On the very East edge of Aberdeen there’s a blunt borderline. It lays flat, often roars, and you cannot pass it on foot. Standing at its edge you can feel it’s breath whisper through your bones; wind down the flues. A deep cauldron of black gold, its cold stomach is ingrained in the movements of the city; in our buildings and infrastructure and on the salty tongues of the people who walk its silver streets. Above them the gulls are circling, whilst along the shoreline sandpipers scuttle quickly in small tweeting flocks, their needle-like beaks pecking deep into the wet sands. On the fringes of the golf courses marram grass grows, and in-between it small tawny rabbits and weasels flit and burrow hastily, anticipating rain. There is much life to be seen. It is small and simple but if we take time to study it we can feel it’s tender beauty, so much greater and kinder than anything else in the city. The river Don rises in the Grampians and then carries its waters Eastwards through Aberdeenshire to meet the North Sea here: Donmouth. It’s a long and complex journey and a beautiful power to contemplate.