Sitting, not too comfortably on an unforgiving wooden bench in a mystical yurt hanging with pleasingly aromatic dried plants whose names had passed me by in my long ago gardening duties.

This was my first time in a yurt, it had been a long tiring day and so visions of yurt dwellers such as Tamurlane the conqueror of all of Asia came to mind. Tamerlane, or ‘Timur the Lame’ strutted or rather dragged a lame leg, left or right I know not. An overbearing over-confident leader of what had been an insignificant tribe that conquered kingdoms, sheikhdoms and the like before falling into insignificance like all empires.

A war leader who almost never knew defeat and whose barbaric ways led to mutilations and beheadings on a never-before-witnessed scale.

His favourite sign-off after destroying cities like KABUL was a mountain of skulls. This atrocity would be reported to the next town or city on his savage journey of conquering and subjugation of new lands.

The mists of time now clear away and I am back to a quiet, civilised yurt filled with people scribbling away. A steady drizzle rattling against the tented surface then sun is still showing its presence through the covering of the tent.

Oh no the rain steps up its tempo, a drenching could be on the cards with no umbrella in my possession.

Huh, serves me right, Edinburgh’s weather is well-known, and as I stand up from the, ouch as the blood runs back.

James Houldsworth