IT WAS 9pm on a summer’s evening, the kids were asleep after a day of simple, but exhausting, holiday fun, and I was able to venture out while the day still lingered.

Since the passing of the summer solstice a couple of weeks ago, the nights are now noticeably, but gradually, drawing in. Yet still, in early July, our evenings are blessed with daylight.

I jogged to the sea, testing whether my decision to take part in a half marathon next year is matched by any physical evidence of my fitness to do it. I was glad it was a quiet evening, for the sight of me puffing my way along the pavement wasn’t impressive.

When I reached the Pans shoreline, I alternated between walking and running, with the latter becoming increasingly less than the former. Some people have kindly offered to help me with the training but, before I take them up on this, I first need to see if the ambition is in any way realistic.

Like many folk, finding time in between family and work commitments is a major challenge, but the long evenings of this time of year helps with that. I’ve learnt, rather late in life, that finding time for yourself is vital.

I was heading for the Boat Shore at Cockenzie and, in the moments when I walked rather than jogged, I was able to take in the surroundings. The coastal path along the edge of the Greenhills is usually a good place to spot birdlife. I didn’t see a single gannet, perhaps a sad reflection of the impact of avian flu which has decimated their numbers. But I was gifted with the sight of both swallows and martins sweeping overhead as they chased insects on the breeze.

I arrived at my destination with still enough light to take a photo, although the cloud was too dense for the slowly setting sun to make an appearance. I had to sit and rest before I set off for my return.

It was warm, balmy even, and that annoying wind from previous days had gone. I watched and listened to the sea at the Boat Shore, as it lapped against the rocks of this incredibly beautiful and atmospheric place.

In my mind’s eye, I could see the moment in the sixth century when St Kenneth arrived in a small boat here, thus giving it the name Cul Cionnich, meaning the Cove of Kenneth, from which it is said the name Cockenzie originates. He was a follower of Columba, and his name is found all over Scotland’s coastline, both east and west, as he spread the message of the Christian religion.

It’s a story from tradition, but most definitely the Boast Shore seems like a divine gift on this rocky shoreline, a perfectly made natural harbour. Small wonder it became the centre of the fishing community here. Such powerful memories must linger in this place for so many folk, once so busy with fishing and salt panning.

I have my own memories of swimming here in my childhood. Also I would pass by here, on my way to what I remember calling “the Pond”, the open-air swimming pool at Port Seton, sadly just a memory now; sometimes progress doesn’t seem like it’s really progress.

As I sat in this wonderful place, contemplating the presence of so much history, both ancient and recent, my attention was caught by a seabird which dive-bombed into the sea in its hunt for supper. I think it was a Sandwich tern, and I wished my good friend Jim was with me to confirm my sighting.

But it was time to venture home. As I retraced my steps, my legs wouldn’t allow me to run. Perhaps I’d rested too long, more likely I’d reached my limit for that evening.

As I walked, the sight and sound of the sea accompanied me. I kept an eye out for seals and the kestrel which seems to have claimed the grassy edges of the Greenhills as its hunting ground. But I saw neither. The cloak of darkness was slowly descending by this time.

But in the now rapidly dying light, I took the opportunity to climb to the summit of the hill by the sea, from which there are stunning views. It occurred to me that the hill doesn’t have an official name, neither do the other two hills, which collectively are called ‘the Greenhills’.

They are a legacy of our industrial past, a green space made from the by-product of coal mining. My eyes were drawn to the huge site of the former power station. More than six years have passed since we watched those chimneys come down. I had lived under their shadow, yet they too are now just a memory. My younger children, Panner born and bred, have no personal recollection of them at all, but they have a connection through stories and memories shared.

Soon big changes are due to happen here once again. Exactly what will fill that huge space is still to be finally decided upon. Whatever happens, I thought to myself, the community must have its say in the final decision.

My hope is that progress this time will bring benefits for the people who live along, or close to, this incredible shoreline; progress that brings new employment and enhanced pride of place, but also celebrates its history and natural beauty, treasuring it and making it more accessible to enjoy, rather than destroying it.

That would be real progress I’d like my children to be gifted.