A Tiny Disturbance

A Tiny Disturbance

A stoat, or weasel?

too difficult from distance to tell,

waits to emerge 

from the verge of clustered 

snow white willow catkins,

a moment taken to nose 

sky and trail for traffic,

she scatters pollen dust in her dash

to cross to the safety 

of dense comfrey and 

cow parsley camouflage.

As if ushered 

by an oncoming train

through this tunnel 

of grey willow and alder,

a light wind rifles

stirring the pollen 

disturbed in her crossing.

And to chance,

a spiraling dioecious dance

matches pollen and stigma,

that they might plier

the curved walls of new 

bark barrelled vaults.

@BobbyMotherwell 2023

Fragile Wings

Fragile Wings

I’ve found the man I love,

After forty years of trying,

All the dead ends and denying,

The roleplaying and lying,

The costume changing,

And rearranging,

To fit the expectations,

That only I had set.

Until, one day we met.

And out of the drought,

he arrived,

younger and wiser,

than any version I’d contrived,

in those days when I locked the bones away,

Imagining conformity the only way

to mould him,

And here he was,

All along, with gentle flaws,

and fragile wings

which glide, on lost rememberings,

At last, to cast off chiselled chains.

And all now that remains,

Is the child in the man I love.

Elpis and the box

I had been asleep in the hall when I was wakened by a car arriving in the driveway. The thud

of the loose flagstone and squeal as it stopped, identified it as Vet’s van. I heard him get out,

the gravel crunched lightly under his weight; he wasn’t carrying anything. He’d left The Box

in the car. I allowed myself to relax slightly. His visits usually involved some prodding and

probing and concluded in a sharp jab in the back of the neck. He’d taken recently to removing

me against my will to spend a night in one of his cramped, brightly lit cages. I heard him

make his way around to the back door and let himself in.  I’d have to let Dev know he’d

arrived. I shouted twice, friendly shouts, so as not to unnerve Vet. No point in inviting

tension. Vet announced his arrival too,

‘…mis…ter… rin… tool,” was as much as I could make out.

Upstairs, the bedroom door opened, and Dev started to make his way down the stairs,

carefully, both hands on the rails. A weak voice acknowledged that he was on his way.

Emerging out of the darkness he saw me and smiled a Big Dev smile. I got up, arching my

back to stretch and swished my tail uncontrollably. I greeted him with my morning yelp.

‘Good girl… good girl,’ came the reply.

We met at the bottom of the stairs; he ruffled my ears as I checked his groin for

leakage. Only stale ingrained sweat. A good sign. Dev headed down the hall towards Vet who

was standing in the kitchen, nervously juggling treats in his pockets and smiling cautiously.

Vet was at least half as old as Dev and he radiated an uncomfortable energy, his trousers and

fleece a pungent mix of schnauzer and German shepherd. I nuzzled his underparts for more

intimate information.

Someone’s been a lucky boy this morning, I thought.

Then a whiff of dog biscuit. He pulled two from his pocket. I ate them gently from his

sanitised hand as they talked above me.

The usual pleasantries. I watched their faces for clues as they spoke, a reason for the

visit. His second in as many days. But was it as routine as the last one? Routine, in so much

as The Box was left in the van and my visit to his cramped cell wasn’t required. I still had the

shaved patch on my leg where they jabbed and bled me, a new twist to Vet’s visits. I sat

down between them and swept the floor eagerly with my tail in anticipation of more biscuits.

They looked down at me smiling, then resumed their face-to-face. Dev was doing most of the

talking, Vet shook his head slowly while shifting from one foot to the other, a false fixed

smile absorbed and deflected Dev’s words.

‘For the best… good life…,’ I recognised but made little sense of.

This continued for a bit. They’d talk, stop, look down at me, talk, look down again.

Each time Dev’s face melted even more. He seemed to be deflating right in front of me to the

point where I thought he might collapse. Less and less of the talk I recognised, but I could see

it wasn’t going Dev’s way. Vet jabbed my neck again, gave me another couple of biscuits and

left quietly. Dev stood for a while, staring, but not looking, out the kitchen window.

He had been slumped in his armchair since Vet left, his face shaking quietly into the

palms of his hands. I tried sitting to attention at his feet, nosing his thigh. This didn’t have its

 usual effect and only seemed to make things worse. I forced a reaction with my best friendly

yelp. He leaned towards me, took my head in both his hands and squeezed gently, his thumbs

caressing my brows.

“Oh Elpis… my girl… my girl,” he echoed.

I sat with him hoping it might improve his mood but when he slid back in his chair

and closed his eyes I made for my cushion by the hearth of the fire where I could keep an eye

on him. My cushion reeked; it hadn’t been cleaned for some days now. These accidents had

been happening more and more recently, I would wake after a sleep to find myself in a warm

stinging puddle. Dev, didn’t complain, but I’d cower apologetically anyway. He’d just pat me

on the head, pick up the bedding and stick it in the machine in the kitchen.

            From his chair, every now and again he’d reach across for the photograph

above the fire and roll a finger slowly down Lin’s smiling face.  It hadn’t moved from his

side in the three winters since she left.

Two hunched men had taken her away in a black van; they zipped her into a bag and

wheeled her out in a hidden box one day when Dev and I had found her lying at the

bottom of the stairs. We’d been out for a morning walk, we’d played the stick game, he

threw, I returned; he loved this game. Then Dev picked up some milk on the way back to the

house. Nothing unusual as days go. But as soon as he opened the door, I knew that she had

left, there was a stillness, a missing in her. He called out from somewhere so deep and dark

inside that I shrunk to avoid it. I watched for a short time as he cradled her in his arms. He

cried so hard I thought that the part of his heart which was Lin, would give out. Wary that I

was intruding, I retreated to my bed and wept for them both.

The first time I met Dev and Lin I was locked up in a small cell when the old man who I had

previously shared a home with left one day too.  Three strangers had burst his door down and

found me just in time before I was going to seriously consider what I was eating next. They

put me in The Box and took me away. Next thing I knew I was in a small cell, in a huge

place, full of us. I had been there for about a week when Dev and Lin walked in. I don’t know

how, but I just knew they were for me. There was searching to them, a wanting. I was their

balm. In the car home, I sat with Dev, his hands firmly but safely holding my collar.

Between the excitement and the motion of the car, I began to feel ill, I threw the contents of

my dried cell meal all over Dev while Lin drove in the front. He never flinched. He just kept

ruffling my ears.

“Lin,” I remember him saying, “…got good girl here… a good girl.”

They named me Elpis in the car home; both reciting it many times until it sounded

natural and belonging, and that I recognise the metre and sound of it. When we got to the

house, they had a bed and toys there for me, the back garden had been fenced around the trees

and out to the driveway.  I was fed twice daily from tins they stored behind the door in the

hall, with an occasional treat when Dev shared a bit of sausage with me.  We walked so much

in those days, days of work and play. I fell into my bed at nights exhausted, the woods and

hills just outside our house were our playground, and on warm days we’d get in the car and

drive to the big water, and I would swim, sometimes Dev would join me on those long days.

His stroke was weak, and Lin would watch nervously from the shore, but I kept close to him

in case he got into difficulties.

And then there was Jon. Jon had left before I arrived on the scene, but he was

everywhere. The weight of him at times slumped their shoulders. Whenever Lin left the door

open to that room, I would sneak in for a sniff around.  She was showing me where their pain

lived. Nobody slept here, but it was prepared, as if awaiting a return. The room sighed with

the tears spilled on his pillow from Lin’s melancholy moments, and Dev’s evening visits

where he would caress and talk to the bedside photograph of them both seated in a small boat

smiling. Jon, just a young boy, Dev’s long hair, darker and fuller; and bright, wondering,

unspectacled eyes. Jon was mentioned every day back then, then gradually as the time

passed, like pillow tears and wondering eyes, all sense of him receded.

Dev’s movement had woken me, I watched with one eye as he shuffled and pushed himself

upright from the arms of the chair. His neck curved in sympathy with his back, creased at the

knees he made his way slowly towards the kitchen door. He stopped and looked down at

me, I lifted my head and smiled my best one at him, I was strangely tired, but I tried my best,

he looked like he needed it.

‘Elpis… Dinner.’

I sat up as best I could but the pain in my stomach was slowly returning.

‘Good girl… the best,’ his voice cracking.  ‘Treat tonight… goooood girl.’

I followed him through to the kitchen, staying well behind in case we collided. I was

still a bit woozy since Vet left; his scent still sanitised the kitchen. Through the back window,

I saw the afternoon light flickering rain drop reflections from the leaves on the bush under

which I took my daily leak. I asked, and Dev opened the door to let me out. I stood under the

bush and emptied warm waste all over the grass in a slow stream, the steam clinging to my

stale damp coat. Each evacuation was taking longer and dispensing less these days it seemed.

I sniffed at the air above me for fresh scent of others and listened for calls. All quiet, nothing

to attend to, I wandered back into the kitchen. He should have emptied the contents of my tin

into my bowl by now. My appetite wasn’t great these days, but I’d eat a bit for his sake, he

needed the encouragement too.

Dev was cooking sausages. I sniffed at the luxurious aroma.

‘His appetite has returned,’ I thought.

I anticipated my usual portion with some renewed relish and sat down and watched

him take three sausages from the pan. He laid them on a large plate on top of the table, then

easing himself gently into the chair, he cut them into pieces. He then did the strangest thing,

he sat for what seemed like an eternity and blew on them, again and again. He would pick a

bit up and put it to his mouth, tongue it, blow it a bit and put it back on the plate. Then,

picking the plate up with the shaky, thin fingers of one hand and laying the other gently on

my head, he lowered the plate with all three chopped sausages onto the floor in front of me. I

looked down in amazement then immediately back up at him. He spoke, and as he did a salty

tear dropped from his eye and splashed on my nose.

‘Love you Elpis,’ he said. ‘Dinner… best girl in the world.’

They were delicious. I tried hard to finish them but couldn’t. He put some

water down for me and I lapped gently at it as he tilted his head back and washed down his

daily meds. He then took a small plate from the cupboard, a fork from the drawer, and lifted

the one last sausage from the pan onto the small plate and carried it back through to his

armchair. I followed him and circled myself down onto my cushion. He sat down and laid the

plate at his side, next to Lin’s photograph.  Setting the fork down next to it, he turned and

gazed slowly at me over the top of his glasses.  I returned his look. Then he nodded slowly to

himself and fell asleep. The food in my belly had me on his coattails and I drifted slowly to

sleep.

It was fading daylight when I woke and Dev was still in his armchair, his food untouched.

I got up to go over to waken him, but I knew immediately he had left. His stillness was that of

Lin’s on the day we found her, but it was the lightness in me that announced it, a missing in

my heart where his place once was but had now gone. I heard a car arriving in the driveway.

The flagstone, the squeal as it stopped. I heard doors open and some movement, then they

closed again. I listened for the footfall on the gravel. It was lopsided, irregular, and

weighted on the right foot. As if something was being carried.

A Savage Slip

One Savage Slip

A fall from here would be bad. I knew it. My position was precarious; temporary and

finely balanced. Arms, legs, hands, feet; straining, bridging as ties and struts, like equalising

forces, finding friction where they could to maintain my grip on this sodden savage slit of

vertical granite, which was currently doing all it could to repel me onto the distant broken

boulder field below.

I was running out of time. The rock sweated rivulets of rainwater to prize the

temporary purchase my boots and fingers had found to maintain my precarious position.

 Every muscle screamed to secure my equilibrium, my place on this rockface. Four points of

contact, lose one and lose them all.

I looked up, my face scraping against the rock’s roughness; grey laden skies offered

no comfort. Rain dripped slowly onto my face from a protruding ledge just five feet above

me. The ledge was my refuge, my escape. If only I could bridge the gap. It would be all or

nothing.

I had to move.

The day had started with clearer skies, sunlight danced brightly with shifting clouds

across the rolling Cairngorm hills, moulding our mood as we made our way towards the crag

at Coire an Lochan which cloaked our route for the day. We walked briskly, the three of us,

buoyant with anticipation of a first attempt at a classic Scottish route. Graded as Very

Difficult, the route was called Savage Slit and was well within our capabilities. Or so we

thought. Kenny was without doubt the fittest of the three; his broad shoulders and powerful

legs could move quickly with a heavily laden rucksack of climbing ironmongery. Eric was

leaner, wiry, with a determination which sometimes outstripped his ability, but always a

positive influence and good partner in trying moments. I was certainly the most accomplished

rock climber of the three, and as such would lead the toughest pitches on the route.

We scurried along the path towards the crag, the weather slowly deteriorating. Clouds

 above us thickened, the skies now darker and threatening. The shade of the crag now

hanging imposingly over us. The air cooled and the mist turned wet against our skin. The

base of the climb appeared just above us, a quietness ensued. We scrambled to the belay and

readied ourselves to climb. Harnessed and roped, I clipped the gear, my protection, to my

rucksack loops.

All three of us took our first long look at the dank vertical corner which soared

skyward above us.

‘Looks hell of a wet.’ Eric broke the silence.

‘Gonny be slippy as fuck,’ ventured Kenny.

I nodded calmly. My confidence was at such a high from recent successes in similar

conditions in Glen Coe, that any apprehensions dissolved unnoticed.

‘There are old climbers and bold climbers Bobby,’ Eric said, ‘but there’s no old, bold climbers!’

He winked at me knowingly, then handed me the rope to tie into. I rubbed my hands together.

‘Well, wish me luck,’ I asked as I turned to face the damp dark rockface.

‘Climbing!’

I pulled on the first greasy handhold. It became apparent very quickly that this was

going to be anything but a simple, straightforward climb. My boots slipped on sloping

footholds as I progressed, fingers found rivers of water inside gaping cracks which were lined

with lichen and slid and slithered under pressure. Cold bit into me, sharp granite cut numb

knuckles raw, a sharp wind swept up the crag roaring louder in my ears as I gained height.   

My breathing quickened; doubt arrived in each inhale as I could smell and taste its metallic

sickness in my dry mouth.

‘You’ll be wanting to get a runner in soon’ Eric shouted from below.

I stopped, looked down between my legs at Eric and Kenny looking up at me; wide

eyed, wired. I had run out most of the rope, and with only one runner placed about thirty feet

below me, I was looking at a sixty-foot ground fall if I slipped. For the first time in my life,

fear paralysed me.

‘Don’t fall dad.’…. Calum’s voice.

‘We love you Dad; we need you back home.’ …. Ceri’s voice.

‘I hate you going climbing.’ …. Arlene’s voice.

Seconds seemed like an eternity. My senses fought for attention. Emotion roared

through me like a hurricane. Above, a raindrop left the ledge, I watched it rush towards me,

this adrenalin eyedrop splashed urgency on impact. I have never felt so alive.

I had to move.

The Homecoming: Hirta and the Harebell

I had no sooner thrown my wet rucksack on the stone floor and shaken off the rain from my Gore-Tex jacket, than I heard the door to which I had just entered the old St Kilda Black House open and close again behind me. I was no longer alone in the room. Unzipping and Velcro ripping, I removed my jacket, and turned around to welcome the incomer.

His silhouette filled the small door frame; backlit by the tiny windows which bookended the entrance to the house.  Now a museum dedicated to the people of the islands, it housed trestle storyboards depicting island life, glass cabinets of clothing, cooking utensils and bird fouling equipment. Day to day items used by the islanders to survive the harsh North Atlantic beatings this gnarled volcanic archipelago had endured, until their reluctant evacuation pleas were heard and granted in 1930. The National Trust had converted old Findlay Gillies’ house into a living history of island life; the others, still ruins, simply had a single painted slate acknowledging the names of the last occupants displayed in the open fire hearth. Old Findlay’s house was given a new roof, windows, and carefully concealed modern conveniences; lighting and heating which was at this moment most welcome. I dropped my wet jacket on the perimeter bench which skirted the substantial stone walls.

He was dressed authentically in traditional islanders clothing, a rehearsal for the next day’s re-enactment of the anniversary of the evacuation. His trousers hung heavy around his waist, ill-fitting and dragging over clumsy shoes. The rough knit jumper, sleeves torn and knotted was covered with the waistcoat favoured by the men of the island. A forerunner to my modern down gilet I thought. A bunnet hugged his head and he wore a bandolier of knotted ropes and a red beard which exploded from his rough, tired features. ‘Top marks to costume.’ I thought. The putrid stench of guano almost permeated.

‘Christ you’re keen,’ I said, scanning head to toe and back again. ‘looks the part, but in this weather?’

At first, I thought he hadn’t heard me, or taken objection to my tone. He fixed me with a stare which I held. Smiling, I awaited a response. He stepped towards me, emerging from the shadow of the door.

‘Did just fine for them,’ he said, glancing at the sepia image on the display beside me. ‘Coped with much worse than this wee drying shower.’

He measured my extents, fixing on the notepad which had fallen from my rucksack and the camera around my neck; his glare relaxed to a knowing grin. His grey eyes swam with mischief and cunning, like a fulmar ready to regurgitate on a nest thief.

‘And you,’ he said. ‘What brings you here this eve? Here to ‘celebrate’ the evacuation? To tell the story of how these poor islanders couldny take care of themselves any longer, had to cry for help? Here to tell their story and in doing so make a name with yours?’

‘Like you,’ I sighed. ‘I’ve got a job to do. Today I clambered the hills of Oesival and Connochair, photographed the Mistress and Lovers Stone, I ran from Dun to Soay and landed on neither, I got pictures of Soay Sheep, St Kilda Wren, Storm Petrels and Puffins till my memory card was full, I fought off at least a dozen attacks from wild bonxies. The rain pissed on me, my feet are soaking wet, my hands sore with hot aches and I’ll struggle tonight to write a piece which will be seen by fewer than five folk on Facebook and disappear never to be looked at again.’

He raised his eyebrows, a grimace graduating to a grin.

‘Well, you have had a tough day …..and for such scant reward! Have a seat ya poor soul ye, get those wet things off your feet and warm them by the fire.’ A flourished palm gestured to the display fireplace set with period ironmongery and fake flames.

Slowly, sheepishly, I gathered my damp notebook and packed my camera away in my rucksack. I walked over to the window to see if there was any sign of the weather clearing, the shallow beach was being swept with white crests, the dark rainclouds were moving quickly on a northerly across Connachair and the bright blue letterbox south of Dun would soon be smiling on the village slopes. The large boat which had brought the TV production team, cast and crew bobbed gently off the pier in the centre of the bay. The charter boat I had arrived on this morning had left to take some paying tourists around the sea stacks. I wanted to get ashore to get acquainted with the island before it filled the next day for the filming of the evacuation. The Elizabeth G would be back in Village Bay in an hour or so to collect me and tie up for the night.

‘I’m sorry for snapping just there,’ I said. ‘letting first world hassles get to me.’

‘Aye, this is nae place for rushing.’ He nodded, looking out the tiny window at the boat in the harbour. ‘worrying about a day that might never come; the gathering of birds, the filling of cleits for winter storage and hoping that it will come and go without loss, and in truth, in no time at all, you’re here and then you’re gone.’

He stared wistfully out at the boat; his chest rising and falling, a symbiosis with the swell of the sea; his monochrome complexion and well weathered face looked much older than I imagined his years. He must have been in his sixties at least.

‘I never saw a man who looked with such a wistful eye, upon that little tent of blue we prisoners call the sky,’ I thought, recalling Wilde’s Reading Gaol captive.

I broke the short silence to scatter his melancholy.

‘Looks like clearing soon, I’d give it an hour.’

‘Oh, so you’re a weatherman then?’

‘I’m a photographer actually,’ I offered my hand. ‘Sorry, my names Fraser  – Fraser Macleod? from The Herald?’ I awaited a response. I got none.

‘I’m here to cover the story tomorrow, I’m from Glasgow. Never been here before, read a wee bit about it and seen a few programmes, I’d love to have lived here though eh?’

‘My family were from here.’ he said. ‘generations of them, until gradually like snow off McKay’s church roof they disappeared. Some went willingly overseas, some were taken by smallpox and flu, and those remaining boarded the Harebell and left all they knew to save themselves. I return every year to remember them and the others. Live here? would you? You wouldn’t last one winter.’

‘You’re awfy quick to judge. You don’t know anything about me.’

‘I call what I see, and I see a towny, you’ve never been unwrapped from the blanket ye were Christened in, assuming of course you were Christened? Think you could hang from the cliffs and snatch Guga’s from their nests, wring their necks and six at a time carry them back up the rock face with the tides tearing at your ankles below, could you do that son?’

‘Aye, I think I could actually, if I had to…’

‘… and live on porridge, rationed eggs and bird flesh, and what vegetables could be scraped from this barren soil?…’

‘Why would I have to?’ I interrupted. ‘no one has to live like that these days.’

He wasn’t hearing me.

‘… and when the long dark evenings arrive and the only heat from the lamps is sucked out through these doors and walls, and the weans huddle together with the beasts, and your never-ending struggle to feed them is second only to your struggle to keep the invading tuberculosis from their lungs, and their souls from their maker.’

He wrung his hands together as if washing them clean, then swept both palms down his face. His eyes swam.

‘You think you could live here? Pah!’

‘Was this his script?’ I thought. ‘had he invoked the character?’ I indulged him.

‘Under those conditions I’m not sure anyone would want to.’ I said, ‘but look at this place, unparalleled beauty and mystery. I walked for hours today and left everything from home behind, OK so it was wet, but no phone calls, no emails, no worries. I wasn’t tied to a schedule or a clock. I was in the moment, surrounded by this wild natural world. What was it the Vikings called it? Hilda  – the fresh spring goddess and source of everything. I was that Viking, and it was my source.’

The wind had chased the clouds and sunlight shone through the windows as the sky over Dun rolled back and the rain on the roof subsided.

‘I would have this in a minute.’ I whispered. ‘In a minute.’

“Aye, there’s none of us who wouldn’t have this in a minute, riches beyond trinkets from tourists and fortunes from Fulmar feathers. But there comes a point when the harsh reality takes its toll; and when Mary Gillies died of appendicitis and Nurse Barclay suggested that there was nothing else for it but evacuation, well there was no option. Even Neil Ferguson who was the only one against it to the bitter end knew it was a matter of survival when he got the sign.’

‘The sign? what sign?’

‘The day the beach was taken.’

‘The beach was taken. I never heard that story?’

‘It was the day after the Parliament had voted to request an evacuation, some of the men had been offered jobs in forestry and houses in Morven. Men who had never seen a tree before in their lives, would trade fulmar lures and hemp ropes for timber yards and fir felling to sustain them. Neil was totally against it.’

” God gave us this land and its beasts to live on and honour him, we will be rejecting the Lord himself if we flee.” were his words as he stormed off that night. And the night came and went, and with it the most brutal storm the islands had seen in years, wave upon wave lashed the shore, the winds ripping at the roofs and doors. And in the morning, when it had subsided, they saw him standing on the beach. But the beach was gone. The sand had been taken by the sea and deposited in its place, a sign straight from his maker, was a single washed up tree trunk. At that moment, Neil knew God had another purpose for him and wanted him to leave.’

He exhaled slowly and deliberately and looked at me, his eyes gentle and heavy, then he looked out again to Village Bay.

‘Well,’ he said ‘there’s work still to be done before tomorrow. I’ll see you then.’

He grabbed the forged latch of the door handle, swung the door open and stepped out into the overgrown narrow furrow that was once the High Street.

A warm breeze rushed through the doorway and the sunlight carpeted the floor, the fulmars cawed to the clear skies across on Dun. I gathered my bag and jacket and walked out into the glare.

I heard a motor start up and saw the orange rib cut a fresh white trail across the bay. On his way to pick me up and return me to the Elizabeth G was Rob, our skipper. I walked slowly down to the pier and arrived just as Rob was securing the inflatable for my boarding. I handed him my rucksack and stepped onto the rib.

‘Good day?’ he enquired.

‘Apart from the weather at times, but yes, a great day!’

‘Good to go then?’ he asked checking I was secured. ‘what are you looking for?’

I was staring back towards old Findlay’s Black House.

‘Aren’t we going to give the guy from the production unit a lift to his boat?’

‘What guy? You’ve had the island to yourself all day.’

• 

• 

• 

• 

The Silence was Deafening

The Silence was Deafening.

From the window a lull,

The rolling rail track thunder rolled back,

Tarmac popping pneumatic air pockets retired,

Rolls Royce roar of take-off and land, banned,

All car, carriage and undercarriage receding,

Doppler affects.

A roaring wind hush ushers pees-weeping lapwing,

Craws caw, starlings copy and the blackbird pilots his patch,

New morning sounds,

Which over once was drowned,

with ears too busy to notice,

natures detail.

“But humans are natural too,” you say,

“and make sounds that bring you to tears of joy;

notes and words which shake the bluebird

in your chest.”

“That’s fine,” I say, “but all the rest,

is best, unsaid.”

…..and from you,

the silence was deafening.

Bobby Motherwell ©️2021

St Kilda, and the GOAT.

• 

  From Findlay’s window

We stood on the bow of the Elizabeth G, as she slowed into the serenity of Village Bay. This felt more like a homecoming than an arrival. The nine-hour torturous crossing from Barra across the relentless Minch was now behind us; spent mostly in my cabin fighting sea sickness and a real fear of our ship being torn in two by the sea, such was the swell. We had been delivered safely; relief palpable as the cloud began to lift over the slopes of Oieseval. I drank in this evening view. The culmination of a thirty-year fascination with this group of islands was at hand. As the boat slowed, as if in reverence, the others readied busily for their first dive. I settled down with a Balvenie and my thoughts. Like painted watchmen, the puffins on the Dun cliffs returned my gaze. Realisation dawned that I was here because of Ewan, and Valentino Rossi.

I met Ewan through work; a site visit around three years previously. I nodded at a picture of Rossi behind his desk, he asked if I was a fan. “I named my son after him” I replied. He smiled that broad, now so familiar smile.

It transpired over the months following, that he had worked on St Kilda. I told him of my obsession. He called one day, a place aboard a diving charter he was on had become available. “I lied that you were a sound bloke, they’re cool for you to join us”. I jumped at the chance. And here I was, privileged, the only non-diver aboard.

Their first dive complete, we drank and ate well, and I wished for the morning to come when I could finally set foot on St Kilda.

As usual we both woke early, fortunate that we were cabin buddies. Ewan and I shared a coffee and chat on deck before the others rose. When they finally surfaced, we lowered my kayak into the water, I wished them luck with their dives and waved them cheerio. I paddled gently towards the beach, the sun on a cloudless sky kissing my neck and hands as the realised excitement coursed through me. The kayak speared the soft beach gently, I tore off the spray deck and I stepped for the first time onto Hirta. I panned around this familiar crescent, the wash of lush green hillside, sweeping shoreline and rising rockface; once merely studied pictures, now a reality.

Over the next few days, I would explore every walkable inch of this island. A rigid daily itinerary emerged: launch kayak in the morning, paddle ashore, explore the island in blissful solitude, return to Village Bay, watch for the Elizabeth G returning, paddle out to meet her. Food, drink, enjoyment and much sharing of stories.

In those days, I consumed all the sights and sounds I had pored over for many years. I tasted the salt air from the sea cliffs and stone cleits which sheltered the fulmar catch. The blast of North Atlantic wind which scoured the cliffs filled my fleece as I climbed the Mistress Stone. I engaged the protective male Skuas who, when alerted by the female of my proximity, would swoop down and strike at my head until I scurried clear of their territory. I lazed on the soft slopes of Conachair, dangled feet over the gaping chasm below the Lovers Stone, felt the warm sun tighten my face as the silence, but for the breeze and caw of the fulmars, brought its meditative solace. I could hear in my head the voices and songs of Ann Gillies and the other women singing together at the sharing of the fulmars, plucked by the men from the cliffs overlooking Boreray.

I entered each of the old houses, now roofless and decaying. A roof slate sat in each fireplace, painted on it was the name of the last inhabitant before the evacuation in 1930. I stood in old Findlay’s front room and looked out the frameless window at Village Bay, imagining how this view moulded the boy and the man during his seventy-four years, and how it looked on that fateful day when he would leave his home never to return.

The trip ended too soon, and we left for home. A flat sea ushered a gentle return as if to reward the perseverance of our outbound struggle. A shoal of dolphins rode our bow, shepherding and welcoming us homeward past the shadow of the Black Cuillin on Skye, back to a more familiar setting. I thought of the evacuee’s journey, their culture abandoned.

On deck, Ewan and I toasted them. “Tae journeys, wi’ good friends”.

Three years have passed. I am on the other side of the world. We have our boarding passes. The departure gate announces that the Melbourne flight from Queenstown will be boarding shortly.

I flick through Facebook posts on my phone. The world around me stops.

“….. tragically Ewan Smith died today in a motorbike accident…”.

I look at Arlene. “Ewan is dead” I say, not quite hearing my own words as my head spins.

I flick through my texts. His last one to me. Only a week ago. Inviting me on a biking trip with him and his boys. I apologised, “…. we’re going to see Ceri in Australia, otherwise I would have loved it.”

“Enjoy Oz” he replied, “there will always be another day!”.

Bellochantuy beach: summer 2018

Bellochantuy beach: summer 2018

We all filed out on a summers day

With a feast to see ourselves through

And to the height of the day, the sun found its way

And the tide rolled back to renew

The levelled sea bed on which to land

gulls feet and beaks of curlew

And where to rest our chairs and fare

All family settled, but a few

And rushing to the frothing wake, they ran

through silt sands and pebble stanes,

to pull up short, when sharp sea shock

struck shins like bamboo canes.

A ball was found and kicked around

High, and higher still

And strings brought down to add to the sound,

of fun, which the day was filled.

And long we sat; and ate and drank,

and chat and sang aplenty

On the golden sands to vanishing point

We counted less than twenty

And the sun now setting in a downward course

Heat going and skin now tightening

We fuelled the fire and drank some more

Ever presence our wanton benighting

And we long these days for those long days

Where the sun it rose and fell

On our shared laughter and our song

And a bond in which to dwell.

Bobby Motherwell ©️2020

One year sober.

One Year Today.

A year ago today I woke up after a Sunday night in the pub (remember them?) and asked myself if it wasn’t about time to lay off it for a bit, see if I could last a week. And believe me, at the time, that was a big ask. It meant no beer at home after work, coping with a social function on the Friday (I am a social phobic), and the usual ‘social’ visit to the pub on Saturday and Sunday.

I wouldn’t say it was easy, it seemed unnatural to me to be socialising and not drinking and the ‘reward’ of the home beer after work was something I had always looked forward to, but it wasn’t anywhere near as tough as I’d thought.

And here I am, a year of sobriety.

I had planned on having a couple of glasses of Balvenie at Xmas and Hogmanay, but when the time came, I just didn’t feel like it. The bottle still lying unopened awaiting ‘That Day’.

I share this simply to mark the day, and to illustrate how we can, if we want to, rewire our thought circuitry and regain control. I have never felt better in my life.

Hard fields, blue skies in January

Hard fields, blue skies, January

Flitting

Branch to branch

Before, behind

Along the river bank he follows.

Looking well

enough fed for the month

He stays tight, watching

for turned footprints

to reveal quarry

But feet slip on perma clods of turf

and iced oasis

giving up little.

I’ll take a digestive tomorrow

I decide

And share it

Broken to crumbs, palm open

Trusted.

©️Bobby Motherwell