Words From The West

Of course the ferry boat has always been part of the attraction.

It’s never been part of the journey. Once you get to Ardrossan, a short 90 minutes from leaving the east coast, that’s you arrived, on your way, moving into a different world.

Sometimes I wonder if people on the Arran ferry are happier than people anywhere else in the world.

It’s more fun as a foot passenger, waiting in the tea room for the boat to come in. Watching the other passengers. Women with shopping, men carrying guitars, children starting their holiday, middle aged ramblers, bird watchers, lots and lots of old people. Folk going home. There’s always an air of anticipation in that tea room, not of excitement, the buzz of wonder when you’re going somewhere new. No it’s the sense of anticipated pleasure, knowing exactly what’s lying ahead of you.

Anyway, this time round I was travelling by car and got there late enough there wasn’t time for tea and a chance to soak up the atmosphere. But it’s not an unpleasant wait. The wind is roaring. The boats in the marina are clang clang clanging in the wind. Waves are washing over the sea wall and soaking the concrete floor of the car park.

And then the boat sails in. The Caledonian Isles. Doesn’t matter how many times I see that boat. I love it, love her, love the rituals around her. Love watching her open her jaws, let the cars out and the people off. Love watching the men steward us on, wondering how come so many are needed, pleased they’re there to make it work, like clockwork.

The journey’s 55 minutes. And with loading-on time that gives you an hour or so to be on the boat, to settle in under her skin.

Sometimes the time’s spent in the bar, and those are good trips. Full of tipsy anticipation of something good to come.

Too early to drink today and the sea too rough to spent the whole trip inside. It’s hard to resist the restaurant though, the delights of food you remember from childhood but don’t allow yourself any more. Chip butties, mugs of tea, a bacon roll, or macaroni cheese.

Hard to eat though with the size of the swell on the sea, so nothing for it but to go outside. Sometimes the decks are crowded with people, straining to catch a view of the island in the sunshine, but there are only a few hardy folk out today. I understand why when I cross over the top of the boat and almost get blown over, the man inside the observation deck watching, and laughing (but checking too that I’d got a firm grip of the rail).

Just a few other hardy souls out there. A girl with short dark hair standing at the front of the boat, revelling in the wind. A young couple looking across to the island, taking photos of the mist. He puts his arm around her shoulder and points across to the mountains, to the Cock of Arran, to the sweet green outline of the Holy Isle. There’s something about his face, his eyes and the way he is holding her that tells me he loves her, and loves the island, wants her to feel it too.

An older couple venture out, she’s nervous, holding on to the rail, he’s woken up, exhilarated, laughing. He takes off his glasses and loses ten years, washed and buffeted by the wind.

My face is glowing in the coldness of the wind. I can’t move to the other side of the boat for fear of getting blown over. The rain is coming down over Arran, the hills getting lost in the mist. A huge wave washes over the side of the boat and soak us in its spray.

We are all laughing. Laughing to be knocked and buffeted by the wind, to feel the huge swell on the waves, to notice the sting of the wind and the kiss of the rain, to let our hair run wild in the wind, to see the mist come down on the mountains and smile with pleasure that we are going there.

We are laughing to feel the force of nature, to know that she’s bigger than us, could beat us in any fight, hands down. Laughing that it’s as wild as this but good enough for us to be travelling, to be sailing back to the island. Laughing to forget the things that normally hold us down, lost in the wildness of the moment.

Laughing in the wind.