Hello,
My friend.
Welcome to your sleep story.
My name is Stephen Dalton.
I'm an Irish storyteller.
And it's my great privilege.
To be the voice that you listen to as you go to sleep tonight.
One of you recently commented,
That you were listening to my sleep stories.
While lying in a tent.
In the Scottish Highlands.
And then another person suggested,
I make a sleep story inspired by the comment.
And so here it is.
Tonight you will sleep in a tent by a lake in Scotland.
As it rains above you.
And you will listen to a podcast all about the Scottish lakes.
Or Lux,
As they are now known.
One small thing,
If you'd like to support my work,
You can do so on Patreon.
The link is below this video.
Okay,
Let's do the relaxation session now,
Which will take a few minutes before tonight's sleep story.
I'm going to count down from ten to one,
And as I do,
Allow yourself to let go.
More and more.
Feel the support of the bed beneath you.
Of the floor.
Whatever surface you lie on tonight.
And beneath all of that.
Feel the support.
Of the earth.
That deep Grounding support.
That constant support.
That unchanging.
Reassuring support.
That comes from our home.
The earth.
And as you become aware of it See if you can.
.
.
Release.
A little more.
Let go a little more Feel into your body now.
Where are you still holding?
Where do you feel tension?
Perhaps.
.
.
You feel pain.
Maybe it's in your toes.
With your feet Maybe it's in your lower legs Maybe your thighs.
Or your belly.
Maybe you're holding in your chest.
Or maybe you're like me.
And you hold too much tension in your hands.
Or your face.
And as you lie here now.
And as you become aware of this tension or holding on.
Notice the release that comes.
With awareness.
Just let go now.
You are safe.
Allow my voice.
Be a friend tonight.
To be a gentle guy.
Know that my voice will only ever take you.
To safe places.
See if you can find the peace in that fact.
See if you can find the truss.
See if you can notice.
That when we feel safe we can become curious.
And we.
.
.
Can feel a little light of joy.
Within our hearts.
As we move closer and closer to sleep.
Seven.
The day.
Is done.
Whatever has been.
That's been And whatever will be,
Will be Whatever thoughts arrive with you tonight.
Just.
.
.
Notice them for what they are.
So much.
A part of being human.
But not to you.
You are not your thoughts.
You don't have to follow them.
They don't have to lead your emotions.
And so if and when they come.
And they will.
Let them float away now.
Like leaves on a moonlit river.
Were clouds passing by.
Through a starlit sky Six.
This is your moment.
This is your time.
Allow that fact.
To enable you to settle in now.
To feel cozy now.
Feel the warmth.
And joy.
Of the ability to just lie here.
And hear a cosy story.
Peace lives within you.
It is always there.
It is just.
.
.
Waiting to be found.
Waiting to be felt.
And so see if you can find that peace within you tonight.
Perhaps allow a little gratitude now.
Gratitude for the simple things.
The shelter you have tonight.
Breath in your body.
Begin to engage with your imagination now.
Begin to see.
Beautiful Scottish love On a rainy day.
Endure 10.
Cosily just beside it.
You are in a beautiful place,
Far away.
From all that you know.
Checking in with your buddy one more time now.
Your body has worked hard for you today.
It's time to give it rest.
And one completely letting go now as I tell you Tonight's sleep story.
The rain has been falling for most of the afternoon.
It hasn't let up.
Not one.
It's the kind of rain that isn't in a hurry.
The kind that just.
.
.
Stays.
You're walking slowly now.
Taking your time.
Your boots pressing softly.
Into the damp mass.
The path is easy.
The worn line through the trees.
That leads you back to the tent.
You can see it ahead.
Where the trees open slightly.
And the sky hangs low.
A gentle grey.
With no shapes or sharpness.
Rain.
Steady and constant.
You zip open the outer flap and tuck your head inside.
The warmth is immediate.
Not the kind that comes from me,
Exactly.
But from being out of the weather.
The inside of the tent is dry.
Dimmed.
And exactly as he left it.
There's the sleeping bag.
Still a little crumpled from this morning.
A small lantern.
Switched off for now.
Your backpack is tucked in the corner.
And beside it.
The tin mug you used earlier.
Clean.
What do you say?
You kneel and close the flap behind you.
Sealing out the wind.
The sound of the rain falls atop the tent.
You sit back.
Cross-legged And let your hands rest in your lap.
There's nothing you need to do now.
You're already here.
The air inside the tent Smells faintly of canvas and pine.
And something else too.
Something warm and familiar.
This must be your jumper Where the old wool blanket folded near your feet Outside.
The lock is just a few metres away.
Though you can't see it through the fabric.
You can picture it clearly though.
Die.
And moving.
Patient.
It's not going anywhere.
Neither are you.
You lie back slowly Easing down onto the mat.
Your shoulders settle first.
Then you're back.
That new head.
The sound of the rain hasn't changed.
But your body hears it differently now.
It's not on you anymore.
It's not on your coats or your shoulders.
It's just.
.
.
Out there Endure.
In here.
The tent holds steady with every drop.
It's good canvas.
Thick Not too quiet.
You've trusted it before.
It's never let you down.
You close your eyes for a moment.
And let the rain do what it wants.
You don't need to pay attention.
It's always the same And that's part of the comfort.
Everything that matters is already here.
Your body is dry.
Your hands are warm.
The lock is still.
The wind is distant.
There is nowhere you need to be.
And nothing you've forgotten.
You are in love.
To rest now.
After some time.
You reach for your phone.
Not to contact anyone.
It's just beside you.
Tucked between the blanket and the edge of the sleeping mat.
He switches on without thinking.
And you scroll for a moment until you find the podcast that you want to listen to.
You press play.
The voice begins immediately.
A Scottish voice.
The kind of voice that doesn't feel like it's trying to entertain you.
Just inform you gently.
You're listening to Scotland Outdoors.
The guide to the law.
In this episode.
.
.
We're talking about locks.
Not monsters.
Not mysteries.
Water.
Fresh water to be precise.
There are over 30,
000 locks in Scotland Some are large and well known.
Like Locke Lohmann.
Topness.
Look,
Tay.
Others are so small they don't even appear on maps.
The word love.
Comes from the Gaelic,
Of course.
But its roots go back much further.
It simply means.
.
.
Lake.
Or Sea Inlet.
The first thing to understand.
Is that locks are not always lakes in the way most people think of them.
Some are long and narrow.
Like fingers of water stretching between hills others around.
Shallow.
Calm.
Some are tidal and open to the sea.
Some are hidden.
So well in the Highlands.
That even now in the 21st century.
There are people who live nearby.
We've never visited them.
Every look is different.
But they all have one thing in common.
They were formed by ice.
During the last day's age,
Leashers carved deep grooves into the landscape.
Of what is now Scotland.
These glaciers move.
Slowly.
Painfully slowly.
Over thousands of years.
As they move They gouged out valleys and hollows.
When the ice eventually melted Those hollows filled with water.
That's what a lock is.
A glacier's memory.
Locke Moorer,
For example.
Is the deepest body of fresh water in the British Isles.
Over one thousand feet deep in places.
Its waters are cooled.
Clear.
And almost entirely still.
Especially in winter.
Some lochs,
Like Loch Lomond,
Are vast.
Stretching for more than twenty miles.
Others are small.
Only a few hundred meters across.
Some are fringed with force.
Others lie out in the open.
Surrounded by nothing but moorland and rock Many locks have no obvious outlet They don't appear to flow anywhere.
Rain falls into them.
Water seeps out slowly through underground rock Or evaporates.
They are self-contained.
They keep their water And their secrets.
To themselves.
The clarity of the water in a log depends on its geology.
If the surrounding rock is granite The water tends to be clear But not very rich in life If the land is peace The lock is darker like tea.
Because of the tannins in the soil.
That colour doesn't mean it's dirty.
In fact.
Many dark colored locks.
Are some of the cleanest in the country.
If you've ever swum in a log,
You'll lose a feeling.
Good.
Quiet.
Even the shallow ones feel different to lakes elsewhere There's a stillness in Scottish lore.
The patient.
And perhaps that's what people feel when they visit them.
Not danger.
But deep peace.
If you were to walk the lengths of Scotland from the far north to the lowlands.
You'd cross hundreds of locks without even meaning to Some knew to recognize by name.
Others you wouldn't.
Most people don't realise just how many bodies of water lie between the hills.
Lok Shio,
For example.
Runs for nearly 20 miles Stretching between two villages on either end It's long and narrow.
Bordered by steep hills that turn orange in autumn.
There's no road that follows its full length.
No path that makes it easy.
If you want to see the whole thing.
You need time.
And legs.
Luck or is another.
The longest freshwater lock in Scotland.
It curves like a bent arm through the argyle countryside You can still see the ruins of an old castle on its northern end.
Raising up on a rocky outcrop reflected in the water on calm days.
Some looks are man-made created by damning rivers in the early twentieth century.
To produce hydroelectric power.
Lock sloy lock tumble Others were left untouched.
Their shorelines still rough and natural.
With moss and bracken right up to the edge Around many locks You'll find just a few cottages.
Maybe a single track road.
Sometimes nothing at all.
No phone signal.
No shops.
Just a still piece of water.
And a few old fence posts.
Leaning into the grass.
But there's life too You'll see deer coming down in the mornings.
Potters,
If you're quiet.
Mages unfortunately But only in the warmer months,
And never when the winds up.
Most locks are not for swimming though some people try.
The water stays cold all year round Not cold in the way a tap runs cold.
But cooled in a way that gets into your chest your arms your breath It's not unsafe if you're careful But it's not like swimming in a pool The locks don't warm up.
They don't care whether you're in them or not.
They're older than that.
Older than roads or villages.
Or language.
Just long fingers of water in a carved out land.
In winter,
Many locks freeze at the edges.
Not all the way across,
At least not anymore But enough that the reeds turn white.
And the surface becomes quiet in a new way.
Not so.
Not invading But still.
.
.
And even when you can't see a lock you can usually feel when one is nearby The air changes slightly The ground holds more moisture.
There's a hush that settles in.
A kind of natural silence that asks you to lower your voice.
Without knowing why.
People have lived by these waters for thousands of years.
Built gran oaks.
Wooden dwellings on stilts Out in the middle of the lot.
The remains of them still sit in the water.
Their shapes barely visible under moss and rot.
No one talks about them much.
But they're there Just part of the quiet.
And every lock has its own way of holding the reins.
Some ripple.
Some don't Some gather mist that clings low and never seems to rise.
And some stay dark.
All the way through the day.
But whatever kind it is.
The lark will let you sit beside it.
Without asking anything of you.
It won't judge the time you've wasted.
Or the things you've forgotten.
It'll just.
.
.
Be there.
The same way it's always been.
Then you let the podcast fade out.
And set the phone aside The tent is quiet again.
Except for the rain.
You reach into the little side pocket of your backpack And take out your notebook.
Adrenaline.
It's a small one.
Plain brown cover.
Corners slightly bent.
He bought it without much thought.
Just in case.
And now.
Without needing to force anything.
You've opened it.
You sit up slightly.
Leaning on one elbow.
And rest the notebook on your knee.
It's starting to get dark.
So you turn on your little lantern You write the date.
And nothing for a while.
Eventually.
The pen moves again.
We write something simple A few words about the Lord.
The rain.
The thought you had earlier.
But how long it's been since you last stopped?
Properly.
Not on a weekend.
Now it's on holiday.
But.
.
.
Really.
.
.
Stuff.
You realize you can't remember.
You don't write that part.
You just let the pen rest again.
You sit like that for a while.
And without knowing exactly when.
You begin to write again.
This time more slowly.
Not about what's been going on in your life.
Not about anyone else.
Just about the quiet feeling you've had.
Since arriving here.
A kind of soft emptiness.
Not hollow.
Just open As if the things you've been carrying Of nothing to hold on to out here.
You write a line that surprises you.
Nothing dramatic.
Just.
.
.
True.
You look at it.
Then close the notebook.
That's enough.
You feel no need to go further.
The words are there now.
And the rest.
And stay in the silence.
You set the notebook aside.
Not neatly.
Just enough so it won't be in the way.
Then you lie back again Easing into the sleeping bag pulling it up a little higher.
Yeah.
Finds the right place.
And the bundled jumper you're using as a pillow You exhale slowly.
Not for any reason.
Just because it feels good to do that now.
It's a different kind of breath than earlier.
One with nothing waiting on the other side.
The rain is still falling.
A steady rhythm.
With no sign of stopping.
It doesn't need to.
There's no storm.
No urgency.
Just a continuous soft percussion on the canvas above you.
It keeps the world at a distance.
Not shut out.
Just softened.
There's a kind of shelter that comes.
When you know the rain isn't going anywhere.
You don't need it to stop.
Your body has already started to sink.
You notice it on your shoulders first.
That slight drop.
The way the muscles begin to give in your legs too not limp.
Not heavy.
Just uninterested in doing anything more tonight.
Even your hands have stopped trying to hold on to anything.
They rest.
Where they are.
Still and easy.
Outside.
The luck is completely still.
You know that without needing to check.
There's something about the way.
This kind of night.
Holds itself together.
No win No sudden shift.
Just the shape of water the presence of hills.
The quiet agreement between land and sky.
That there's nothing to do.
But sleep.
And here in the tent.
There's nothing left to carry.
Not so much.
Not plans.
Not even the need to sleep.
This will happen on its own.
You don't need to coax it.
You don't even need to notice when it begins.
Just lie here.
And let the night going.
