I cried the day the borders closed. Destined to visit my other home at the other end of the earth, my passports become redundant in the year of being grounded, unnecessary for an unforeseen holiday in Peterhead and Aberdeen, between lockdowns. Storms fret the port. Skies look how 2020 feels. Air salted by blethering effing and blinding of the mariners’ local, now open. A port and prison town, austerity has been this way before and unexplained wealth drives by defiantly. Lingering by hulls and tides unburdens the landlocked, home-bound, island-born. A Scottish beach ‘holiday’ restores a sense of even keel.