I'll have what he's having

Right now I'm lodged in a peat bog of writer's block, so much so that I've been sitting staring at this white virtual sheet of paper with a line of drool from lip to neck for circa half an hour. Though it might not be so much a case of writer's block as writer's burnout, since I've been hitting the query trail like it's going out of style for the last week and a half (it's my bookshelf's fault, for making me jealous). 

Keeping butt in chair in front of the computer during an attack of writer's burnout is futile; that stone will not bleed, no matter how hard you squeeze it. I like to get up, walk around, do something that doesn't involve cranking out half-hearted words just for the sake of it. Let's face it: your effort will be half-assed, so your work will too.

Contrary to common advice, I prefer to really do something to shake off my burnout, because walking isn't enough. It encourages too much abstract thought, which inevitably ends in my lamenting my lack of motivation and feeling like an inadequate layabout. Recently a low spell took me further afield than your usual Dundee haunt - to the hole-in-the-wall Arts and Antiques Centre in Perth (or rather, by Perth; it's not really "in" anywhere but just around the general vicinity).

I'm not a huge fan of furniture, or indeed anything that can't fit in a cardboard box, but I allowed myself to be dragged (which almost always works out for the better, so my advice is to never resist dragging, especially when it's courtesy of the zaniest of your loved ones). 

So the gist is that the Antiques and Arts Centre is like a department store for things previously loved: alcoves are set up per vendor, and around you may waft, tracking small paths cleared between what looks to the naked eye to be dusty crap but is in fact pure treasure, like books from the 1800s and real mink that someone probably died in, tossed down on a forties silk bedspread like the owner's just popped out for a cigarette and is due back in a tick. In that respect, maybe it's creepy, but I kind of like creepy. 

Thumb through censuses, medical journals from the 1920s, gently used German ammunition boxes (one of which I bought) and 90's first editions of Harry Potter (which aren't antiques, because if they are, then I'm an antique, heaven forbid). Well-trod rugs, china sconces, a silk smoking jacket, a writing desk made entirely out of ivory. Look no further for your problematic conversation pieces!

You can almost smell the clutter through the screen.

The best thing about it is that none of this is "vintage"; it's genuine. It's not etsy, charging £200 for a plastic straw with googly eyes hot-glued on to it ("it's a testament to youthful resistance against the Wall Street corporate machine and its systematic usurping of the Earth's dwindling resources"). Antiquing is an almost spiritual experience, to be another set of hands in a long line, touching something that housed tank shells or that some aristocrat creep with a hamster moustache wore while he smoked a Cuban cigar in the 50's. Like I said, it's creepy, but creepy is good. Creepy exists on a spectrum, from The Hills Have Eyes to the dude on the subway who licks your neck to Sharon Needles. It's the Sharon Needles neighbourhood that antiques culture rests in, so relax. This is all good fun. And if an audience boos you off stage, that is simply applause from ghosts.

(Not going to lie, I expected some sort of paranormal manifestation from the ammunitions box I bought. I was not indulged as such.) 

Typewriters are probably the reason for life expectancies being shorter in the early 20th century.

Like I said, I'm not a screaming fan of furniture. It's not quite portable enough for me. But I'm partial to what you might call "trinkets": little things, little pleasantries, smoking pipes or compacts or a quill and ink. The things I keep must tell me a story, be it about myself, or about someone who came well before me, and bequeathed her china set and spooky dog paintings to no one when she died. 

You'd think that, with my surrounding myself with all of these stories, I'd be able to write one without catching fire. Sadly, my story is this: I'm human. 

This game is so hard because I always forget about Suriname

I'm not sure if beaches are the first thing that leaps to mind upon mention of Scotland, probably because tourism has boosted the visibility of inland attractions: Edinburgh Castle and the Wallace Monument, cobbled streets and window boxes and swords. Tearooms are big, and so are forts, and Hadrian's Wall. But beaches? No.

And it's a shame. Scotland's beaches rock. They're not white sand and you can't lie on them in a string bikini, but shit if they're not beautiful. I greatly enjoyed lakeside beaches in Canada for their swimmability (is that a word?), their lack of jellyfish, and their fresh water, but it's a different experience to stand at the cusp of this little island and taste that stiff salt in the air. It's different to look across the water, perhaps across the River Tay, and see the green humps of Fife's hills across the way. Scotland's beaches aren't the same as beaches in North America; they're not better or worse, but they're different, and it's a good sort of different.

And the water's blue as hell.

We took our posse of dogs to Broughty Ferry beach, which runs along the edge of the River Tay, juxtaposed with the east-Scottish city of Dundee. They had a blast. It's a quiet beachfront, and nobody really heeds the 'no dogs' rule - you'll meet plenty of dog walkers along the way, all of them friendly, as Dundee people tend to be. Most of all, it's a sweet place to watch a sunset.

Take a walk, and a sunset.

That's another thing about Dundee: it's the sunniest city in Scotland. Even when it's cool, the sun peeks out. Living in Canada, the evenings stayed light until about 9 p.m.; here, dark doesn't fall until after ten. Long evenings are Scotland's boasting point, because while the summers might be considerably cooler, the days stretch out gloriously.

HYOH. But take a break from cobbles and castles, and head to the beach if you can. It's worth it.

I thought about it but then I realized they were all sleeping so

I feel like there's sort of a strange stigma surrounding "the beaten path" and I kind of have a problem with it. 

A few months ago I was trawling for info on the PCT (thank Cheryl Strayed for my odd fixation with it) and I stumbled upon the acronym: HYOH. It means, "Hike Your Own Hike". I think this perfectly sums up the problem with the 'beaten path' and the disdain that seems to surround it. 

I've been on the beaten path. I've been off it, too. I wasn't disappointed by either. 

Beaten path? This monster paved that path.

But it all boils down to this: are you hiking your own hike? Are you walking your own trail? I'm not going to put a price or a label on the joy I felt when I watched the hilarious, garish light show of le Tour Eiffel or when I stood at the peak of the white caterthun in Brechin. A piece of modern art that looks like scaffolding has no more or less right to exist or be loved than a Pictish fort. It is what life is: a clean-cut matter of opinion. 

There's is a path that runs neatly around Hamilton Marsh, but it's hardly a beaten one.
 

I'm not sure any path, by definition, can really be unbeaten. Wherever you go, someone's been there before. It's the problem I have with articles like this (don't hate me! I actually love Buzzfeed. Buzzfeed is my encyclopaedia, and I'm amazed I could spell encyclopaedia) that discount the travel experiences of people who walk the 'beaten path'. Buzzfeed says that "literally everyone" has been to the Great Pyramids of Giza, to which I have to reply...

And?

Does that mean that the Pyramids are now not worth seeing? Instead, they encourage travellers to visit Petra, an ancient city in Jordan. Petra is breathtaking - one of my must-sees - but can't we see both? Can't we hike our own hike without being judged by "literally everyone"?

There's a reason why the so-called "beaten path" has been treaded by so many. Because it's worth treading. The Palace of Versailles and the Marrakech Medina are worth seeing. Go to Edinburgh and Toronto and Brazil's carnival if you want to. I think those are today's key words: if you want to. Go where you want to go; do what you want to do. Travel where you want to travel. You don't deserve to be judged for wanting to see popular attractions or monuments. 

There's a reason why they're popular.