece, there are 2364 subscribers to The Crow’s Nest, and 5193 followers over on Substack Notes. I am in awe of these figures and so very grateful to each and every one of you who reads my words—even if you only skim and/or look at the photographs, that’s perfectly valid, too! And, introduced recently, there’s also those of you who listen to my words, as recorded by me, something that, not too long ago, I did not really think I would ever be able to do (I still don’t like the sound of my recorded voice, but I can live with it if it makes others happy).　　For the last two years on this anniversary, I have shared a post discussing where this newsletter is in regard to subscribers and growth and, crucially, direction—both where it has gone in the previous 12 months and where I plan for it to go in the next. I also add in a few wider-reaching observations regarding the platform I currently use for this letter—Substack. This post might be shared with you, but it is also a way for me to take stock, to look hard at the last twelve months, and to consider what comes next. This year, I am writing more than last year’s letter on this subject, as I’m also including discussion on the direction I want this space (and others) to go. As such, it is long, which ties in neatly with the following paragraph.　　Perhaps the key takeaway from the process of observation and self-assessment, and from observing the paths of others, for years, is that this is a long game—sharing a letter—and ideas of success are as varied and different as are we all. Not to mention the fact that there are a million and one different and valid ways and reasons to share such a letter in the first place. Including not actually seeking growth, just enjoying sharing things because we can and a letter seems a suitable method to do so. We are too often told we need to grow, to have hordes of clickthroughs, that to do so we need to download this free funnel ebook, sign up to this course, pay for a subscription to this guru, or that—but that, to me, is just, well, boring… It’s like everywhere else. It’s staid, stagnant, and simply feeds into the vast machine we are all currently enveloped within as a species-wide experiment (hat tip to John Twelve Hawks there).If you don’t want to read on, then perhaps the most succinct and best advice I can give is this, something I said last year and, indeed, the year before:…everyone’s journey is different.The Grubby Elephant In The RoomFrom the outset, I think I will mention one of the biggest changes I’ve seen over the past year on Substack, a topic I have not really touched on in my writing, yet, and that is the rise and increasing proliferation of generative Artificial Intelligence and Large Language Models. Artificial help for ideas, drafting, or editing, or all of these. It is a contentious issue; some people believe it can help them write or edit and, if that’s you, then you do what you need to do.　　I want to make it clear here that I do not use generative AI. I never have, never will. Why? Well, I don’t need to. Why not? Because I’ve put in the time—lots and lots of time—and the considerable effort to get to a point where I am comfortable sharing the fact I know I am a good writer. (And yes, of course I have doubts, yes, of course I have moments when I wonder if anything I’ve ever shared has been worth it but, on the whole, I am very happy with where I am with my work.)Generative AI is destructive. There’s no sugarcoating that. If you believe it to be useful, then you will continue to believe that—I very much doubt anything I say will change your mind. I believe such AI is destructive for two reasons.　　Firstly, the energy use from server farms powering these systems is growing exponentially and, quite literally, fatally. At a point when we are reaching tipping points in our climate—tipping points which will mean an almost unfathomable change in the near future of our species—and, indeed, when this year we have quite possibly passed the first of these nine (warm-water coral reef die-off), why then are we vastly increasing our energy needs, just to ask often inane questions—and receive answers which are not always true and, sometimes, dangerously untrue—of a machine?　　Secondly, such AI is destructive for the writer. It is a cheat, a shortcut which might shave time off the walk, but it does so at the expense of the very viewpoint or peak the walk was taking you towards in the first place. You do not master a thing by cheating—again, if you disagree, that is fine, that is your choice, but I have not yet read a single argument that can convince me otherwise. Whatever ideal of excellence you subscribe to, not one of these can be achieved by using such shortcuts.No mastery of anything can. (Personally, I am of the opinion that the very best masters are always students of their subject, rather than a finished product; no true master I have ever met has advertised themselves as such, and studying is not something we should cheat at—that helps no one.)　　You will never be a superb writer if you don’t hike up metaphorical mountains to witness those hard-to-reach viewpoints.　　I find the whole idea to be deeply sad. I wonder how many writers who are using AI to ‘craft’ their content could have become truly amazing, if only they had not relied on a crutch. Too often, this is the way—I’ve been at this writing game for a long time now (and not exactly secured a fortune although, as I often tell myself, reliance on economical scales of success is never reliable), and I do know that, when I want to say a thing, I can do so, myself, without machine aid beyond that provided by the red lines beneath my typos or misspellings, or the ability to store, access, and reorder my thoughts made possible by e.g. Scrivener and Obsidian—or a good, old fashioned notebook, of course.　　I do need to take a moment to also mention how I think it unfair that many people talk about AI solely from the perspective of generative AI, whether ‘art’, video, or words. AI is so, so much more than that, and some of the things that it can do—and IS doing—are simply remarkable, especially in the world of science and medicine, for example. 　　All of which is to say, the slop we’re being fed from so many different directions, diluting the wonder of the internet—even beyond the already diluted state it is in thanks to ‘SEO content writing’—does not taste nice to me—and do not get me started on the texture. Then there’s the issue of ownership—many of the GenAI platforms have cunning wording in the small-print you agree to when you sign up which, in short, makes it unclear who actually owns the prompts you use, and the outcome the AI provides. Ironic, really, given that they are usually trained on stolen material.I know I will have upset a few readers by saying this, but I do think I needed to do so. I cannot condone the use of such tools when the damage they wreak is so vast for the world and the (potential) writer both. (And I have barely mentioned their incredibly illegal and unethical software training programmes.)　　However, perhaps perversely, when many seem to want to take up generative AI as the new saviour of ‘their’ work, perhaps that might not a bad thing for me? My words are my own, the way I write reflects the time I have put into finding my voice and honing it. And the way I craft each and every piece reflects this.I see other writers not as competition, but as colleagues, which is how it should be, but I have to admit that, when I see AI drafted work—so obviously AI-drafted it is painful to the eyes and soul—then, sometimes, I smile a wry smile. Colleague they could arguably still be (but then I’m not entirely sure of that, either), but competition they certainly are not.　　Probably thanks to my cultural upbringing, I do feel a creeping urge to apologise for the above. I don’t usually like to rock the proverbial boat too much, in this space or any other, beyond occasionally/regularly reminding readers that we are firmly heading for a very, very dark place, thanks to our species’ ongoing desire to burn the only home we have to cinders. However, I would have done this piece, myself, and you a disservice if I had not at least touched on the subject.Short tl;dr version of the above: I do not, and will not, use generative AI for either drafting or editing or images. Nope, no, never.Some Figures and FactsMoving swiftly on.Last year’s essay on The State of the Nest was sent to 1698 subscribers. This year’s to 2364. On paper (or screen), this is a big rise but, if you look at the following graph, you’ll see where this increase peaks early in the year, then tails off, then begins to drop. There’s a very simple reason for this initial rise—Substack recommendations and, especially, The Crow’s Nest being recommended by Simon Haisell at Footnotes and Tangents. I received 1348 subscribers from Simon’s kind recommendation of The Crow’s Nest last year (although a lot of them have also since unsubscribed, as is often the way, others have stayed, and they are very welcome, too). In total, since recommendations began, I’ve received 2085 subscribers in this manner, with 43 publications recommending my work—a figure I find truly humbling.As far as followers, over on Substack Notes, I’ve grown from 3106 to 5193. The big uptick there, at the beginning of the graph, mirrors that of subscriber numbers (which it also includes in the total), but then it continues to rise, if more steadily—which is what I had expected my subscriber list to do, only it did not. Even follower growth is beginning to slow down.The sudden jump on both of the above graphs, on the 26th of February, is when I discovered Only One Death had been the book of the week on a promo site I used to use regularly, Bookcave, but had mostly stopped using. This was me importing the .csv file from said promo.In case you want to see them, here are the graphs for the full time I’ve been present on Substack (as I mentioned before, that big flatline, from April 2021 to December 2022, is when I took my letter elsewhere, but kept this account open with a clear signpost for anyone wanting to read my work. Then I came back.). Here are the subscribers:And here is the follower chart:After an outcry on Notes—people complaining that Followers can’t be downloaded, taken elsewhere, for example, unlike a Subscriber email list—Substack rather cunningly made these stats a little harder to locate. Personally, I have nothing against people following me instead of subscribing. I do it, following someone first, before subscribing later if I still like what they share. I already subscribe to a lot of letters, and this was one way to keep my inbox a touch less congested.The problem, of course, is that not everyone shares their letters to their Followers, instead using Notes as the social media platform it is. There is even evidence to suggest that when you do put a link to your work in a Note, then it is shown to a lot, lot fewer people. Well worth reading the whole of the following Note, not just for the above point, but also for ‘good practice on Notes’.I’ve noticed this too—Notes without links do much better. Which is, in my opinion, a bit stupid—surely Substack wants people to subscribe to things, as that’s how they make money? Still, I’m not going to waste too much time or effort second guessing the platform, it can be an interesting exercise, but little more than that. And don’t forget that this is a platform which is, after all, simply a tool for me (and you! You should view it like that and, like any tool, if it breaks, or becomes dull, you either find a new one [move your letter elsewhere], or sharpen it, make it work again for you [alter how you use the platform]).Over the last year, I’ve gone from having subscribers in 68 countries to 73. Whenever I get someone who subscribes from Russia or China (two people from the latter, at the moment—hello! [I absolutely went down a rabbit hole of researching the correct Mandarin greeting here, then decided against it, but now have a strange hankering to learn the language and, especially, the characters and script]), my map suddenly looks a lot more full. Then they disappear and it grows empty once more. See also: Greenland (which always amuses me on such a projection. Greenland is really NOT this big, nowhere near—maybe that’s why certain administrations are talking of buying/invading? Perhaps map projections should be explained a little better?).Whilst on the subject of the world at large, from what I understand, little to nothing has been done to remedy the situation of writers from many countries simply being unable to receive payment for their words. Stripe making this very difficult to impossible. This is unacceptable. I can’t change much about it, but I can keep pointing it out—a writer from India, for example, should be able to be paid just the same as one from Germany, or the US. One would think that this would be a priority for the company, given how much money they could potentially receive that way? If I am wrong about this, and something has changed, do let me know, so I can celebrate.Here is the map for US states:(I am still mildly irritated that we can’t default the maps to World, with US states second but, I guess, Substack is a US company. I always prefer to start zoomed out, before looking at the closer detail…)Statewise, the joyous news here is that I finally cracked North Dakota! And now there is not one, but two readers from that state. Thank you, whoever you are, for giving me the full US sweep.Words I Have SharedI shared little this year—or thought I had shared little, compared to 2023/2024. After finishing sharing the novella Dancing With Death I have not shared any fiction, something I’ll discuss later in this piece. Whilst I was sharing this story, the percentage of opens per letter outstripped the number of opens per letter for all my other essays and thoughts, by a considerable margin. And they say there’s no demand for fiction on Substack...　　Here are some snippets from some of the things I have shared this year, with links for each. I know this adds volume to this post, a post which will undoubtedly be over ten thousand words long, but I am proud of my work here, and I want to share that.To name a thing, to speak that name, is a power. Sometimes it is a power for the speaker, sometimes for the named. This has been a popular feature in story, mythology and history: Rumpelstiltskin, or a demon, summoned, bound, and trapped.What happens when we do not name a thing? When we do not allow it the time to enter our head or world? What happens when we turn off the television, or remove ourselves from the ongoing onslaught of misery and deception on social media?The Time, Right Now. January 2025I decided I needed to pause writing fiction, wait until I had more experience of life to, well, write what I know, as we are constantly told (reader: I have never fought an assassin on the streets of a city where it is illegal to go without a mask; I have never led an expedition to a lost and dangerous city; I have never fled pursuers intent on killing me and taking my baby; and, although I did once very briefly work for the tax office, I did not formulate a plan to escape that job which involved murder, betrayal and risk, just to keep my family safe. Nor have I descended to hidden catacombs containing something terrible, ancient, and dangerous; or gone head-to-head with a horrific, terrifying monster).My Fiction: Past, Present, Future. February 2025Our world seems plunged into darkness. Drums of war, greed of the few, hatred of the other and, looming above and behind, through and around all of these, the very active and malevolent poltergeist of climactic breakdown and the (potentially-increasingly-likely) cascade effects of this.To accept a darkness, to see it for what it is and yet to know, deep down know, that on the whole humanity is a wonder, a thing of extraordinary ability and endless reservoirs of love and kindness (despite what that news would have you believe), that we can change our world for the better, this is a truly, truly powerful thing. And, at the very heart of this lies that little word, hope.Hope Is Rebellion. February 2025Our lives are quests, every day another step on the path towards our common, shared end. There are times when the sun is low and dark, when our way is shrouded in mist, and our minds and bodies fail. Then, we need to pause and recharge, rest and recover, regain our impetus and, hopefully, be strong enough—for ourselves, and for others—to continue.There are always moments of doubt on any quest. For what would be the adventure if all was a placid sea, or flat, paved road with comfortable, bug-free lodging along the way? We need those troughs as much as we need the peaks. We need the darkness to see the light for what it is—and I see the darkness overwhelming many right now.A Sense of Purpose: And Imaginary Adventures. April 2025Yet how do we keep going, in the face of horrors? How do we gently inform those who are absolutely burying their collective heads in the sand? How do we block out the constant drone and clamour of approaching doom, whilst also somehow keeping a balanced awareness? Where and what is that balance?These are big, big questions, and I am not truly qualified to answer them; I certainly do not possess all the answers.I would also be very wary of anyone who claims they do, as they are usually, in my experience, selling something you probably don’t need.Make Good Soul: A List. May 2025If you pay attention, and if you are lucky and wise enough, every so often a book comes along which changes your life. It makes you think in different ways, examine yourself, others, and the world in a new light, and generally adds so much to your very being that you are unsure how you coped before.I am lucky enough to have encountered several of these books in my life and cannot wait to uncover more. This is the joy of reading, and reading widely. There are so many stories waiting to be discovered by readers, over and over, small miracles of happenstance which, in turn, have the potential to lead to yet others. This cycle of discovery never ceases to amaze me, especially when a book leads the reader (myself, in this case, but perhaps you, too), to a place where those words paint the world in a slightly different light to that in which you experienced it prior to reading.One such book is, of course, Tove Jansson’s The Summer Book (originally Sommarboken, in Swedish).The Summer Book: For All Seasons. July 2025, a guest post over on Beyond The BookshelfI have long espoused hope—active hope—looking at the world in ways which might make a difference, which might do some good. Yet, at some point this year, I realised my hope was shaken, it was jarred, dwindling and, for fear of losing it entirely, I took a step back to protect and nurture it, cradling what remained and trying to consider the best path toward rekindling. Telling others to be hopeful when you yourself are not seemed hypocritical and foolish.Now, however, I am once more ready to release my hope back into the wild. She is rested, she is strong again but, crucially, she is also repurposed, retooled.The Balance of Hope. September 2025We have failed to reframe this climate crisis as one which ultimately threatens our survival, rather than that of the world. The world will heal, eventually, over scales of time we often fail to comprehend—unless, that is, your brain is different. What won’t heal, however, are countless species which shall disappear. Likely including ourselves.All we can do is keep to our visions, keep using these strange brains of ours, and keep listening to the potentials the land gifts us, acting on these to ensure we do all we can to nurture, protect, and share what is good, joyful, and kind.Strange, different brains will be an essential in the coming years: sharpen yours, and keep it sharp.Build The Wall. September 2025One of my favourite things about this—apart from the wolf in daylight!—is the wren (Troglodytes troglodytes) in the background. Sound on, you can hear her scolding the wolf and following along, telling everyone who understands her language that there is a wolf present. This, for me, is perhaps the most useful thing on all these videos, as it is a gap I can only realistically learn by observing—and, as I’m unlikely (not impossible, but unlikely) to be somewhere I can see a wolf with an angry little wren, this video is priceless to me. You can see her top middle right of the image, landing on the branch there, following the wolf along the trail.What Passes in the Night. November 2025I also once more shared my A Fall In Time series, about the time I left behind the city, caught a series of trains, and then walked out into the woods of western Scotland, to stay out there, alone, from late summer to early winter. This year, however, I have not sent it to everybody on my subscriber list which, in hindsight, was probably something of a mistake. A weekly letter compiling the daily Notes I share for nearly twelve weeks is a powerful thing, after all. I was worried that sending it again to those who have already read it would alienate you, the reader but, having thought about it more since I made that decision, I have effectively deprived roughly 930 readers of following along with the whole series for the first time—those of you who subscribed since last year’s version began.　　True, some of you may have opened and read the pieces where I mentioned A Fall In Time, and how to subscribe to that section of my letter if you weren’t but, statistically, I think more people would have opened one of those twelve weeks of letters and perhaps become intrigued, going back through the introduction and navigation links to catch up if necessary.However, aside from the wonderful comments I’ve received, and those of you who did subscribe thanks to A Fall In Time, one good thing that came of this series is that I am very happy to have taken the time to record the voiceovers for these letters. These were the impetus behind Voices From The Crow’s Nest, the podcast I have simultaneously used those voiceovers for and, while it may not have brought many subscribers, it has been listened to over on, for example, Youtube or, especially, Apple, enough that it adds a cherry to the proverbial cake.　　For me, this was perhaps the biggest item of growth for The Crow’s Nest, and one I’ve been considering for a long time. I have now managed to get the recording, editing, and uploading of these voiceovers and Podcasts down to a relatively quick and fine art, one where I don’t use up too much time to do so and, I believe, the value added is exponential. I know some other writers keep their voiceovers for paying subscribers, but this to me, personally, feels a little unfair for the reader/listener. (Nope, I’ll not make any money this way, will I?)　　I have also received some wonderful comments on my recordings. Really, really wonderful. And that means a lot to me—I have long been exceedingly self-conscious about how I sound when recorded and it is only in recent years that I have finally come to terms with this, a big part of which is thanks to now having lived outwith an English-speaking country for over eight and a half years. I have been told by several people whose first language is not English that my voice is clear, my speed of talking not too swift, and the way I annunciate perfect for them to understand my meaning. This means a lot to me.　　So, I decided to build on this, take that confidence and apply it to The Crow’s Nest as a whole, and I am delighted I did. (EDITOR: He says/types, whilst drafting, well aware he will have to read a multi-thousand word essay once it is finished, probably after publishing this, or it might never get sent...)　　I’m almost tempted to consider a few wee videos, too. Almost.Finally, for this section, I also reshared mildly reedited versions of two different real-life ghost stories, The Foot of the Bed, and A Place, Invested in Memory: A Tale for Halloween. Both, I think, do what ghost stories are supposed to do, and I was especially pleased with the voiceovers for these.GrowthAs I have said before, slow and steady is the way. However, I would be lying by omission, if I did not say I am a little disappointed with Substack this year.With A Fall In Time, I had hoped that, like last year, Substack Notes would have driven considerable engagement and sign ups. That has simply not happened. A few of you have found me that way but, for the most part, those Notes disappear into the ether without a restack or a comment beyond a very small group of you, such as the frankly awesome Susannah Fisher, who I know has enjoyed following along again this year, despite having done so already. Something has changed on Notes, and not, I feel, for the better, visibility has disappeared and, when I dare have a peek at the Home setting (which, for those of you who don’t use the platform, is the feed which is suggested by Substack, some of the people I follow or subscribe to, and many I do not), then I see a depressing morass of Notes gaining traction which are either from already very-much-established celebrities or those who have simply gamed the algorithm. It is a little frustrating.Every month or so, what seems to work appears to change subtly and, if I wanted to, I could simply follow the fashions and potentially receive all manner of subscribes and restacks—but I do not want that. I am not going to chase an algorithm (a statement which reappears in this letter several times). Instead, I’m going to keep doing what I want to—and what I want to do is to share things I know matter, words and images and now sound which are, in my opinion, worth reading, viewing, and listening to.I know Substack is a business, and I know they have much going on behind the scenes, but I also worry that their shift to promotion of celebrities is directly impacting many other writers—work is going unread, unseen, and that is a bit of a retrograde step for the platform, as far as I am concerned. Many writers have already left—especially to Ghost—and I know others are also considering a move.Other writers have also discussed this drop-off in subscribers, something I believe Claire Venus ✨ calls ‘the great Substack stall’, a moniker which fits rather neatly—I can’t find the Note she said that in, however, but relatively sure that’s where I heard it.I am fairly sure this stall is principally due to something behind the scenes, a switch in the algorithm, rather than newsletter-fatigue, or too many writers for too few reading cake (which is, of course, what capitalism wants us to believe, scarcity, abundance, economics and all that—the only solution for which is to keep toiling, keep producing, for less and less, whilst the rich have become richer, and the poor have become poorer [thanks, Percy Bysshe Shelley]. I would argue that attracting big names to the platform, so that their draw brings in more subscribers for the rest of us, is the newsletter equivalent of trickle-down economics, a highly dubious system in the first place, but I guess only time will tell).The fact that for many of us who share our work here, the stall began at more-or-less the same time definitely suggests it is something algorithmic. (Have a peek at Matthew Long’s own recent State of The Stack, for an example—and also for how upbeat and positive he remains despite the stall! I love that.)Whatever the cause, the fact remains—something is broken, something is not working as it should. I am still hopeful it will be mended, however, and—although I reserve the right to move elsewhere at some future point if needed—I’m not going anywhere soon.All of which should, of course, be seen as a perfect opportunity to just keep doing your (my) own thing… More on which, below.The MoneyIn 2023, the first State of the Nest, I had eight paying subscribers, which rose to sixteen in the 2024 edition. Today, I have ten. I think a big part of this is perhaps due to a general tightening of belts around the world but also, I suspect, because I have not published as many essays and letters as I did in the previous couple of years? As I share more here, perhaps more people will pay for a subscription? Who knows? I have also noticed that several paid subscribers did not choose to unsubscribe from the paid offering, but that their card was no longer valid/out of date, so they may not even be aware they no longer are paid subscribers. However, one thing which HAS worked for me this year, and worked well, is the button/link to my Kofi account, a tip button if you will, which I pop into every letter. This has paid me more money than subscriptions in the last year. If you have a letter, and you don’t have a tip button, I’d highly suggest you consider it. I know people talk of wanting Substack to introduce their own tipping method, but honestly, why? (Subscriptions are how they make their money, after all.) It is simple enough to set up a Kofi account and doesn’t affect the subscriber model Substack is using. I am not a fan of Paypal, but lots of people use it, so having that option as a KoFi payment method is a happy bonus.　　Maybe subscriptions will pick up again (I really hope they do), but I am not counting on that. As I mentioned earlier, some people argue that the market is saturated, too many letters to choose from, but I personally disagree with that—it is simply a matter of keeping on keeping on, to try not to follow fashions or chase algorithms. I’m certainly not one of those writers who ‘does it for the art’ and would always welcome an uptick in readers and any money they throw my way! I think that suffering/starving for art is ridiculous, and writers deserve to be paid what their work is worth. Which is a whole other letter, I’m sure—and not a new topic. See The Cost of Letters questionnaire from Horizon magazine, back in 1946, (and the updated version, edited by Andrew Holgate and Honor Wilson-Fletcher, in 1998) for a super example, in which George Orwell said this: If one simply wants to make a living by putting words on paper, then the BBC, the film companies and the like are reasonably helpful. But if one wants to be primarily a writer, then, in our society, one is an animal that is tolerated but not encouraged—something rather like a house sparrow—and one gets on better if one realises one’s position from the start.And who am I to disagree? (I’m also very fond of house sparrows.) That whole book is superb reading, by the way, absolutely full of wonderful quotes, such as ‘To be a poet is a condition rather than a profession’ from Robert Graves, or ‘The commodity most necessary to the writer is not money at all, but time’ from Laurie Lee, or ‘My advice to young people who wish to earn their living by writing would be to go at it slowly, with infinite trouble, not burn any boats in the way of other support behind them, and not either expect or play for quick returns’ from Elizabeth Bowen. On this subject, I would also like to direct you to this excellent recent piece from Elif Shafak, right here on Substack, in which she says: ‘What a writer needs, first and foremost, is freedom. Freedom to read, freedom to write, freedom to be.’Open RateOne positive outcome of sending this year’s edition of A Fall In Time to so few people is that my overall average open rate percentage has increased considerably, which feels somewhat like gaming the stats, to be honest! Perhaps I should create a section which only I subscribe to, then open each letter, for a 100% open rate...? Not really, of course, but it does make me question (again) the validity of using figures as a method for assessing the value of your work: this is a prime example why it is important not to take the statistics on Substack as a be all and end all. They can be interesting and useful, to a point, but you (I) should concentrate on actually sharing things that people will enjoy, or find useful, interesting, emotionally engaging, informative, or whatever other reason you might have for sharing your work. (In the draft of this piece, I also went on a minor rant about a recent spate of ‘create your art for you and for the world, for free’ Notes and letters I’ve seen, dismissing those who try to actually make some money from their work as little better than the cruellest of conmen or dirty-capitalist-pigdogs. I’ve edited that out but, needless to say, I think the image of the writer starving in their garret is one which should be solely in the past. We deserve to be paid for our work, and we deserve fair pay, something which is certainly not the case at present. Perhaps perversely, we also deserve to be allowed to do whatever we want with our work, including giving it away if we wish.)Which reminds me, last year, I mentioned how I’d seen people talking of culling/tidying/cleaning their subscriber list, getting rid of those who ‘never open an email’. Last year, I said this:“I don’t really like to offer anyone here too much advice, I find there’s rather a lot of that floating around, after all, but I recently noticed someone, once again a self-proclaimed ‘expert’, talking of removing email accounts which do not ‘engage’ with your letters.”DO NOT DO THIS PLEASE!And, this year, I’d like to add this:REALLY, REALLY DO NOT DO THIS PLEASE!For the love of all things newsletters, why on earth do people keep recommending this? It is foolishness in extremis. Just don’t.Where I Am NowOver the last twelve months, I have shared 64 pieces—10 chapters of fiction, 18 episodes of Voices From The Crow’s Nest and the rest a mixture of essays and guest pieces, along with a handful of pieces of older work, reshared to a much bigger audience.Looking at it like this, I should feel happy with that output, but instead I find myself wishing I had shared more, which is, quite frankly, silly.Which leads me to this point: it’s not you, it’s me. Or, actually, it’s all of this: *the writer waves around, to encompass the bleakness which seems intent on populating the internet and conversation in general. Whether genocide, war, famine, disease, exceptionally regressive politics, ongoing destruction of nature, or the biggest threat of all—a climate catastrophe which is spiralling far, far beyond anything we thought we’d experience at this juncture in time.* 　　I’ve talked about this already, quite a bit, and will continue to do so. As should we all.I’ve also talked about how I have been rebuilding myself, looking at the wiring under the board and, to stretch the metaphor, defragging, purging spy- and malware, adding extra RAM, a new hard drive, and possibly a faster processor. I have deconstructed what it means to be me, embarked on a long, deep trawl of the literature, and discovered much which makes a lot of sense. It has not been an easy process, especially not when twinned with the above.　　Add to these the fact I have not lived in an English-speaking nation in well over eight years, that I have been principally invested in raising our daughter, Ailsa, learning all about being a Papa, along with learning another language and all the customs and cultural references that come along with being in a different country, and I think those 64 posts are actually not bad, not bad at all (which is, of course, British for ‘rather good, really’).　　I would love more time. Time to read your work, time to respond to comments and replies when they come in, rather than much later (this is actually a priority for me, as I mention below), time to write more essays too but, quite frankly, I also know that time is scarce and needs exceptionally careful shepherding. I have, after all, spoken ad nauseam about time being the only currency that truly matters.　　And so, on to the next part of this piece—where does that shepherd lead the metaphorical flock?What’s Next For The Crow’s Nest (and me!)?I could be flippant and say something along the lines of ‘more of the same’ only, that’s not entirely true. There will be more of the same, certainly, but there will be much more of some things than others. For a start, my priority, when it comes to writing, has recently been offline work, principally new fiction and polishing old. That will also be the case going forward. I would like The Crow’s Nest to support my fiction, rather than my fiction be an afterthought, or minor subsidiary.　　Recently Claudia Befu said this:And I am wont to agree. It can be all too easy to fall into the trap of content creation, of building up a following, then being told that the following you build is not big enough to even be considered as a following, and so the cycle continues, all the while churning out essays and supporting work for something which keeps getting shelved or pushed further into the future. That is a sad, lonely, and frustrating road, one which just leads to bitterness and, ultimately, failure.　　My priority is my fiction. It has to be, as it is the carrier to the message I want to share with the world (the same message I share in my essays, one of decency and kindness, one of hope when all feels hopeless, and one that we can actually make a difference, if we but try—only with some magic, some questionable morals, some violence, and an occasional monster, for some of those stories, at least), and it is the means to reach far, far more eyes and ears than those essays.　　Sneaking cold, dirty, hard truths into fiction is a long and time-honoured tradition, and one I know I truly need to focus on right now.　　That’s not to say there won’t be essays, there will. There are! I have lots to come, many things already drafted, some even edited. But it does mean I won’t be marketing ‘myself’ to the extent that this reply to Claudia’s Note suggests I should.(I almost waded in to that exchange, as I once might have done on Twitter, for example, keen to point out the errors in that argument, quoting other professionals whose opinion I really value [such as the always sparkling and exceptionally helpful Juliet Mushens], but then stopped myself—I’m too tired to go debating with strangers on the internet, and Claudia is perfectly capable of defending her opinion after all, and did so succinctly and without resorting to anything remotely heated. I think all of this is proof I am getting old and/or am somehow actually focussed on what I really need to write...)　　Today, on the subject of novel writing, I shall also let you in on a little secret. Did you see this piece, all about my drafting process? That is tied to something I have been working on offline, a new project which appeared late this summer. How it appeared, the details of what it is and what it is becoming, will all be explained in due course. 　　This project is a novel, that much I can tell you and, as I draft it, I am also keeping reams of notes on the process, drafting essays as I go, including ones on ‘where do ideas come from?’, ‘how do you know if an idea is worth pursuing?’ and ‘what even is a character, and why do they sometimes simply appear in your life unbidden?’ Or words to that effect. There are also blow-by-blow accounts of the genesis of this novel, the nitty gritty details, wordcounts, chapter structures, even something on software I use, etcetera.　　Each of these essays (and there will be several) will be shared here in my letter. When is another matter; what makes sense to me is to keep these for later, when the novel is done and due to be published, just published, or both. They are supporting material and, I suspect, will be very appreciated by both the reader of the story and, especially, by myself. If you have a brain like mine then, when a project is done, it is done. I never want to market it, because in my head it is already finished. Why continue talking about it (even though no one else knows about it? 🙃 Yup, I used an emoji.)? As such, having pre-prepared material to share makes a huge amount of sense. It is, to be honest, not that much extra work now, after all, but it is work which will save me a vast amount of time and potential burnout later, precisely at the point when the last thing I’ll be wanting to do is write more about this particular novel.　　Crucially, I also think this is fun, and it makes me deeply consider the/my actual process behind the story.　　At the time of writing, I’ve yet to really discuss this project with anyone, beyond a few cryptic statements hither and thither, mostly because I am still not 100% sure what it actually is yet, and I don’t want the opinions (no matter how valid) of others to influence what it becomes. Needless to say, that will soon change, as I’m pretty confident this novel now has an increasingly solid shape and a journey which should prove interesting, the destination almost locked into place.　　Other projects I am working on, which will impact this space, include the following:* Finalising the final two Tales of The Lesser Evil, to initially share here, both serialised and also as ebooks for paying subscribers.* Relaunching the first four of these Tales as an ebook and print-on-demand (I mentioned this here, and there’ll be more on this soon!).* Relaunching Une Seule Mort, the French translation of Only One Death, and also FINALLY publishing the other two completed translations, which have never been shared before. (Sorry, Aurélie!) I will also be serialising these here (most certainly WITHOUT a voiceover from me, no French speaker wants to hear me massacre the language...), available at a separate section of The Crow’s Nest (in a similar fashion to this year’s A Fall In Time, not adding my entire subscriber list, only those who opt in to receive it).* Revisiting the book proposal for a non-fiction book related to A Fall In Time. I wrote one last winter, but then shelved it, unhappy with it, no matter how much I tinkered. Now, however, I am looking at this with rested, fresh eyes, and that time spent thinking proving very useful. Not least because I have finally thought of the perfect title, which encompasses everything I hope to say in that book.* Extra essays and material for A Fall In Time (mostly to appear behind the paywall, as these will be experimental, supporting material for the book proposal, ideas I’d like to work on further and flesh out into chapters of a book, and I’d rather not have them freely available on the internet). In some ways, these will also be a continuation of my Ancestral, Wild Empowerment series.* (This includes a rekindled invitation to you, the reader—I shall be relaunching my Let’s Take A Walk series. If you want to think about this, the link there should help, but I’ll send something else out soonish. I shall also be putting together a contents/link page for the walks I have already shared, very soon.)* Recording all of the above for the voiceovers/podcast, and revisiting old posts to record, too, in a similar manner to that the remarkable Jonathan Foster has done, over at The Crow. (His own spoken work was definitely a big inspiration.)* Recording me reading my own self-published fiction too, eventually, to put together as audiobooks.I’m sure there’ll also be the odd impromptu, unplanned essay, and I do intend to start revisiting Notes with increased regularity (I have a project I’ve long wanted to share [ahem, for YEARS], which is almost ready to go, Notes being the obvious home). (I am presently not 100% sure of my word of the year for 2026 (2025 was ‘compassion’), but two I am considering are community and communication. Both fit where I want to go in terms of my self development next year and also tally neatly with much of the above.)Another thing I will soon be doing is revisiting my own recommendations, ensuring I write something for each and every publication I recommend, explaining why, what that writer means to me, and what I think you will gain by investigating their work yourself. I think that is both wise and fair, and is something which has niggled me for some time, now.　　Oh! Breaking news as I draft this piece—for one brief moment, I was apparently number 99 on the list (of 100) of ‘Rising in Climate and Environment’ Substack writers. I have no idea how this works, or what it even means, and I suspect it’s probably down to Susannah Fisher consistently liking, commenting on, and sharing my day-to-day A Fall In Time notes, something which has brought me much thankful joy. I really appreciate that, and all the other replies and shares I’ve had. Whatever people say about placing on these charts being due to subscribers and, especially, paid subscribers, I can verify it is not!　　Of course, I’m not even sure my Substack fits into ‘Climate and Environment’ but there’s still no Nature section, which makes little sense to me, nature really being the root of all things, but hey, I don’t make the rules (nor really follow them, for that matter).General GoalsAside from the above work, what are my general goals for The Crow’s Nest? Well, as I write this piece, I am really not sure. Chasing figures and numbers seems like capturing smoke in a bottle and, as such, I think it simply best to...not bother. (No change there, really, I would love more readers, more subscribers, as I am sure there are many others out there who would enjoy my work, whether fiction or non-fiction, but chasing those numbers is not good for my brain!)Instead, I will focus on the work, focus on this space being a support to my fiction (and non-fiction, such as the book version of A Fall In Time, now, finally with a title I think works perfectly) elsewhere, rather than the focal point itself. Whether this will be a sensible choice, remains to be seen. (Amusingly, I scribbled this paragraph before the ones about the Rising charts, so clearly not chasing algorithms actually works?!)　　When it comes to bringing new readers to my work, I presently have little hope that Notes will work for this, but that doesn’t mean I’m not going to use it—I like it, it is the only social media I use, my feed is set to a default of ‘following’ and is full of friends. That’s a very good thing. Perhaps algorithms will change again and new people will find my work via Notes but, honestly, that doesn’t really matter. As I said above, I am certainly not going to invest time chasing an algorithm.This happened too, on the subject of Notes and friends. I realised afterwards, that it was the longest face-to-face conversation in my native tongue with a fellow native speaker for a long time. Which is something I should really address (see Word of the Year, community/communication…etc). It was also a lovely, varied, fascinating and, as Anne says, heartwarming conversation. Anne Thomas is someone I think you should all be subscribed to—her work has kept me buoyant and interested, not just her essays, but her daily series of observations over on Notes—they remind me of the wonder, fascination, and beauty available in the world, often when I really, really needed reminding. Please do have a peek! I’m quietly confident this won’t be our last face-to-face meeting, despite her moving away.So, perhaps, one of my goals should be to actually meet more of you in real life? If you are ever in this corner of the world (the French Alps), do give me a shout—and I’ll be in Scotland next July, too—along with probably elsewhere at some point or another.One other thing I am intent on pursuing is resurrecting my old Pinterest account, and then building boards into which I can slip pins of my own work, something Substack makes really easy to do, with their ‘share as image’ options. Add to this the fact that I don’t use generic art, and certainly not AI imagery, but my own images, and I think the visual side of my letters could really help to find new readers. I shall report back on this once it is up and running and as and when I have some data. (I also think it would be a good way to share the work of other people here, too.)　　Then there’s the podcast. So far, I’ve simply linked it to various platforms and done little (no) marketing for it, at all. Perhaps that is something I should pursue too—I’ve had positive feedback from some of you, which has made me really happy, seeing as I struggled to actually share my voice in the first place. What I won’t be doing is paywalling the voiceovers/podcast as an extra for paid subscribers as some do—I think accessibility is really important, and I’d like to enable those who either can’t read the words as easily, or who don’t have the time to read them to have a way to do so, without paying for it. Plus, it pushes me outside my comfort zone, takes only a wee bit more time, and offers other opportunities—opportunities I should deeply consider following.　　As I hinted earlier, I am also going to be relaunching my own website, alexandermcrow.com—‘under construction’ for a long time now—gradually taking things from Substack and all those other corners of the internet I’ve frequented, and making them a warm and cosy nest of their own, together (again, this ties in with community AND communication). This is something I’ve been meaning to do for ages—it just makes a lot of sense. One thing I shall also use that space for is directly selling things, whether my fiction, or other products (I craft things by hand, sometimes, and I think I could work out a business model to sell these as extremely limited edition/one-off art), as well as using it in order to give away bonus items to paying subscribers here (such as the long-threatened-but-yet-to-materialise free ebooks or potentially an audiobook of all the A Fall In Time voiceovers, edited to make one long adventure).I have a tendency, when I come out of a low, to realise my energy has built once more and immediately launch myself into brand new, large-scale projects. Often, these are successful projects, too. However, they come at the expense of the projects which I’ve been trying to do during that low, projects which then languish, unfinished, a tickle at the back of my head, a whisper barely heard, until such time as they are either forgotten entirely, or they growl and claw themselves into existence at some point in the future.This year, I am aware of this, perhaps for the first time in my life. And, because I am aware, I am determined to harness that power. Instead of allowing projects to disappear, I’m going to be finishing them. I’m also going to be utilising this increase in energy to bring other things to life, including those listed above, but slowly, and carefully, with great consideration. I have other projects, some of which will be placed in 'future’ files, some of which I will only begin when I know I have finished X number of others. For this reason, despite my Obsidian folder on ‘future projects’ being considerably longer than the above, I’ll leave this here. And this letter is definitely long enough, already.FinallyAnd here, I think, I should leave this. It is long enough already and, quite frankly, I’m not sure where I’m going to find the time to record and edit the audio!If you can afford to, then there are currently two direct ways to support my work here. The first is to take out a paid subscription and, as it is nearing the last weeks of the year, and to celebrate six years of sharing this letter, I’m offering 20% off both monthly and annual subscription plans. If you subscribe at that price, it will lock in for the rest of your subscription, for as long as you remain a subscriber. In the New Year, I shall be raising my subscription fees slightly, so taking advantage of this might make sense. The offer ends mid-January.The second way to support me here is to use my Kofi button/link. As I mention above, this last 12 months has seen a remarkable increase in readers paying me this way—after years of having a Kofi account, but no one ever paying me anything. I like to think I have my Mum to thank for this; somehow, by sending some money my way via Kofi, she started the ball rolling—and it rolls still, a strange magic. I’m very grateful to her, and to all of you who have used this method.As we head into the festive season, a season of darkness for some, of light for others, let’s watch out for one another as best we can—I firmly believe that humanity, on the whole, is full of good people. Many thanks for making it this far in this rather epic post, and for sticking with me and my letter, that means the world to me. Get full access to The Crow's Nest at alexandermcrow.substack.com/subscribe

This podcast is also available as a series of letters (technically emails, but I prefer to think of them as letters), with an introduction featuring navigation links for each post as I share them, lots of photos, and more:The link for this particular episode is here:https://alexandermcrow.substack.com/p/a-fall-in-time-week-eleven-2025If you have enjoyed listening to this, please do leave a comment. I welcome all questions and will reply, even if it takes a while to do so.If you don’t want to miss a photo or word, then do consider subscribing:And, finally, if you find value in listening to my words and wish to support me financially, but do not want to take out a subscription to my letter, you can also send a one-off tip via this button:To head to the introduction and navigation page for this adventure, click here.To go back to week ten, click here.Many thanks for listening. Get full access to The Crow's Nest at alexandermcrow.substack.com/subscribe

Hello friends,I had hoped to have the third State of The Nest Address ready for today, it being the date of my self-chosen anniversary: six years of consistently sharing a letter with the world. However, that will have to wait a wee while longer, it is drafted, but neither edited nor formatted (and I have not even started recording the audio). I am busy with my belle-mère, finishing the surround for the window in Ailsa’s bedroom, fixing where the workmen ripped out an electricity cable, and rewiring the light it was attached to (the photo below was taken from this window). I should have that letter with you later this week, or early next, with a bit of luck. (There will be a voiceover for this wee post around the same time too, I imagine!)(To be honest, this letter being later than it perhaps should have been is a bit in keeping with the general theme of the previous 12 months, one of taking a step back from the internet, concentrating on work which will not immediately gain subscribers or followers, but is vital work, nevertheless. I am, however, slowly returning to the internet world.)That said, I did not want today’s anniversary to go unsung, so I am sending this brief note instead. A lot has happened in the last six years, after all...If you are a masochist, and want to be fully ready for the third Address, that letter where I discuss what has happened on Substack over the preceding year, both in a general manner and also specifically for The Crow’s Nest, then here are the first two instalments:The State of The Nest (2023)The State of The Nest 2 (2024)Neither is required reading but, if you are one of those people who like tracking changes on platforms, looking at what is working at one particular time, but not the next, then they may be interesting.One thing you might have recently missed is the piece I shared here:This is essentially ‘simply’ the story of just shy of a week’s worth of trail/wildlife camera photos and footage but, I’d like to think, also something a little more than that. There are lots of photos and videos of several different mammalian species. I quite enjoyed sharing this.This year’s iteration of A Fall In Time, detailing that moment in my life when I left behind the city and other humans and walked out into the woods alone, for rather a long time, is coming to a sort-of end. Sort-of, because the day by day account, an index/navigation for which can be found at this link, is close to finishing but, this year, I will be continuing this series with several extra essays and pieces: something I threatened before, but never came to pass. Many of these will be tucked behind the paywall, as they are essentially me playing around with the themes and ideas I want to expand upon in a longer book (also linking with my Ancestral, Wild Empowerment series), and I don’t want them easily accessible to the world. There will be some free things, however, although these extras will likely be arriving post mid-winter celebrations. I’d like to get something out before, but I am also very aware that this time of the year is both precious and a little short of time!Here’s last week’s compilation:Finally, for now, I will not be having any kind of Black Friday sale; I’m really not a big fan of the concept. There might, however, be a Christmas/seasonal discount upcoming, before prices rise in the calendrical new year (personally, I like to think the year starts after the solstice, just makes sense to me!). For now, however, you can subscribe here:You can also leave a tip of any amount here (thank you, so much, to those of you who have done so!):One other reason I am not tying myself to any kind of schedule for the continued A Fall In Time work is because I want to try and catch up with your comments and replies and shares. I do read and appreciate each and every one, and I shall reply soon. Thank you.More soon, with the Third State of The Nest Address and, if you are subscribed to that section, the eleventh week of A Fall In Time.Alex Get full access to The Crow's Nest at alexandermcrow.substack.com/subscribe

This podcast is also available as a series of letters (technically emails, but I prefer to think of them as letters), with an introduction featuring navigation links for each post as I share them, lots of photos, and more:The link for this particular episode is here:https://alexandermcrow.substack.com/p/a-fall-in-time-week-ten-2025If you have enjoyed listening to this, please do leave a comment. I welcome all questions and will reply, even if it takes a while to do so.If you don’t want to miss a photo or word, then do consider subscribing:And, finally, if you find value in listening to my words and wish to support me financially, but do not want to take out a subscription to my letter, you can also send a one-off tip via this button:To head to the introduction and navigation page for this adventure, click here.To go back to week nine, click here.Many thanks for listening. Get full access to The Crow's Nest at alexandermcrow.substack.com/subscribe

This podcast is also available as a series of letters (technically emails, but I prefer to think of them as letters), with an introduction featuring navigation links for each post as I share them, lots of photos, and more:The link for this particular episode is here:https://alexandermcrow.substack.com/p/a-fall-in-time-week-nine-2025If you have enjoyed listening to this, please do leave a comment. I welcome all questions and will reply, even if it takes a while to do so.If you don’t want to miss a photo or word, then do consider subscribing:And, finally, if you find value in listening to my words and wish to support me financially, but do not want to take out a subscription to my letter, you can also send a one-off tip via this button:To head to the introduction and navigation page for this adventure, click here.To go back to week eight, click here.Many thanks for listening. Get full access to The Crow's Nest at alexandermcrow.substack.com/subscribe

This podcast is also available as a series of letters (technically emails, but I prefer to think of them as letters), with an introduction featuring navigation links for each post as I share them, lots of photos, and more:The link for this particular episode is here:https://alexandermcrow.substack.com/p/a-fall-in-time-week-eightIf you have enjoyed listening to this, please do leave a comment. I welcome all questions and will reply, even if it takes a while to do so.If you don’t want to miss a photo or word, then do consider subscribing:And, finally, if you find value in listening to my words and wish to support me financially, but do not want to take out a subscription to my letter, you can also send a one-off tip via this button:To head to the introduction and navigation page for this adventure, click here.To go back to week seven, click here.Many thanks for listening. Get full access to The Crow's Nest at alexandermcrow.substack.com/subscribe

This podcast is also available as a series of letters (technically emails, but I prefer to think of them as letters), with the original, with all the videos and images mentioned, available here:If you have enjoyed listening to this, please do leave a comment. I welcome all questions and will reply, even if it takes a while to do so.If you don’t want to miss a photo or word, then do consider subscribing:And, finally, if you find value in listening to my words and wish to support me financially, but do not want to take out a subscription to my letter, you can also send a one-off tip via this button: Get full access to The Crow's Nest at alexandermcrow.substack.com/subscribe

This podcast is also available as a series of letters (technically emails, but I prefer to think of them as letters), with an introduction featuring navigation links for each post as I share them, lots of photos, and more:The link for this particular episode is here:If you have enjoyed listening to this, please do leave a comment. I welcome all questions and will reply, even if it takes a while to do so.If you don’t want to miss a photo or word, then do consider subscribing:And, finally, if you find value in listening to my words and wish to support me financially, but do not want to take out a subscription to my letter, you can also send a one-off tip via this button:To head to the introduction and navigation page for this adventure, click here.To go back to week six, click here.Many thanks for listening. Get full access to The Crow's Nest at alexandermcrow.substack.com/subscribe

(And yes, that is me in the photo, inside my shelter.)This is an edited, extensive rework of a post I shared on my sister’s website, back in late October, 2010. As I have mentioned in this ongoing series, I would handwrite each blog post, photograph it on my trusty pre-smartphone, and send it to her to then transcribe, edit and post.For those of you who aren’t following my daily Notes from that time, or haven’t signed up to receive the weekly compilations of these, in short, I left behind my life in the city, travelled north, and walked out into the woods. I would stay out there from late summer, through all of autumn, into winter, alone but for the wildlife, slowly becoming a part of a fascinating natural whole.That story is available at the A Fall in Time section of my Substack. (If you are already a subscriber and wish to receive these weekly emails, simply head to this link and select A Fall In Time under the Notifications list. If you are not a subscriber, simply hit subscribe!)This tale—the one you are reading now—took place just after I had moved up to my third camp, but before I had moved into the natural shelter I was building; I was still sleeping in my hammock, below my tarp.The original letter, with more photographs, is here: Get full access to The Crow's Nest at alexandermcrow.substack.com/subscribe

This podcast is also available as a series of letters (technically emails, but I prefer to think of them as letters), with an introduction featuring navigation links for each post as I share them, lots of photos, and more:The link for this particular episode is here:https://alexandermcrow.substack.com/p/a-fall-in-time-week-six-2025If you have enjoyed listening to this, please do leave a comment. I welcome all questions and will reply, even if it takes a while to do so.If you don’t want to miss a photo or word, then do consider subscribing:And, finally, if you find value in listening to my words and wish to support me financially, but do not want to take out a subscription to my letter, you can also send a one-off tip via this button:To head to the introduction and navigation page for this adventure, click here.To go back to week five, click here.Many thanks for listening. Get full access to The Crow's Nest at alexandermcrow.substack.com/subscribe

It is the season of sharing spookiness once more, that moment in our calendars when we seek out the thrill of fear. Today, I am sharing this story—I shared a version of this before, some years ago, but I am now privileged enough to have thousands more followers and subscribers here, so it seems wise to lightly edit and send again.I am sending it a bit before Halloween, as I shall also be sharing another such true story, and would like to space out the letters. This will also give you, the reader, time to share this, if you wish, in advance of October the 31st.The original version of this can be found here, on my Substack page:This is a Hallowe’en story I reworked from an older piece and it is important to repeat: it really did happen to me, thirty-something years ago in Orkney, the archipelago of islands off the north of Scotland.(I prefer the spelling Hallowe’en, but algorithms being what they are, I have to think about these things…)If you have enjoyed this but do not wish to pay for a subscription to The Crow’s Nest, you can also send a one-off payment of any amount via this button:Please do share this as widely as you can in the run up to Halloween. This post is not paywalled, and sharing is free. Or hit that little heart button, or restack on Notes, if you frequent the place. I will soon send another seasonal, spooky tale from the period of months I spent living out in the woods alone, the whole story of which I am sharing here. (Like the story above, it also weaves in place and time, history and people.)Finally, have you your own ghostly tales? Do you live in an old house with strange, unexplained happenings? How does that make you feel?(What is real is a topic for another day, but I will say this—some of what we perceive as real might not actually be as real as we believe. For example, what colour are the blue feathers on either a Eurasian jay (Garrulus glandarius) or a Blue jay (Cyanocitta cristata)? Answer: as with many other blue-appearing birds, they are not actually blue at all, but brown. The structure of the feathers is such that our human eyes only see them as blue—all other wavelengths of light are scattered in such a way that they appear to be something other than what they really are. Isn’t that just incredible? And doesn’t it make you wonder what else we see which might, in fact, be something absolutely different? )Many thanks for listening. I greatly appreciate each and every one of you who does.Alex Get full access to The Crow's Nest at alexandermcrow.substack.com/subscribe

This podcast is also available as a series of letters (technically emails, but I prefer to think of them as letters), with an introduction featuring navigation links for each post as I share them, lots of photos, and more:The link for this particular episode is here:If you have enjoyed listening to this, please do leave a comment. I welcome all questions and will reply, even if it takes a while to do so.If you don’t want to miss a photo or word, then do consider subscribing:And, finally, if you find value in listening to my words and wish to support me financially, but do not want to take out a subscription to my letter, you can also send a one-off tip via this button:To head to the introduction and navigation page for this adventure, click here.To go back to week four, click here.Many thanks for listening. Get full access to The Crow's Nest at alexandermcrow.substack.com/subscribe

This letter is principally a rundown of the process I use to draft fiction, a process I have now used unaltered for over a decade. For me, this is what works best.The original version, which includes visual elements which make a wee bit more sense than the audio version, is available here:This letter is to tie in with another which is forthcoming. Thanks for listening and, if you do enjoy this, please subscribe to this podcast, or to Substack, where there is a lot more, including many original photographs.Finally, if you find value in reading or listening to my words and wish to support me financially, but do not want to take out a subscription to my letter, you can also send a one-off tip via this button (and a huge thank you to those of you who have done so, I greatly appreciate that):Thanks for listening. Get full access to The Crow's Nest at alexandermcrow.substack.com/subscribe

(Apologies for my mild croak, I’ve been fending off a cold for a couple of days, which seems to have made my voice sound a wee bit different to normal! Sorry! [Plenty of elderberry tincture is keeping it at bay, however!])This podcast is also available as a series of letters (technically emails, but I prefer to think of them as letters), with an introduction featuring navigation links for each post as I share them, lots of photos, and more:The link for this particular episode is here:https://alexandermcrow.substack.com/p/a-fall-in-time-week-four-2025If you have enjoyed listening to this, please do leave a comment. I welcome all questions and will reply, even if it takes a while to do so.If you don’t want to miss a photo or word, then do consider subscribing:And, finally, if you find value in listening to my words and wish to support me financially, but do not want to take out a subscription to my letter, you can also send a one-off tip via this button:To head to the introduction and navigation page for this adventure, click here.To go back to week three, click here.Many thanks for listening. Get full access to The Crow's Nest at alexandermcrow.substack.com/subscribe

This podcast is also available as a series of letters (technically emails, but I prefer to think of them as letters), with an introduction featuring navigation links for each post as I share them, lots of photos, and more:The link for this particular episode is here:https://alexandermcrow.substack.com/p/a-fall-in-time-week-three-2025If you have enjoyed listening to this, please do leave a comment. I welcome all questions and will reply, even if it takes a while to do so.If you don’t want to miss a photo or word, then do consider subscribing:And, finally, if you find value in listening to my words and wish to support me financially, but do not want to take out a subscription to my letter, you can also send a one-off tip via this button:To head to the introduction and navigation page for this adventure, click here.To go back to week two, click here.Many thanks for listening. Get full access to The Crow's Nest at alexandermcrow.substack.com/subscribe

This podcast is also available as a series of letters (technically emails, but I prefer to think of them as letters), with an introduction featuring navigation links for each post as I share them, lots of photos, and more:The link for this particular episode is here:https://alexandermcrow.substack.com/p/a-fall-in-time-week-two-2025If you have enjoyed listening to this, please do leave a comment. I welcome all questions and will reply, even if it takes a while to do so.If you don’t want to miss a photo or word, then do consider subscribing:And, finally, if you find value in listening to my words and wish to support me financially, but do not want to take out a subscription to my letter, you can also send a one-off tip via this button:To head to the introduction and navigation page for this adventure, click here.To go back to week one, click here.Many thanks for listening. Get full access to The Crow's Nest at alexandermcrow.substack.com/subscribe

This podcast, all about the first time I lived out in the woods for months, is also available as a series of letters (technically emails, but I prefer to think of them as letters), with an introduction featuring navigation links for each post as I share them, lots of photos, and more:https://alexandermcrow.substack.com/p/a-fall-in-time-introductionThe link for this particular episode is here:https://alexandermcrow.substack.com/p/a-fall-in-time-week-one-2025If you don’t want to miss a photo or word, then do consider subscribing:https://alexandermcrow.substack.com/subscribeMany thanks for listening. Get full access to The Crow's Nest at alexandermcrow.substack.com/subscribe

Our lives are shaped by the paths we take, whether through choice, or by chance.Sometimes, this takes the form of the path not taken, sometimes that we follow. Often, both.This is the introduction to my forthcoming limited series, for the first time also available as a podcast, A Fall in Time. This series details the months I spent living alone in the woods of western Scotland, close to nature.To see original photography from that adventure and discover more of my work, do please head to my Substack letter:https://alexandermcrow.substack.comThis introduction is also available as a letter, with navigation links for each post as I share them, lots of photos, and more:https://alexandermcrow.substack.com/p/a-fall-in-time-introductionMany thanks for listening. Get full access to The Crow's Nest at alexandermcrow.substack.com/subscribe

This is a narration of my first full essay on The Crow’s Nest since May 2025. I’ve shared other words elsewhere, but I have to say, I’m glad to be back—now with sound!To subscribe to my letter, head here:https://alexandermcrow.substack.comThis essay discusses constructing a wall and levelling a mountain slope, all the while weaving this physical tale into one which is really discussing our world at large, how doing a thing can make a difference, and how we need to hold on to our visions.I do hope you'll have a listen or read. Thanks. Get full access to The Crow's Nest at alexandermcrow.substack.com/subscribe

Find and subscribe to the letter I mention over at Substack. I've been regularly sharing there for nearly six years:https://alexandermcrow.substack.comThis episode is a brief introduction as to what to expect from the Voices From the Crow's Nest podcast. Talk of nature, ancestral skills, who I am, and a little more. With a squeaky chair but mostly relatively clear audio, I hope. Get full access to The Crow's Nest at alexandermcrow.substack.com/subscribe

I originally shared this on my Substack homepage only, back in September, 2025. Now, I think it is a good idea to send it out as a letter, as believe it contains a few points others might find useful. It also serves neatly as a way of looking at where I am now, in February, 2026, especially if read or listened to in conjunction with a piece entitled Where We Are, or Where Am I?If you are reading these words without having read this other piece, I humbly suggest you start there. Silence Within, Silence WithoutI always end up with drafts and notes which never see the light of day. I have folders full, emails and messages I’ve sent myself, notebooks with scribbles, journals with fountain pen, Dropbox, Mega, iDrive, Google Drive, Onedrive and more. I have a note-taking app on my phone with hundreds of notes, ranging from the briefest eight words to fifteen minute voice recordings and whole essays either dictated for voice-to-text, or furiously typed with thumbs. Post-its are rarely recycled, just stuck together like small books, I slip index cards into this journal, or between those pages, sure I’ll remember where that note actually went. Whole trees-worth of A4 paper in this box or that. Scrivener is where my notes often end up loosely collated, the folder and project structure useful for taking them further, into drafts, rewrites, and edits. Oh, so many edits.This year, my ‘published’ to ‘draft’ ratio on Substack is considerably skewed (especially once I include all the Scrivener entries which have been read by no one but me). I have far more drafts than essays or chapters of fiction, with months-long silences and barely a Note in between.Normally, I would include something like these paragraphs at the start of a letter, an apology for my silence but, this time, I decided to write a whole essay about it, but not actually email said essay. Instead, it—this essay—shall be published to my Substack page and, eventually, to my website, which is forthcoming. I don’t want people to apologise to me for their silence, after all, there is no need—I get it. There are many reasons for such a pause, and they are all valid. Just jump straight into the new work. And that is what I have done. If you aren’t already, please consider subscribing, that way you won’t miss anything I share!BalanceTo have downtime, away from one thing or another, is an essential. Not just for me but, I’d argue, for all. Too often, we can be caught in a spiral of diminishing returns, pushing through even when the alarm bells are ringing. That is not good for the mind, for the soul.The short description to The Crow’s Nest says this: The notebook of a globally feral author finding balance through connection with nature, ancestral skills, and different cultures. Words and kindness.And, last year and earlier in this one, I realised I had lost that balance. All was out of sync, all white noise, and all felt colourless and dull.Sometimes, having a pause, stepping away, means the system is reset, and you can get back to full strength, rejuvenated. Sometimes, the pause stretches out longer. Back in March, 2024, I decided to put a pause on drinking alcohol; I had found myself to be using alcohol as a crutch, instead of enjoying it, and thought it best to reset that system. I set myself a target of a month, which turned into two, then three. Now, it’s 545 days since I last had an alcoholic drink (I use a habit tracking app for these numbers, although there are only two streaks I keep up at present: no drinking alcohol, and no news scrolling. The latter, today, is at 909 days). (EDIT: as I send this, 701 and 1065 days, respectively.)I still tell people—and myself—this is a pause; I am not worried about the two millilitres of alcoholic tincture I take every day during the winter (especially turkey tail [Trametes versicolor] fungi), but I also know I just don’t want to drink, now. I have realised that the benefits of not drinking outweigh any positives, by a considerable margin. Yet I’m also not going to preach or evangelise on this subject—why would I? It is always a personal choice.Another PauseEarlier this year, I knew I needed to take time off the internet, away from sharing my thoughts here and elsewhere. I needed to hit that pause and reset button. I was on the upwards curve, away from the deadening low within which I’d been swaddled for what seemed a long time, but I was not quite there, not quite back in the realm of normal serotonin, still a wee way to go. Taking a step away from Notes, from Substack, entirely closing down my Meta accounts and, generally, being more present, apart from an online existence, was not only sensible, but essential.Reader, it worked. I popped in now and then, sending a few words here or there, talking about my fiction, past, present and future, and then pondering imaginary, daydream adventures, adventures which will never happen. I then shared an essay on what The Summer Book, by Tove Jansson, means to me, over on Matthew Long’s Beyond the Bookshelf.Eventually, this summer, as I enjoyed time outdoors in nature, building a wall and generally reminding my body what it is to be used properly, I felt I was ready to come back. I posted a few more Notes, read a little more, and began to find my feet once again. Substack has, apparently, changed in that time. So many Notes tell me this but, from what I have seen, many of the people I call friends are still around, some also just returning after a lull. Good and kind and intriguing things are being shared, photographs of wonderful places and things, and conversations which actually matter.Hope, DwindlingThe tipping point, as capitalism slowly dies a painful and undoubtedly violent death, was always going to be a difficult time. More so, as the world begins to suffer increasingly serious effects of our ongoing detachment from, and destruction of, nature. These are certainly interesting times we live in and, earlier this year, one of the reasons I stepped back from the internet was almost certainly due to this.I have long espoused hope—active hope—looking at the world in ways which might make a difference, which might do some good. Yet, at some point this year, I realised my hope was shaken, it was jarred, dwindling and, for fear of losing it entirely, I took a step back to protect and nurture it, cradling what remained and trying to consider the best path toward rekindling. Telling others to be hopeful when you yourself are not seemed hypocritical and foolish.Now, however, I am once more ready to release my hope back into the wild. She is rested, she is strong again but, crucially, she is also repurposed, retooled.Approaching the EquinoxThe following paragraphs come from one of those drafts I mentioned above. Crafted in early spring, it is interesting to see what I thought at that time, before I more consciously stepped back from the internet.March, in this corner of the world, is the time when the green seems to concentrate her efforts once more, pushing through a vibrancy which has been lacking over winter, shrugging off her sepia and grey toned blanket and stretching for the brilliant blue sky overhead.I too am stretching. I’ve always felt bearlike in winter, the need to hibernate, to isolate and insulate, strong. As the sun returns with a warmth carrying whispers of spring to come, I open myself up to those rays, ensure I get outside as much as possible, and enjoy the sense of awakening once more.At least, that is the perfect situation. That is the plan. In reality, last year, I wintered far too long, spent all my spoons and borrowed more, simply to keep going, to keep doing the things so many take for granted. I hid away from the light and grew leggy and pale, a neglected seedling of sorts, left in a dark corner.This year, I am taking steps to avoid that. I have big plans for our little garden (which is more of a yard, with very little actual space for planting in the ground, but room for containers and raised beds), and I am, thus far, sticking to those plans. This means sun.This means the drum of the woodpecker in the woods.This means the drone of the bees, investigating the insect hotel, pausing a moment on my hand, or hovering just above the dusty surface of the tiles, wings pushing it away in tiny plumes, for all the world like a miniature helicopter.This means the call of the birds, as they gather seed and cheese rind from our window ledge, as they welcome the dawn, sing the day to sleep.It means the faintest of breezes on my face, a sudden deep cold from above, an equally surprising warmth from below.It means the shock of stepping into deep shade from the sunlight.Noticing the first lizards of the year, also emerging, also sunning themselves.Gathering speedwell, violet leaves and flowers, ivy, archangel, turkey tail.Deeply digging through impacted soil, carefully saving worm and broken pottery both, removing years of accumulated plastic rubbish, reminding the soil it can be airy and buoyant, hold seed and life once more.Planning what to grow.What to nurture, whether plant or soil itself.What to harvest.This is a long quote from that unpublished essay, but I think it helps to illustrate how I knew the right path, I just had not considered deliberately stepping back from being online. Who does, these days? An online existence, for many, is existence, and that carries peril and benefit both.Now, as I write this piece, I am at the opposite side of the year, approaching the equinox once more, but with winter ahead instead of summer. (EDIT: At the time of sending this as a letter, I am once again rolling around towards spring. A year has passed, the world has turned.)I am already considering what I shall plant next year, collecting seeds from this year’s plants, looking at others. We are still reaping the harvest (so many tomatoes this year, so, so many chillies, kilos and kilos of raspberries and more), and I am not only watching the signs of nature now, but actively looking forward to those the changing seasons will bring. The châtaigne (sweet chestnut) harvest, fungi, beds of leaves and the sigh of trees, the first snowflakes, the first frost. Deep drifts and bright winter blue skies above mountains clad in the season.I am making plans, for next year, and the one after. I am setting myself real and sensible deadlines. I am thinking deeply about the order of things—whether the literal order of my work, what to finish first, what to share, when, or the order of the world at large, how one way of life is gasping, a death-rattle, whilst something different waits in the shadows, and no one truly knows the outcome.The tech gods are not coming to save you. They are too enthralled by their dragongold, enraptured by zeroes on a balance sheet, forgetting the touch of rich forest loam on their feet. Politicians likewise, when they are not already pushed and pulled by the former. In principally western (always code for ‘traditionally white’) nations, governments have perhaps looked ahead and realised that, quite bluntly, we are fucked. They are enacting policies they think might stretch out this period of time as long as possible, policies which are simply echoes of a way of being which is now outdated. I would also argue that in non-western nations the process is similar, just with a slightly different tune.Money MoneyCapitalism, remember, is not commerce. The two are very different, something I have finally come to terms with; only took me nearly half a century. It is not wrong for me to want to make money per se—let’s face it, I have put in millions of words and untold hours polishing and honing my craft. I do not want to consider my hourly rate for all that time because, honestly, it would be risible.I am not good at selling my work, or marketing. At least, this has been the case in the past. Now, however, I feel revitalised, ready to consider different methods to actually earn more money, all the while in an ethical and careful fashion. The irony that I have only just reached this point at a time when multiple potential perils to our very existence are not just waiting in the wings, but in some cases are already here, is darkly amusing.(Seems a good place to pop a tip button…)Drips Into FloodsThe world as we knew it has gone. The world which lies ahead unfathomable. And we do not have much time. I should make it clear that I am not suggesting we’ll all be living in a choose-your-apocalypse-movie scenario in the next couple of years. Instead, I imagine things will go in fits and starts, slow deterioration there, sudden destruction here. Some places will prove more resilient than others. Some will be wiped off the map. Drip drip drip, flood, drip drip.There can still be hope, however, and the first place to find that is with nature, no matter how she continues to be ravaged.Nature is NatureNature is, well, nature and, to the human mind, she often contains positives and negatives. The song echoing through the dawn-woods is considered heart-leapingly beautiful, the fat rat scurrying to hide beneath a planter, almost universally frowned upon. The scent of the violets, so subtle and utterly violet, is something I never, ever take for granted, the smell of the graveyard beside us when the temperature warms—ancient and more recent decay occasionally reaching my sensitive nose—something no one would really say they enjoy; yet even these things, rat and rot, are deeply honest reminders of life itself.We are all somewhere on this cycle, somewhere surrounded by other species’ circles, intersecting and overlaying our own, crossing our paths here, there, a frantic and furious spirograph of pattern and line and colour. Of late, it has become impossible to ignore the state of the world. The state of the human world, and that of the natural, both. Even with my ‘no news’ diet, I see headline, comment and post enough, perhaps when I head to YouTube to check the correct form for a kettlebell exercise, or look at the latest update from le Tour, or la Vuelta, or when I open Substack Notes, or read a letter from a friend. It is pervasive, everywhere. As is the fact the bees were much earlier this year, the first bear garlic and first bats, similarly so. Rain just doesn’t arrive. The snow recedes higher and higher, faster and faster, year after year—and there is less of it, precipitation nowhere near what it used to be. The glaciers remaining in the French Alps are disappearing so quickly—on average, a third of their volume in 20 years—that many of the smaller ones will be gone entirely very, very soon. (Look here for more on this.) This summer, we saw vast pillars of smoke above Aude, here in France, saw ash and pieces of charcoal washed ashore, tasted the smoke and found it difficult to breathe, watching a seemingly continuous stream of planes heading to drop water. The hills burnt for days.Rebalance the ScalesNegativity—perhaps a soft acknowledgement of unpalatable truth, of fact—is everywhere (as is utter denial, of course, we are contrary animals), accusations fly this way, then that. Doomer! Take your head out of the sand!Naïve!How can you not see what’s happening?! Do you not care?It is impossible to escape that negativity and those voices and, personally, I find I need to keep loading extra weight on the other side of the scale, just to keep a semblance of mental balance. And, as I took more notice in the world beyond the window, instead of the world behind the screen, I began to remember how easily I can tip things in my favour, if only I let myself. This year, I found it surprising to learn what a dance of miner bees actually weighs in my mind, or just how heavy a flourish of primroses can be on that scale. We need to keep that balance in order to continue, in order to resist and rebel. For me, my personal rebellion has always been through a nature-charged hope, infused and channelled through my words send out into the world, clinging here, making you pause there.Where Le Guin Comes InIf you have been reading this letter for a while now, you’ll know that I love the work of Ursula K. Le Guin, whether her fiction or non-fiction. I am sure you have probably seen several of her most quotable snippets circulating over the last wee while—she certainly has appeared on my Notes feed a lot, which makes me happy and, before I silenced them, she was also present across my Instagram and Twitter feeds. It is a good thing, how the world seems to have taken to her words (even if, as I mention below, they often truncate quotes to fit a certain aesthetic or platform).Maybe you saw this one (or, more likely, a part of it):I think hard times are coming when we will be wanting the voices of writers who can see alternatives to how we live now and can see through our fear-stricken society and its obsessive technologies to other ways of Being, and even imagine some real grounds for hope.We will need writers who can remember freedom, poets, visionaries—the realists of a larger reality.Right now, I think we need writers who know the difference between production of a market commodity and the practice of an art.Or maybe this (from the same speech):Books, you know, they’re—they're not just commodities. The profit motive often is in conflict with the aims of art. We live in capitalism. Its power seems inescapable. So did the divine right of kings.Any human power can be resisted and changed by human beings.Resistance and change often begin in art, and very often in our art: the art of words.Then, there is this, from here:Socrates said, “The misuse of language induces evil in the soul.” He wasn't talking about grammar. To misuse language is to use it the way politicians and advertisers do, for profit, without taking responsibility for what the words mean. Language used as a means to get power or make money goes wrong: it lies. Language used as an end in itself, to sing a poem or tell a story, goes right, goes towards the truth.A writer is a person who cares what words mean, what they say, how they say it. Writers know words are their way towards truth and freedom, and so they use them with care, with thought, with fear, with delight. By using words well they strengthen their souls. Story-tellers and poets spend their lives learning that skill and art of using words well. And their words make the souls of their readers stronger, brighter, deeper.I think it is important to include a few more sentences and paragraphs in these quotes than the ‘normal’ memes and images, those which float around the ether, as I think the other words are vital for the whole—that is the case for me, at least. I would urge you to read more of her work, if you have not already done so—if you have, you probably already reread many of those words and thoughts to help you through these times, words that contain true power, unvarnished truth, words that make lives stronger, brighter, deeper, just through the seemingly simple act of reading (or listening, never let anyone tell you an audiobook is not a book, that is ridiculous for several reasons).And, just as I was rewriting this piece, I saw this, from rebecca hooper:We All WaverLast year, at several points, I stopped writing and, in tandem, my reading slowed to a trickle. For days, then weeks and months, I began to think that my writing was not work, that my words did not matter, that it was all just irrelevant and, frankly, a waste of time, both my own and that of others. This is quite normal. We all waver. We all doubt. I stopped putting pen to paper or fingers to keyboard, and I determined, actively, to begin the process of resetting.For much of 2024 and 2025, my principal reboot mechanism centred around our daughter, Ailsa. To stay upbeat, attentive, and focussed on her development and growth was not easy—it used up a lot of energy, taking all my spare spoons and then some—but it was energy ultimately well spent. By reading and sharing my interests with her, pointing out this plant or that, talking about birds, trees, animals, tracks, making fire, what is edible, what is not, what is medicine, what is poison, all these served to fan that spark within me, a spark which had smouldered for too long. Sometimes, it takes a much smaller set of lungs to rekindle a fire. Last September (2024), this led to my decision to once again share a day by day and week by week account of that first time I headed out into the woods for an extended stay. This led to my working on a book proposal, rethinking and reforming the story, looking at what I want to share, what I want such a book to achieve. It is not simply a memoir of those months alone in nature, but something more, something deeply connected to our time. I am still pondering this now, still not entirely sure what I want to say. I shall be sharing A Fall in Time a third and likely final time here on Substack, starting mid-September, 2025, this time with my voice reading each entry. I shall not be sending it out to anyone who has already received it, however, so as to not irritate readers—you have to sign up for the section if you want it again. (I will send out a letter, letting readers know of this, of course.)The chain of events I detail here, in turn, led to my reconnecting to my fiction, and looking closely at the plan for this. Things have since changed a little, some I thought were necessary have been shelved, others leaping sprightly into view but, on the whole, I am once more positive about my stories, with a far clearer idea of direction.More Than WeaponsIt is too simplistic to say that words can be weapons. They can, true, but they are much, much more than that. A weapon, no matter how technical, is a simple, base, thing. Words and, by extension, writing, is something special. Back in 1820, only one in ten people in the world could read and write—now, that figure has reversed: one in ten people in the world cannot read and write. This is still very much dependant on the lottery of birth but, overall, the trend has certainly headed in the right direction.For writers, those of us who seek a living from words, this has rather obviously increased the market, yet it has also led to the interesting observation that, because the vast, vast majority of, in this case, the English-speaking world can read and write, writing is, therefore, something everyone can do. It’s not seen as something special any longer. Here, in France, ‘being a writer’ is different to ‘being a writer’ in the UK. As is ‘being’, for that matter. This is a topic I’ve touched on before, how the mindset here is different, how the writer is someone respected in a way which is mostly lacking in the UK. It is a much better atmosphere in which to work, if only I let it.Much is made of the decline in reading for pleasure, in falling attention spans, in the rise of scrolling through video or social feeds over picking up a good book but, on the whole, the statistics do not show a fall in the sale of books. It can certainly be argued that the younger generations are not reading as many books as the older but, on the whole, the picture is not all doom and gloom.And do not forget how important to certain genres those social feeds can be, especially TikTok (something I dipped my toe into, but have yet to use it properly). Throw out a black and white meme, Ursula K. Le Guin’s face on one side, looking wise, sage, and trustworthy, a snippet of her words on the other and this is direct advertising. It is a tiny billboard shared and liked and reshared across the world. Those words matter, and they matter widely.I am not suggesting everyone who sees such a quote will immediately rush out to buy and read something by Le Guin (or anyone else, I’m using her here as an example) but, over time, if they keep seeing those memes, if they keep seeing that wise, take-no-s**t-from-nobody face, reading those words, then they are going to sink in. Eventually, some of them will seek out more of those words.The traditional media, the news, the thought pieces, nearly always exist to make sales or gain clicks for advertising. This is not nuclear physics, it is simple economics—get people interested in reading something and make money. Those headlines about the death of reading serve to inspire emotion, to make them think no one reads anymore, that book sales are dead in the water and I, for one, am glad I don’t really see many of those headlines. Before I left Facebook and Instagram, I had barely used either for months, but I do recall seeing those quotes featuring Le Guin’s words begin to appear with regularity, echoing a reaction to the changes in the world order, the rise of what Carole Cadwalladr calls the Broligarchy, the rise of techno-feudalism or techno-authoritarianism.Here, I am touching briefly on this subject. To me, I believe it is far more important to discuss how we can evade despair, how we can reconnect with the world—and with ourselves—in a healthy fashion, one which can serve as a foundation for all you do and, by extension, all the interactions you then make with the world. Do not try to save the planet or fight the largest monster you can find, that is far too abstract and, honestly, impossible. Instead, start small. Start with yourself and grow from there.Hope is Not a Swift, Linear ProcessMy absence from the internet was at first accidental, I drew away to do other things then, once I realised this was the case, I decided a few more weeks of this absence, an easing into the year, made a lot of sense. Of course, world events shout loud and continuous and, even with that avoidance of most of the internet, things still seep through, pecking, baying for attention, trying to smother joy and corral hope. And that easing into the year continued, long into summer.Hope, rather like enlightenment, is not something we can achieve overnight. It requires extensive work, questioning, and listening to the answers. It needs time and it needs effort—and it needs a diet which feeds it wisely.Last year, before I stopped writing for that time, I did the opposite. I pushed and pushed, following paths which were, quite frankly, a vast waste of my time and mental energy. I tried to squeeze words out into different places, tried to force things, rather than let them flow. That did not serve me well, only hastening and entrenching a period of what was essentially neurodivergent burnout.When you are carving wood, you don’t keep using the blade once it begins to dull. You don’t chop firewood with a blunt axe. Our minds are the same, they cannot be pushed and forced without sharpening. An athlete does not keep training twelve hours a day—they rest, they recover.When I carve wood, I stop and strop regularly—this way, I don’t need to actually use my Japanese waterstones as often or, when I do, as intensively. The same with my axe (okay, technically, axes, knives, plural). Honing a blade, honing a mind, keeping it at optimum working order is how we can keep going, how we can keep working on ourselves and our own hopes which can then spread out to infect others.We do not intentionally drag a blade across a rusty nail, or hack at a rock, so why are so many of us doing this with our minds? Step away from doom scrolling the news. It will keep doing its thing whether you spend hours a day reading or watching or listening, or not. (And, trust me, you’ll still know ‘what is happening’.)Learn something new. Maybe you’ve always loved card tricks? Why not have a look at a book or some YouTube videos on this?Pick up something old. Hone that skill further. Perhaps you used to enjoy sketching with a pencil, but you’ve not done it in years? Why not start again?Read or listen to the words of others, and let them sink in. Maybe keep favourite quotes in a commonplace book (link by way of Barrie at Feasts and Fables). Revisit those words, consider what they mean, to you, to the writer, to others. Maybe start with Ursula K. Le Guin.Stop watching the car accident in front of you quite so intently. People are going to get hurt, whether you watch or not. Instead, it is better to consider how you will help them—it is hard to administer first aid if you are also injured. Your brain, your mind, needs to recover and, for that, it needs space and time, away from the horror.Get outside. Or open a window. A couple of years ago, in a previously paid-subscriber-only post (I’ve now lifted that paywall), entitled ‘How to Be a Naturalist’, I wrote:When we were small, our world grew in every increasing circles. I would suggest that, to begin with, any exploration of nature and, especially, nature in connection with how we could harmoniously use and utilise it, begins with a small circle.How small depends on you.Perhaps you cannot get out much, but have a garden. That’s enough.Or you walk your dog for a couple of hours a day. That’s also enough.Or you cannot leave your home at all, but you can see out of a window. That can also be enough.I still believe that. It doesn’t matter where you live, you will find nature. You just need to look for it, allow it back into your life and, when you find it, ask questions about all you see, seek out answers, consider problems and solutions.It has taken me some months to get back to a place where I feel confident in sharing my words once more, in a fashion where I feel I can actually help others. With glorious hindsight, that was time well spent even if, as I passed through it, all felt slowed in thick, trapping honey, sticking me in place.Now, however, I feel my words have recharged—they have been fed that special diet of nature and joy, gifted the flow of the work of others, slumbered, dreaming through the darkness, to pull towards the light once more.There is an urgency to these words now, something which I have not really felt before. I was going to write ‘for a long time’ but, honestly, I am unsure whether I’ve ever felt this way before. It is an odd sensation. Passing through a sun-bleached door in a rugged, crumbling wall, out beyond the fallow ground, I am once more surrounded by a rich, secret garden, or perhaps an ancient woodland, untouched and untidied by our human hands. I want to protect as much of the nature as I can; I want to build on the foundations I have laid, both here and elsewhere, and I want to strengthen my walls, in order to offer safety and aid for others when they need it.A Change in HopeWhen I shared my letter earlier in 2025, Make Good Soul, I demonstrated how we can all make a living document, a list of ideas by which we can help ourselves be the best version possible, all the while helping others and, crucially, nature. Finding hope underlies a vast proportion of this process. This year, I have looked, long and hard, at my own consideration of hope, and what I hope for has changed. Two and a half years ago, I wrote that I was not on The Dark Mountain, but somewhere in the foothills. Now, however, I am certainly there. I stared again, long into the darkness, and this time the darkness did not so much stare back, as growl, showing teeth.I do not see our current progress, progress, progress, profit-first way of life as viable.I believe ‘the west’ will keep crumbling. I believe our climate crisis will only keep getting worse, likewise, cascading into a future which could well be a nightmare. Food crises, pandemics, war, and extreme weather. I also believe those governments I mentioned know this all too well and, to be fair to some of them, are stuck between the proverbial rock and a hard place. Some are trying to do a better job than others, who think it better to beat the drums of war, and much of the distinction depends on where their funding comes from. Even if some nations follow the right path, those that do not will ruin the party for everyone else. In my view, there is simply no stopping this.So, faced with this, what is my hope?I shall talk more about hope in the coming months, as I always do but, for now, it is a question of altered scale. Planning a garden is a good metaphor for this—much is experimentation, hard work and, increasingly, as the weather becomes harder and harder to forecast, luck. My hope is a local thing, but crucially, local for us all. We need to look to our neighbours, whether human, plant, or animal, and we need to urgently make preparations for the ‘what ifs’. This does not mean hoarding toilet paper, canned food, or guns and ammunition, as some would have you believe, instead the key lies with community, with knowledge, with perseverance, and with the hope that keeping these aspects fed with all they need can see us and our children through. My hope is that I still have time to make enough money to enable certain plans to come to fruition, working through all those drafts and notes (whilst ensuring my work remains art and not just a market commodity, a complicated tightrope involving telling truths within words made of lies), all the while creating joy for Ailsa, interacting with nature as often as I possibly can, building a strong family unit and wider community and, in general, not allowing that darkness to extinguish the light. I can see alternative ways to live. I can see through the fear, and much of that is thanks to taking a break, pausing, and slowly resetting. And, if I do not have time to make that money, then at least I already possess certain skills which might prove useful in the future.Hope is not an overnight success. Hope is often not success at all. I’ll wrap up this post with a final brief quote attributed to Ursula K. Le Guin, one which, as is often the case with internet-isms, has no attribution and, although I tried, I cannot find where she may have written it. Still, though, it is worth sharing, because I agree with the words, more than ever:Hope is a slow business.This post is something of an experiment. By not sending it out to my subscriber list, I suspect not many people will read, comment upon, or share it. However, I am more than willing to be proven wrong!How are you coping with the rapid and devastating changes we are witnessing across the natural and political spectrums? Any advice as to how to cope in the face of this? How do you spread your own hope, and how do you maintain it?As ever, many thanks for reading. I honestly love sharing words here, and have missed that greatly. Soon, there will be many more new words to join these, along with perhaps resharing others I crafted years ago.At the time of writing, September 2025, I am in the process of revitalising my Substack home page, a work which goes hand-in-hand with creating my forthcoming personal and professional website. There will probably (definitely) be some mistakes, so please bear with me.If you are not subscribed, please do sign up so as to not miss a thing. If you can afford it, a paid subscription really makes a huge difference. Thank you for reading.If you find value in these words and wish to support me financially, but do not want to take out a subscription, you can send a one-off tip via this button:And, finally, thank you, if you read or listened to this monster of a post. I truly appreciate that. Get full access to The Crow's Nest at alexandermcrow.substack.com/subscribe