Words From The West

Back in the city, it’s hard to hold on to the belief. Work, habits, routines, the demands of the everyday bring me back down to earth. The effort of a move, of selling a house, of sorting the money, of buying anew, it daunts me, oppresses me, taunts me. You’ll never do it.

I try different strategies. Tell my new friends of my plans. Tell it, write it, try to make it real with my words.

Struggle to hold on to the belief.

Maybe the sunshine doesn’t help. Throwing light into this house, showing me how lovely it is. Tempting me into my garden. How easy it is. Watching the cat sunbathing in the back. How perfect it is.

It’s only when the rain batters and the wind howls that my strength comes back. Calling me, reminding me, showing me the way.

And I try and write, and read, and organise my photos. Capturing the moment, remembering it’s true, affirming the possibility, no: stating the necessity. Making my connections. Weaving some threads.

Maybe this is how it needs to be. I want a sign, a move, a shift, something that says as clear as it can – it’s now, it’s for you, do this, this is how.

But maybe I’m not going to get that kind of a lifebelt. Maybe this is just how it will be, one foot in front of the other, weaving soft threads, my words and my pictures, the sound of the wind and the rain.

The crossing never fails to delight.

It’s a cold wet day by the time we leave Brodick and it’s only the smokers on deck. Looking back to the island I can’t help but notice the rows of empty seats, looking out to sea. Something jaunty, Victorian, no Edwardian about their colours, their steadfast wait for the stream of day trippers.

Not ten minutes later and the weather’s changed again. Brilliant blue skies over the Ayrshire coast, demanding more pictures. It’s a feast of blues – more sea, I wonder, or more sky? I take some of each, adjusting, admiring as I go.

On the other side of the boat the skies have darkened. Streaks of black rain on the horizon. The faint outline of Ailsa Craig in shadows of darkness and light.

A fishing boat drifts past. As I turn back to watch the boat is perfectly framed: dark clouds, sheets of rain, bright silver sunshine illuminating the water.

Why do I prefer this side of the boat? It’s not just the last look at the island.

It’s the appeal of the dark, the wind and the rain, the edge of the Atlantic, the promise of the islands, the stretch into wildness, the depths of my history, the wildness of the west.

I can resist it no more.