For a precious time, we were inseparable.
Our hair grew as the months went by, full of dreams and hope.
Pale moonlight would filter through those dusty velvet curtains, as we listened reverentially to Dark Star, while outside, Edinburgh awaited it’s damp nocturnal embrace.
Sometimes I’d squeeze some notes from the upright piano, deliciously out of tune, while you strummed magic chords from that battered guitar.
And if John or Jim were there, they’d bang on something, anything, to round out the melodies that wandered, as they wished, between raga and blues.
Then somewhere between three and four in the morning, hunger would overtake us, and we’d pay a visit to the bakery down the road and cajole them to part with a few warm rolls, fresh from the oven.
Those were the best of times.
Rest in Peace.
I left home in the late sixties to seek adventure in Scotland where I met some amazing people. We had extraordinary experiences together that shaped a lot more than our tastes in music.