Nick Point

Something about a point of inflection always mesmerises me. A physical metaphor for the way that we experience our lives. The way that calm, gently flowing water changes in an instant into turbulent confusion. And there is no feedback, no preparation, no communication from the accelerating chaos downstream to the placid complacence above: "prepare yourself, your future is coming, change is upon you, nothing can be done"

A day of society; a day of stories. A communal walk, a shared cake, a flask of tea, a pause for thought. Led into a broad glen by someone with deep knowledge of the stories that it knows. From personal history, from prolonged study, from hearing its voice in the sound of its names and its lost places, obliterated by unrestrained power. An invitation to see its past in its slopes and its trees (present and absent) and its stones . In conclusion, a story from its time of heroes and a song of lament, addressed to the hills, for all that is lost, beautifully sung in the Gaelic tongue that seems designed for such regret. Like a Lakota chief, singing to the plains of long-gone buffalo and campfires

And the rest of us, rambling home in the fading light and falling rain, encouraged to share our own stories of lives uprooted or redirected. The unforeseen point of inflection that changed us into what we are and brought us to this place at this moment in our story