Alec had a rock tumbler and I really wanted one too. It looked like alchemy to me. Until I discovered he had to nurse it for days and the rocks had to be special to begin with. “You have to order them from a catalogue,” he preached. “You can’t just use gravel from the driveway.” So I looked for sea glass instead. Revolving darkly for a hundred years, nobody knew it, until one burnished day I kicked it into light on Tentsmuir beach. I picked it up, held it in my pocket, and dreamed – of mutiny, typhoons, shipwrecks and grog.


‘Treasures’ at the Scottish Book Trust



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