So what's this blog about?

Perhaps I should start by telling you what this blog is not. Despite its title, it's not any kind of online SatNav. My sense of direction is non-existent. Neither does it have anything to do with the State of Israel or organised excursions to the Holy Land.

It does however take inspiration from the biblical Promised Land, the land 'flowing with milk and honey.' (The honey I'm okay with; the milk would have to be soya.) I've been a Christian for forty one years, albeit one who shouted at the radio this morning when I heard the news item about planned legislation allowing gay couples to get married in church. Apparently the Anglican church plans to keep its doors firmly shut against such enlightenment. Once I've finished this blog post, I'm planning a letter to the Archbishop of Canterbury. 'Dear Rowan, how do you square homophobia with the inclusive love of Christ?....something along those lines.

But stay with me. This blog isn't going to be a non-stop tirade about what's wrong with the established church - although that might crop up from time to time. Rather, I want to share the week in, week out flavour of what it's like to live half the year in a beautiful town called Lectoure in South West France and the other half in the equally beautiful city of Edinburgh, the place where I got married, raised three amazing sons and which still takes my breath away when I turn into Princes Street and see the castle silhouetted high up on its volcanic crag. Which place is my physical promised land? Probably both and neither, because whenever I'm in one of them, I'm homesick for the other.

The hide & seek promised land

I also plan to weave in anecdotes about my journey to my spiritual promised land, a journey in which I'm often baffled, perplexed and asking 'which way?', but one that I persevere with. Lectoure is an ancient town, perched high up on a hill, visible from miles around. From the terrace of our house on the town's stone ramparts, we have a jaw-dropping view of the surrounding countryside. Along the horizon stretches the jagged, distant outline of the Pyrenees. For a good percentage of the time, you wouldn't know that mountain range was there. It's invisible, cloaked by cloud. But then, for no apparent reason, it appears, sometimes so clearly defined you can see each snow-capped peak and steep, precipitous gully glistening in the sun.
That's why I doggedly keep going to my spiritual promised land - I know it's out there, even when I have to take that on trust.

Does seeking a promised land ruin your life?

My day job is writing and like many writers, I'm also persevering with the often weary journey of securing an agent and getting published. It's a promised land that unlike, the Pyrenees, may be nothing more than a mirage, shimmering on the horizon of all my hopes and dreams. I love to write, can't imagine the euphoria of someone actually paying me to do it, but if that never happens, have I wasted a good chunk of my life? Can the vision of the promised land keep you from enjoying the more mundane landscape that surrounds you every day?

What do you think?