Capitals

Eight letters.  The harbour is flanked by Scottish hills fired with independence.
Three Across.  New York scrapers barely scratch the low sky.  Four Down.  English seaside resort attracts film and media types looking to impress Hollywood critic.  Something, something, t.  The weather is everywhere and the winds carry ice, pollen, penguins and orcas.
Too far, too fast, and too soon.  On old shorelines people paddle in the footsteps of pioneers, browsing. Anagram.  From all over.
Coffee shop scrollers read all about trade agreements and recoil. They’re already knee deep in beans, grains, brain foods and thirteen dollar helpings of porridge oats.  Maybe a consolatory coffee-to-go for the wanderer parked outside wrapped up in strange looks.

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