When I'm referring to the "Angus Coast", I refer to a series of closely-related locations, that nonetheless feature disparate varieties of agate, some perhaps relating to distinct sections of the Old Red Sandstone conglomerates, others perhaps relating to different layers of the andesite being uncovered and eroded at different times, and still more perhaps relating to substantial deposits of glacial till slowly eroding from the green fields above the sea.

 

However, one small area was where it all began, and it was to this location that I initially latched,  utterly upon my own volition, with no real basis for my expectations, other than a very unfettered faith in my own intuition. It was only later I realised that more productive locations existed only a short distance further north. Although, as time has marched on, it has become evident that, while agates exist in more limited quantities at this aforementioned locale, the quality of these specimens is equal to that encountered northwards, and examples collected there may even exceed those locations in terms of diversity.

 

It was during a sultry, buzzing August evening, still and stifling indoors or wheeling behind your burning dashboard, that I decided to visit this mysterious place, having previously seen it from some distance, and owing to the seemingly vast expanses of sunbleached shingle, made feverish note. I had tried the previous evening, but being already footsore and my mind closely-worn, had not been able to quite find my bearings. I had deferred to well-loved Usan. This night however, with the clamouring shadows nibbling the brambles, and the tide toiling noisily behind, I was determined to be successful.

 

The way down to the shore was highly exposed, and relentlessly steep, following a muddy path down a grassy gully. This being late summer, I was also presently buried in sharp and poisonous foliage. I took the descent very slowly, and while the prospect of ascending the same way filled me with dread, my excitement prodded me along. My unwavering conviction seems curious to me now, knowing that the rewards here were so paltry early on, and only became considerable in the foreign years beyond. Perhaps it was that I simply wished to be something of the sandstone's brood, down close to that green and lively sea. That landscape drew me on, and became a necessity to life; an esteemed place, part of my dreamlife and both a lure and salve to my soul.

 

But I digress. 

 

Once I had carefully laid foot on the grey, bindweed-knotted shingle, and wandered awhile taking-in what remained of the warmth of the sun, I could not find solace in my searching. I was not comfortable with returning via my entrance, and could see no alternative. 

 

As far as I was aware at that time, there was no way out of that area, other than the one I had recently used. In addition, I was also unsure if the rising tide might block my return, as the bottom of the climb was among sandstone outcrops, and not the shingle of the beach further north. This caused me great fear, however honestly, many things do!

 

There was a craggy outcrop obscuring my view to the north, and I had become profoundly aware of the dying light. I lingered only as long as I could bear this internal drama, anxiety repeatedly forcing my head up to scan the inaccessible horizon. I managed a few small examples of heavily waterworn agate, and towards the aforementioned outcrop, a more strongly coloured sardonyx. Between there had been a larger pale blue nodule, that to this day I have left uncut. 

 

This was as much heightened emotion as I could stand for that day, and imagining trying to ascend that imposing gully in the dusk brought a chokehold to my diaphragm and a bad egg to my belly. I turned tail. The reverie of adrenaline's flight bearing me quickly to a green-gold heaven of convolvulus and foxglove in a mere prickling of moments. My forehead wet and peppered with rough grains of red soil, and the small of my back glued to my t-shirt. I recovered my breath and soon began to follow the silver coils of barbed wire back through the tranquil twilight.

 

As summer became early autumn, I continued to explore and familiarise myself with the intricacies of that location, only stopping with the looming winter darknesses. I would go once or twice during bad weather that autumn, knowing that being there in such circumstances would increase my chances of success. It was exhausting, but by then I had discovered easier points of access to the north, and again seemingly following old paths. In bad weather, the plumb grassy gully, would be a suicidal proposition. The following April, I would again delve further north and uncover productive areas as yet unknown to me.

 

That all said and done, here, cosy in May 2025, far from those lofty dark red fields, and that moon that seems pierced through, I do not know that I know that place. The sea brings it closer in my mind to that void I recognise as also being part of that which lies between sleeping and waking. It's a weird place, and its one that is continually draining. I put my all into my collecting, and perhaps that is unwise. Perhaps we should always focus on hearth and home, and the digital paycheck flaming through the pitch ether. Or perhaps again, take that rough hand of sandstone, and hasten back to the stone and spume white lips of the sea.