In 2000 I started earning my own money for the first time. Through some obscure connection of a family friend I landed a plum job as a porter at Bournemouth’s Durley Hall, a shit-to-middling seaside hotel where wedding receptions were hosted every Saturday and I nearly lost a finger.
Despite a life of relative contentment I am not a restful man. In my mind doubt and pessimism reign, a perpetual fury of this and that, seldom at ease. The Isle of Bute – whether I’m there in body or spirit – has always been my sanctuary.