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  • Witness Notes 3

    Witness Notes 3
    Jan 13 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. 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.Vila Nova de Milfontes, Alentejo, Portugal. February 2020In the last ten days, I have been joined by old friends: the salt-tang of the ocean carried on powerful, iodine-strong winds, the sun a force, capable of burning quickly, the roar of waves an ancient lullaby. The nights are cool, the days warm, the land surprisingly green and already covered in flowers; flashes and banks of yellow, pebble-dash of pinks and reds. Here, farmers are already harvesting and baling grass, there a shepherd tends sheep or goats.Citrus splashes cover verdant small trees, oranges and clementines dotted everywhere, often fallen and rolled, ditches and dips full of gathered sweet balls, unclaimed, rotting. Lemons are equally common, sometimes almost too large to be believed, their yellow so obvious it is a colour of its very own.Bamboo tracks the waterways, here and there giant stacks have been collected, bundles of canes to be used later in Spring. The cork oak trunks are a spectrum, darkest where they have most recently been peeled, lighter where time has passed and a new cover awaits silently, to seal the wine or port of many miles of vineyards.I am learning this language, the language of a landscape that feels ancient and lived-in—how fields are maintained, how there is space for nature above the terraces, in between settlements, or on the long coastal edge. Portugal feels full of stories; old stories and new, whispers of tales to come. It is into this land that we venture, seeking a home, filling in the gaps in our knowledge. The land whispers back, tells us what we need to hear, and we listen.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 ...
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    6 Min.
  • 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.
  • Un Frère In Time

    Un Frère In Time
    Dec 17 2025
    I recently shared the final part of A Fall In Time with those of you who are subscribed to that section; this was the day-by-day and week-by-week communion with nature I was lucky enough to experience back in 2010—there shall be more to come on A Fall In Time, next year. If you are new, or have no idea what I am talking about, essentially I left my job, my friends and family, and headed out into the woods. The introduction page, here, tells you more and also includes a linked list of the contents of this adventure.Today, I am delighted to share this piece, crafted by my sister, Lydia Crow, who was also the key element of my remote support team back in 2010 (actually, she pretty much was the support team!), along with being the editor of the original blog posts I shared with the world about that time (being my editor is a role she excels at, not afraid to disagree or point out where something is either lacking or is over-embellished).I shared this last year but, as it now has a new voiceover from Lydia herself, I thought it worth sharing with all of you again. Also, I like it.When Lyd originally said she would write this piece, I did not know what to expect, but I did know it would be worth reading. And I was right.Un Frère In TimeIt’s strange thinking back to the people we were over fourteen years ago, when Alex first told me about his idea to head off to spend some time in nature on his own on the west coast of Scotland. I can’t remember the details of all the conversations now, but I do know that I thought it was a great idea from the very beginning. Alex needed to make a change, to do something different. It might not be obvious from Alex’s updates how much of a change this was from his way of life before. He was living in Sheffield, with a broad circle of friends and (occasionally rotating) housemates, and had a conventionally active social life. The August before Alex left, we’d been to the Fringe in Edinburgh and seen several shows, including Smoke and Mirrors, featuring iOTA, in the Spiegeltent. Life wasn’t boring, but I could also tell it was missing something for Alex. A key piece of the jigsaw.I mention this, because I think it is important. We all have these times in our lives when we know we need to make a change. It might seem superficially small, it might include physically walking away from civilisation (or “civilisation”) for a few months—but we know deep inside that it represents an important turning point, after which we’ll never quite be the same. The decision, once made, is accompanied by an increasing sense of urgency, an all-encompassing clarity, that drives us on. And, though we often try to explain the significance of such events, we will inevitably fall short, because it is our turning point, nobody else’s.Yet, by bringing everyone into his personal story in the way in which he has done, Alex has managed to at least scratch the surface of explaining this significance. It’s not that people can or will—or even should—have the same experiences, it is that we should all be encouraged to consider what it is that might act as that turning point for us, should we need one.The weeks running up to Alex’s departure were full of planning. For a start, Alex needed somewhere to store all his belongings, so they were delivered to my house. It was quite amusing going through some of them—a desire for minimalism doesn’t run in our family. His worldly possessions ranged from items from our childhood (including some of Alex’s early hand-drawn maps, which called for a daft photo-op), to glass scientific instruments, to books. Books, books, books. My role as Custodian of Arcane Knowledge had officially begun (and continues to this day, as what will eventually be my dining room is still full of Alex’s boxes).As is evident from Alex’s writing, we kept in touch via mobile regularly, usually messages rather than calls. I had set up a literary website the year before, and Alex was one of the regular contributors. Writing a series under the name “Vague Wanderings”, Alex shared his experiences throughout his time on the west coast. There were several people following along—friends, family, and others we didn’t know. Alex also shared other, separate updates under the title “Vague Preoccupations”, but these (along with nearly all other content) has long since been archived on the site. I don’t have access to the messages we sent during that time (though they’re possibly on an old hard drive somewhere), but I can see when Alex switched to emailing me the images of his handwritten Moleskine notebooks with his next post (as it took much longer to send picture messages than emails). I would transcribe these posts, then message back to check any words I couldn’t quite read. Several hundred miles away, Alex would carry his notebook with him to where he could get signal to check and answer my queries the next day or so.I have the emails back and forth ...
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    15 Min.
  • A Fall In Time: Week Twelve

    A Fall In Time: Week Twelve
    Dec 6 2025

    This podcast is also available as a series of letters (technically emails, but I prefer to think of them as letters), with an introduction featuring navigation links for each post as I share them, lots of photos, and more:

    The link for this particular episode is here:

    https://alexandermcrow.substack.com/p/a-fall-in-time-week-twelve-2025

    If you have enjoyed listening to this, please do leave a comment. I welcome all questions and will reply, even if it takes a while to do so.

    If you are considering becoming a paid subscriber, you can currently take advantage of a special 20% reduction in price off all subscriptions, to celebrate six years of sharing a letter (ends mid-January 2026). In the new year, I shall be raising my prices but, if you take up this offer, your subscription rate will be locked in at that price, forever.

    And, finally, if you find value in listening to my words and wish to support me financially, but do not want to take out a subscription to my letter, you can also send a one-off tip via this button:

    To head to the introduction and navigation page for this adventure, click here.

    To go back to week eleven, click here.

    Many thanks for listening.



    Get full access to The Crow's Nest at alexandermcrow.substack.com/subscribe
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    31 Min.
  • The Third State of The Nest Address

    The Third State of The Nest Address
    Dec 5 2025
    IntroductionSometimes, a thing becomes a habit almost by accident. I’ve never been one for looking at a year from the point of view of our manufactured calendrical New Year, a retrospective which never seems to fit, to me. Instead, I like to look for different places to mark the passing of time (obviously, the solstice is the beginning of the year, right?). Seasons, macro and micro, or anniversaries which only really have relevance for me (or even future ghost dates, as I discuss here).　　The 25th of November is one such date. This marks the point when I started sharing a newsletter with regularity, back in 2019, when we still lived in Thailand and were preparing to move to Portugal (which, for those of you who don’t know, we did, securing an apartment in rural Alentejo less than two weeks before the first Covid lockdown [after a Christmas in Scotland and New Year in England—a New Year when I was very, very sick, with something suspiciously proto-covid-esque]. Unlike many other nomadic or travelling types, we stayed where we were, in Portugal, rather than heading back to our home nation/nations. It was a strange year, to be in a new-to-us country, but not really to be there in the normal way). Take advantage of 20% off the price of a subscription, locked in for as long as you subscribe, an offer I’m sharing to celebrate six years of this letter.When I started this letter, it was a way to keep in touch with family and friends, whether old friends, or those I had met on travels, or whilst living on a different continent, let them know what we were doing or, for example, try to describe how it feels to wake up early and feel the jungle breathing behind our house: At this time of year, in this place, the mountain exhales at night. Her breath is cool and descends to the city below, bringing with it the scent of the deep, dark places she hides, of lush flowers and constant decay, accompanied by a whisper of secrets and charms. The nights end still in darkness, when the monks in the temple begin their chants and ring their bell or strike their gong, setting off a daily cascade of soi dogs, each howling their welcome to the day, barking their devotion. The sun rises some hours later, tropical-swift, giving only slightly less daylight than in the middle of summer, framed by the harsh calls of myna birds and the roar of the waking airport.or perhaps talk about Selkies:Some stories are so deeply entwined with a place that it is impossible to untangle them. Whenever I hear of selkie stories I cannot place them anywhere else in my mind’s eye but Orkney. Those selkies—Orcadian selkies—they don’t travel. They stay close to their shores, even as their tales spread far and wide. After all, in the Orkney dialect, selkie simply means seal, there is no difference between those who can walk ashore and those who cannot—technically, they all possess that option.or offer a personal perspective on travel, and how it entwines with my fiction:I am first and foremost a writer, and travel adds substantial depth and substance of flavour to my words, my stories both real and made up. My series of fantasy novels and novellas—The Lesser Evil—are undoubtedly considerably richer thanks to my own travel experiences.We writers are hoarders of observation, keeping notes, remembering the little details. These things are stored away until they reappear, subtly altered, percolated, ready to enhance a story.Since those first few tentative steps into sharing my words in this manner, I’ve sent over 300 letters. (I completely missed the 300th, by the way, an anniversary which went uncelebrated—this is the 308th letter [or 309th, if you are listening to the podcast version].) Given that the majority of these letters amount to several thousand words each, that is a lot, mostly shared for free.In time, I began to share more about my fiction, then promote and market such, utilising this letter as a part of that process. A wee while later, I began to move essays from the websites I ran and the other locations my virtual self inhabited over the years, eventually starting to craft new pieces exclusively for this space, Substack effectively replacing my websites. As you will see below, I am now at the point where I am once more moving things back to a platform I control (but keeping and expanding this space too, for now), circling around, always reconsidering what is best for my words.Today, as I edit this piece, there are 2364 subscribers to The Crow’s Nest, and 5193 followers over on Substack Notes. I am in awe of these figures and so very grateful to each and every one of you who reads my words—even if you only skim and/or look at the photographs, that’s perfectly valid, too! And, introduced recently, there’s also those of you who listen to my words, as recorded by me, something that, not too long ago, I did not really think I would ever be able to do (I still don’t like the sound of my recorded voice, but I can...
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    1 Std. und 1 Min.
  • A Fall In Time: Week Eleven

    A Fall In Time: Week Eleven
    Nov 29 2025

    This podcast is also available as a series of letters (technically emails, but I prefer to think of them as letters), with an introduction featuring navigation links for each post as I share them, lots of photos, and more:

    The link for this particular episode is here:

    https://alexandermcrow.substack.com/p/a-fall-in-time-week-eleven-2025

    If you have enjoyed listening to this, please do leave a comment. I welcome all questions and will reply, even if it takes a while to do so.

    If you don’t want to miss a photo or word, then do consider subscribing:

    And, finally, if you find value in listening to my words and wish to support me financially, but do not want to take out a subscription to my letter, you can also send a one-off tip via this button:

    To head to the introduction and navigation page for this adventure, click here.

    To go back to week ten, click here.

    Many thanks for listening.



    Get full access to The Crow's Nest at alexandermcrow.substack.com/subscribe
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    36 Min.