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Voices From The Crow's Nest

Voices From The Crow's Nest

Von: Alexander M Crow
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 Here, I share the voiceovers from my letters as a podcast, with occasional extras. I talk about being a part of nature, not apart from it, I talk about ancestral skills, or bushcraft, and I talk about our possible futures as a species living in uncertain, often dangerous times. One day, I might even narrate my fiction. All with hope, joy, and kindness.

alexandermcrow.substack.comAlexander M Crow Sozialwissenschaften Wissenschaft
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  • Witness Notes 2

    Witness Notes 2
    Jan 6 2026
    (After you have read these introductory paragraphs once, you can skip to the new/old content here. If you are listening, then the time stamp is around the two minute 45 second mark.)IntroductionThe word settled, to me, carries connotations I am keen to avoid. I have never felt settled or, perhaps, I cannot recall a time I felt settled. I do not feel settled now, writing this, and I’ve lived in the same house for three and a half years. The Crow's Nest is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.Without even discussing the obvious issues of colonisation, I just don’t feel like I could, or should, settle; better to keep my constituent parts shook up, agitated perhaps, rather than separating and stagnant.Instead, I feel as though I have been travelling for years, maybe because I have not lived in my ‘home’ nation of Scotland for eight and a half years, perhaps because I know I won’t stay here forever, or maybe because I carry that concept of home in a way which differs from many?More precisely, I still think of myself as a slow traveller, globally feral. Recently, I have been revisiting places through the photographs and words I recorded when my feet crossed their soil. This is a way of reminding myself of where I have been, not just in space and time, but in mind, too. It is a wonderful thing, to come out of a low and rediscover myself through words I crafted, through the lens of a camera, when memory has wandered in the fog for too long. Thank you, past me.When I first started sharing letters with the world in this fashion, six or more years ago, I usually began them with a vignette of where I was, a sort-of travel diary, mixed with nature observation, locking in the setting for the reader, before I spoke of other things—and, by so doing, ensuring that place fed into the whole. It was a useful device, for reader and myself both but, as these letters were sent to so few readers, and now languish archived behind a paywall, I thought it a shame not to share these snippets again.As such, I am going to share a short series of these sketches, accompanied by a photograph from that time, sent to you in date order.I shall include the above paragraphs in each of the letters in this series, but I shall also include a link at the very start, so you can skip ahead once you are familiar with the above words. If you are listening and similarly want to skip, then the timestamp you want to navigate to will be in the same place.Taken without these paragraphs, each is a short read, and I hope you enjoy them.The Alps, Isère, France. January 2020The silence of snow is thick and cushioned, the light diffused, reflected, refracted, contradictory. Twigs, branches and trunks are blanketed on one side only, crystal-white creating contrast, highlighting their twisting shapes, calling out their identity to those who know their coded winter pattern.The sky is gunmetal and thick, brown at the edges, rusting clouds silently slipping lower throughout the day, with occasional tickles of flakes tessellating where they fall.Here and there are the traces of those who have already passed, footsteps telling tales we trackers delight in—this the nursery of tracking, as with wet sand, the details are beautiful, each trail a story clearly written. We can take these and learn, understand where to look in spring or summer, how the animal moves to avoid a fallen tree, or to step over—or on—a branch. Whispers of a past, with another living thing at their end.The mountains are a place I adore. Here, in the Alps, the seasons are constantly changing, each major quarter of the year broken down into smaller bites. Winter woodland snows are a delight, something magical, always carrying a hint of Narnia.If a lamppost had appeared along the trail I followed, I would not have been surprised.FinallyIf you can afford to, there are currently two direct ways to support my work here. The first is to take out a paid subscription and, as it is the midwinter (or midsummer) season and to celebrate six years of sharing this letter, I’m offering 20% off both monthly and annual subscription plans. If you subscribe at that price, it will lock in for the rest of your subscription, for as long as you remain a subscriber. I shall be raising my subscription fees slightly in the new year, so taking advantage of this might make sense. The offer ends mid-January, 2026.The second way to support me here is to use my Kofi button/link to send a tip of any amount. If you enjoyed this letter and wish to share it with others, please do so! I love it when someone shares my work.I also love it when you comment on a piece—really, really love it. During 2025, I have not been as good at responding to comments as quickly as I would like but, seeing as my word of the year for 2026 is almost certainly going to be ‘communication’, I like to think that will soon change. Finally, many thanks...
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    5 Min.
  • Witness Notes 1

    Witness Notes 1
    Dec 30 2025
    (After you have read these introductory paragraphs once, you can skip to the new/old content here. If you are listening, then the time stamp is around the two minute 45 second mark.)IntroductionThe word settled, to me, carries connotations I am keen to avoid. I have never felt settled or, perhaps, I cannot recall a time I felt settled. I do not feel settled now, writing this, and I’ve lived in the same house for three and a half years. The Crow's Nest is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.Without even discussing the obvious issues of colonisation, I just don’t feel like I could, or should, settle; better to keep my constituent parts shook up, agitated perhaps, rather than separating and stagnant.Instead, I feel as though I have been travelling for years, maybe because I have not lived in my ‘home’ nation of Scotland for eight and a half years, perhaps because I know I won’t stay here forever, or maybe because I carry that concept of home in a way which differs from many?More precisely, I still think of myself as a slow traveller, globally feral. Recently, I have been revisiting places through the photographs and words I recorded when my feet crossed their soil. This is a way of reminding myself of where I have been, not just in space and time, but in mind, too. It is a wonderful thing, to come out of a low and rediscover myself through words I crafted, through the lens of a camera, when memory has wandered in the fog for too long. Thank you, past me.When I first started sharing letters with the world in this fashion, six or more years ago, I usually began them with a vignette of where I was, a sort-of travel diary, mixed with nature observation, locking in the setting for the reader, before I spoke of other things—and, by so doing, ensuring that place fed into the whole. It was a useful device, for reader and myself both but, as these letters were sent to so few readers, and now languish archived behind a paywall, I thought it a shame not to share these snippets again.As such, I am going to share a short series of these sketches, accompanied by a photograph from that time, sent to you in date order, beginning with the second oldest. I shall include the above paragraphs in each of the letters in this series, but I shall also include a link at the very start, so you can skip ahead once you are familiar with the above words. If you are listening and similarly want to skip, then the timestamp you want to navigate to will be in the same place.Taken without these paragraphs, each is a short read, and I hope you enjoy them.Wick, Caithness, Scotland. December 2019Here, in the town at the end of the world, where the railway and road run out of room and the sea has a beginning, the light is always magically special. This is the land of skies and seas, of wind and weather. The clouds here are a language of their own, telling stories as old as the very air itself. At this time of year, the sun barely manages to pull herself above the long line of the horizon—she is tired and needs her sleep after seemingly-endless bright summer parties when she provides enough daylight to read outside all the night through.Skeins of geese and swirls of starlings are flung into the air, decorations of constant movement, reminders that not all sleeps in the winter. Occasional hen harriers, merlin, and short-eared owls fly low, using the land as cover, the river to guide their passage. The waters of the sea themselves are a blue so subtle as to be almost silver, or perhaps grey, then they are azure for but a moment, before another wave carries them along a spectrum of cold, colours of perfect pastel clarity.This icy winter sea is, like all waters, a mystery—cloaked and ready to change at no notice at all. The storms in this corner of the world can be legendary, ripping away an entire beach and depositing it elsewhere, wrecking ships year in, year out, bringing secrets from the deep and hiding others in their place. It is good to be back in the north, good to be reminded all life is in flux, change is constant and change is good. We merely ride the wind, we do not control the steed.FinallyIf you can afford to, there are currently two direct ways to support my work here. The first is to take out a paid subscription and, as it is the midwinter (or midsummer) season and to celebrate six years of sharing this letter, I’m offering 20% off both monthly and annual subscription plans. If you subscribe at that price, it will lock in for the rest of your subscription, for as long as you remain a subscriber. I shall be raising my subscription fees slightly in the new year, so taking advantage of this might make sense. The offer ends mid-January, 2026.The second way to support me here is to use my Kofi button/link to send a tip of any amount. If you enjoyed this letter and wish to share it with others, please do so! I love it when someone shares ...
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    8 Min.
  • Some Midwinter Gifts

    Some Midwinter Gifts
    Dec 21 2025
    As I send this, it is precisely midwinter, here in the northern hemisphere at least. Summer feels a long time ago.However, despite the darkness, midwinter has always been a time of light, a time of warmth, and a time of celebration. The sunlight is about to return, as we sneakily pilfer it from our friends in the south, a few minutes here, a few minutes there, day by day, slowly—so slow they barely notice. Sorry, friends.In our little valley on the side of our mountain, direct sunlight has been blocked by the mountains and hills for weeks now. There is still daylight, of course and, when the sun does arise from behind those ridges to the east, it can still be felt, warm on the face but, for the last two weeks or so, when it disappears behind the big peak at lunchtime, it no longer appears on the other side, instead illuminating a hair-thin line of cornicing on the snow, a teasing montane tracery of potential and temptation. The snow is brighter on the other side of the mountain.This is the dark time when, to see the sun for all but an hour or so a day, I have to look to every other side of the valley but ours. To feel it would involve a long walk and, seeing as the river valley is oft wreathed in thick mist, a climb too.When I was peedie in Orkney and, later, when I was larger, in Caithness, the sunlight at midwinter carried little to no warmth. She is watery and pale, exhausted by the constant late-night parties of summer, barely capable of dragging herself above the horizon—a horizon frequently obscured by cloud and approaching weather systems, spun out across the Atlantic.I appreciate the sun, she is a gift to me. She always has been. Sunlight in a blue sky, even in midwinter, tingles through me. When the snow arrives and the sun reflects, I feel dizzy with the simple, pure joy of daylight. I do not take that for granted.You may already have seen my somewhat epic post about six years of sharing a letter, mostly on Substack? In this, I mention that I am offering a discount on both monthly and annual subscriptions, 20% off, for as long as you stay subscribed. This offer will run until mid-January—the 18th, to be precise. It is a sort-of gift but, of course, you still have to pay.Actual Free Gift (s)Therefore, I thought I’d send another gift your way—one for which you do not have to pay, not a penny.For a limited amount of time (yet to be determined, but probably until the end of January, 2026), you can read each and every chapter of each and every novelette, novella and novel I have shared here on Substack.In total, this is 140k words, more or less. For free.I shared these stories with subscribers as weekly chapters, also for free, then paywalled the stories after a time, when the next was due to be shared. As such, most of these stories have only been available to a fraction of my subscribers and followers.It being midwinter, a cosy time to curl up with a book—or six—I thought I’d offer you the chance to have a read.If you enjoy fantasy fiction and, especially, darker fantasy fiction—there are no merry singing elves here, no happy hobbits, just characters who feel real, who have real struggles (along with some very unreal struggles), and who are not trying to be heroes or kings, just live their lives as best they can, without being killed or, in some cases, eaten—then you might enjoy these tales.This is what I said about the series on my Fiction page.This is not Grimdark—there is hope here—but it is certainly on the darker end of the spectrum. And a quick glimpse at the titles might give you an inkling that there is a lot of death…I have six stories—whether novelettes, novellas, or novels—which I have crafted in this sequence, with a further pair drafted. Once these are complete, I shall be working on a longer trilogy featuring many of the characters and locations introduced in these tales. In short, consider the Tales of The Lesser Evil a very long prologue.(I do seem to enjoy slipping sneaky secrets into these letters, so here’s another—I’ve already begun work on that trilogy, just a little, but the idea is growing teeth, it is sharpening its claws and, soon, I am sure, it will start to devour me.)The fiction page I link to above also includes a brief backcover blurb for each book, with links, and each book has its own introduction and navigation page, as well as quick links to the next chapter embedded within every post.As I mention, this is a limited time offer—in 2026 I shall be releasing these books in print and digital form, something I talked about before, when I said this:Self-published books live and die by the algorithmic small gods. And the ambrosia of these gods is reviews.In that letter, I talked about how important reviews are for a writer, especially for sales. I asked if anyone would like to receive an advance reader copy of the ebook I shall be publishing next year, in exchange for leaving a review on Amazon (and no, I do not like the platform, ...
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    7 Min.
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