Month: July 2025

by

Island Blog – Remember

I’m fingering through my ancient Thesaurus to find a different, a more appropriate for this ‘remember’, and also laughing,hand to mouth as I see more of this agist tome. Once-this-was-it, but such definitions have no place in the today of today. However this book is my friend, falling apart, yes but one which has seen me through every angsty write. The pages are coffee coloured, the seams twitching to release any page. It’s a right combobble to keep this book together. It learns me, and also divides me big time from the awfulness of what was once acceptable. Moving on.

My search is for the word, Remember. Interesting that, in this old book, the page takes me to, and in order, Sage, Fool, Sanity, Insanity,Madman, and then Memory. We were of our time, not that I concur with most of the sequence. What looks likes no was a judgement in those days, but has no place in the now. Back to my point. I am not sentimental about deaths, but I find myself remembering my dad today, his would-be birthday tomorrow. I’m listening to fingers on jazz pianos, hearing his, as we did all through childhood. We learned the 12 bar blues, we knew the up and down, the hesitation, the pull and thrust of pretty much everything jazz. Our dad dazzled everywhere he went, even through the war and for the troops who so needed our dad in the horrors of Burma, back then. I can see him, cigar in mouth, brandy or whisky beside, that smile, that invitation. Once he agreed to play, the room was his, and so were we.

by

Island Blog – Escape, Inscape.

Today was a Wednesday of exception. Actually, we were run off our feet, trays flying, clearing, washing on a hot and constant roll, and for a big load of time. Soups, two, quiches, two focaccia sandwiches, 3 flavours like roast veg, goat’s cheese, salad, Mull Cheddar with a musical dressing, I forget. It was diaphanous. There was a lot of eye rolling in the Washeroo, which, btw had three busty thrusts of plates, cups, glasses, little pots of little potness, small pants hot chocolates, dough bowls, teapots offering every sort of herbal tea. Balancing is a thing here. Not just the trays for the wishdosher, but for us all. We keep checking. You ok? you ok? Bosses do the same. They are the best to work for, so intuitive, so watching, and I know that place. Nice, nonetheless to see it in the young uns.

As I arrived for work this morning, I parked below a willow. Love her, We have great chats. Ahead of me, t’other side of the car park, stood a camper van, a big one, doors open. Too early for a cafe opening, but they were waiting. I walked by, we smiled, said hi. Nothing happened.

And then, it did. I wash steamed up, eyeliner gone, washing and washing and a man came in, saying he had backed his camper into my mini. He could, so easily, have driven off. He didn’t. So many good people in this broken world. We talked, smiled, tried to fix things. Nobody died. We agreed on that, and the damage did not stop me driving home from work. We exchanged insurance tiddleypom, and all that it fine and dancey. However, it thinks me.

scape,inscape,love,happy,There I was, finding this Wednesday as a loud haler, shouting, you are too old for this stuff. I did. I spoke it out, my body bending, my arms, thumbs, whatevers drooping like a load of nonsense. This is not me. I love my work. I love this cafe, my co-workers, my canny bosses. Today, the mini crunch, the family connect, the random of it. Driving home with Ellie, such a dude, btw, we laughed about the beeps on my onboard computer which has no idea at all about the relevance nor location of itself, thus requiring a shut the eff up with your beeps, and watching her, Ellie, walk up to her home, I thought a think. We escaped today, the insaneness of today. We’ll go there again, oh yes we will. The inscape of it all is many more thinks, no, perhaps observations and reflections in the gentle quiet of an island evening.

by

Island Blog – Faith

I wake into a ‘meh’. Most unlike me, but I can feel it trail my feet, sludge my steps, halt me in my walk to the bathroom. Actually, no, stop, it bothered my sleep too, waking me with anxious nonsense. Anxiety is always nonsense, I know this, because the images are those of fear, of what hasn’t, and probably will never, happen. I do remember, inside one of those nonsense moments, actively rising in the very dark, and walking around my bed like some circling eejit in the hope that I would lose the damn thing. I didn’t. These things are sticky. I also remember lying there, staring up at nothing, seeing nothing and wondering why it isn’t possible to take off a head, mine, lay it on a chair, preferably in another room and behind closed doors, maybe even locked, and then sleep headless, just body resting without the interminable nonsense of a rollocking mind. I don’t know about you, nor your mind, but mine is a terrorist, or can be, a rebel with no specific cause, a vandal, a schemer, a troublemaker. I do not recall requesting this as a child. Is it a punishment? And yet, the other side of this grubby coin is a brilliant thinker and I am she. It seems, she sighs inwardly, that the light requires a similar dosage of darkness.

And so, and so, I am living still as one who must (never should, never ought) work with the palaver of my mind because this damn thing is of use to me in a million ways. I can write. I can speak. I can influence. I can encourage, facilitate, lead. I am fearless on behalf of others. I can stop to sit on pavements without embarrassment, to talk with someone else held in that place. I do not bother about comments, will not judge, will sing in a toy shop if a song comes to mind, even dance with an ambulance driver out for a smoke when someone begins a fiddle tune. My mind is my friend, and my not friend. I remember ‘not friends’, at school, at work (although I only lasted a few weeks in that job) and I took myself off. I did. But when my ‘not friend’ is my own mind, without heading (sorry) into the impossible, I am stuck with her.

We moved through the day, me distracting with music, an audio book, a load of looking out, even more ‘noticing’ until we were all exhausted with the whole thing, me, my mind, my body. There are three of us in this thing. We shopped, snoozed ready for the four day work shift ahead, listened to a story, moved a few cobwebs aside, cautiously, checking for the mama house spiders (I won’t hurt) and felt alternately shit and okay. But I think my bonus ball is that I have faith. That tomorrow will show me a difference, that my eejit mind is exhausted and will shut the eff up tonight, that the roses still bloom, that day will dawn, that the sun will rise and dip, that my children will continue to fly.

T’is more than many can say.

by

Island Blog – Silence and She’s Green

I found my old mum’s mood ring today. My jewellery box is mostly full of stories and not worldly wealth. I like that. I am not interested in worldly wealth, nor ever I was and nor was himself. We were all about stories, learned from them, made our own, spun them out into other times, other lives, like frisbees. Catch if you want, if you can. I put on the ring, a little finger fit, and noticed the changes, from green to blue to black to purple to amber and that was just one morning. I thought some about what goes on inside my mind and heart, and paused to notice and reflect in the early morning light. To be honest I have eschewed any rings and for a very long time, even though I love rings, because, for me, they denoted a control over the self of me. They actually itched and had to go. I remember being on a ferry back to the island, yonks ago, and an elevatory conversation between me and himself on the aft deck, and I flipped. I yanked off my wedding ring and tossed it overboard. A moment. Will you replace it? he asked. No, I said. I know I am married. I don’t need to show that. I never wore one again, but did stay married and for decades thereafter.

There’s a gap in my noise thing. I listen to Radio 2 and mostly love it. As the afternoon shifts into a difference, birds flying out, flying home to roost; as the tidal shifts and swifts, bringing in new seaweed, new fish flow, a change of the sea-mind, I listen to silence. Visitors may drive by, but mostly everything stops on the cusp of dinner plans, everyone showering, dressing up, timing departure for the table booking. I watch it, distractedly, as I make a new salad dressing with a load of inventive stuff. I also sense the tense of it all. I wish I could say I remember it, a family with young ones, but I don’t. In the days of running Tapselteerie, we went nowhere much. Five kids and debt will do that for you.

However, I did learn and that learning has held me up ever since. I notice everything. Everything. In the absence of television, no wifi, no mobile phones (none existed) there comes a deep need to find something beyond self, beyond the washing of plates, the providing of experiences for others. The Self demands a voice. I took myself on walks in the wild and at crazy times, and suddenly. I thank my reckless and colourful self for pushing me on, in the wrong boots, ill-equipped for the slam-dunk of west coast weather, in the silence and the shout of blast weather, among wild and growly cows, over lichen-slip rocks, over shell beaches, squishing through bladderwrack, kelp, sugar kelp, dabberloks, all wonderful as I sink into their gush of salty tannin. No nowadays visitor is going to like this. I love the connection. They will just angst about stain. I’m watching this happen, the distancing from the real, even as I know there are those who will listen in the silence, who will research, who do care about the beyond of worldly hoo-ha, the strive for monetary wealth, the need for ownership. the hunger for dominion. I know it.

I watched a young Osprey today, being hassled but gulls, all full voice. I saw it dip and flip across the sea-loch, giving no aggressive response. It thought me. There are times we just need to accept that the hecklers win, and we move on in silence. I look down at my mood ring. She’s green.

by

Island Blog – Under Shouty Clouds

I watch visitors wander by, walking into the Tapselteerie magic, or just heading for their rental for a week or two. They seem happy, wave to me, or, more correctly, I wave to them and they respond. Not all do, heads down, even though I know from my goldfish bowl, that they have clocked me. It wonders me, even as I absolutely know the head down, don’t make eye contact thing of not just Englandshire, but of many big places wherein people have forgotten their place, their identity within a dynamic that actually needs independenties. I’m amazed I was ‘allowed’ to create that one. What I am saying here is that we have become a smudge, a number and why the hec are we doing that when who we are is fire and water, sky, smoke, wild, intelligent, vocal, skilled, powerful? I get ‘polite’, no gawping, all that, but it does sadden me somewhat. These visitors, many of them, have never witnessed the wide sky, the lack of intrusive noise, the call of owls at night, the black sky when the sun has blown out, the stars. There is no threat here beyond inner fear, and that’s a whole different thing. I won’t even go there.

The clouds are shouty today. A collusion of confluence, a bumping which may have upset the ears of the upper eschalons. We can’t hear it in the down below of down below. It just manifests in a bout of tooth grinding, or of over-the-top outrage in a car queue, or ditto in the wrong sandwich for lunch, or of someone arriving late for a meeting, so hefty are the pressures of down below. It thinks me. If we could, if we just could, for one day, decide that the pressure is pressure? That’s all. And, then, detach. Who am I? Who do I want to be? Any response will be inchoate, unformed, but I know that beginning. I remember asking this, mid five kids, mid Tapselteerie, sunk, or so I thought, beneath the pressure of many clouds. I want to be someone different, to see things differently, to go beyond the limitations perceived and learned from before.

We might see ‘finite’. We don’t need to. More and more we subverse our own story. I know I write this beyond the wild of influence, watching more those who become a smudge, and wanting to remind them of the rebels who changed so much, eventually. We need them now. Not drunk nor drugged, not hiding away, but here. Right here, under shouty clouds.

by

Island ~Blog – Thank you

My second fourth day in the cafe. Consecutive. It matters. It smiles me, the wondering of the whether or the not of this four day working thing at my age. I did wonder a lot, until I decided Oh to hec with this wondering flippancy. Let’s go. And I’m two weeks in. It thinks me about spontaneity, about random, about Hell yes. If I remember, and I do, those in my past, who did just jump, who did decide not to fade into beige, who, despite confines and restrictions, emerged in colour. And she is me. Now, I don’t want to say that only women do this colour-up thing, this stand alone thing, but I am a woman and cannot speak for a man.

The cafe was quiet a bit and then loud a lot, visitors coming in, all smiles and askings, and we were there. The baking and the soups are fabulous, the cakes high rise and flipping endless. I know because I am wheeching cake tins and spatulas and bake tins and whisks and bowls and scrapers and wooden spoons out from the kitchen and into the washeroo, a lot. It thought me, and this is nothing to do with the cafe, more my own life. Recognition for work in my day was not expected from a man. It isn’t now.

But now it is given. Thank you

by

Island Blog – Take the Risk and Fly

The Rose Bay Willow Herb (I’m so glad my parents didn’t weigh me down with this name) is waffling, backlit with sudden sun. I’m watching it doing this waffling thing and I get it. You beautiful lot, all purple and strong and waffling down there upside of a sealoch, are stalk stuck. For all you sway, that’s the it of it for you. The next bit is a windthrip of petals and then the aftermath. I close my windows for that. A thousand piloted seeds float in. Any window open and opportunity knocks, although it doesn’t, not for the RBWH. Indoors is not a beginning. It’s more a load of sweeperoo, and even that requires a lot of dancing about with brush and dustpan and for days. But, when I stop to catch these seeds, hold them in my palm, I am brillianced by nature. These seeds, flighter than dandelions but with a similar modus operandi, can go for miles and miles. How clever is that! We stop and start at traffic lights. We queue politely (heaven help us on that nonsense). We pause before speaking. We say ‘Sorry’ way, way too often. We can float, we can, in silence.

Trouble is, we are grounded and within a thoroughly controlled environment, rules, queues, strictures, opinions, cultures, or we believe we are, and, thus we limit our lift and our fly. Of course, I realise that plants don’t have parents, nor do they go to school, nor work, and that trio can define and control us. And, we cannot fly, not like seeds, not like birds. However, I will challenge this, not in ‘realism’ but in mind belief, in dreams, in the longing of those who just know there is something more than the grounded This.

I am old. I am experientially so. I have lived a bajonkers life. still am. I see, still, an upper age control, at times domination. I see, still matriarchal and patriarchal chains suffocating. I see, still the confines of religious beliefs, the social expectation, the racial bullying. It goes on. What I would say is this, only this:-

If you have a dream, a real focus, no matter your place, your state, your anything. Take the risk and fly.

by

Island Blog – Clockwise and Widdershins

I’m aware that July is easing out of view, note, calendar. To be honest, I feel she only just arrived. How the wheel turns! I thought this as I watched my washing machine do it’s thingy. It swished clockwise, paused, and then went widdershins. Ah! I said, I did and out loud, this is life. You think it’s going one way and then it flaming well doesn’t. I can’t blame July. All the months do this. And what surprises me, now I consider the whole wheel turn backforth confusative is why are we surprised at all? I find no answerers. These questions are mostly thrown into the void, where, which is rather alarming, there is nobody with an answer. It wonders me. Are these questions more a boomerang?

Ah, yes, they are. Although it feds me up a whole lot, I know it’s true. We answer our own questions. We think we can’t, that we need someone else to do this, and, sometimes, when deeply compromised, deeply lost, we do. I know that. I do. But what I know and notice is that so many of us, strong us, confident us, forget ourselves. Life will swipe clockwise and widdershins. Always did, always will. I ask myself, who do I want to be in this new month, new age, new moment?

And then, I remember. It takes a big re-jig, or it does for me. Times I know I am old, feeling it, pushing on when thumbs and hips hurt, because……and what is my because? No idea.

I know me, the who of me. Not one single other person in the whole of everything will ever know the me of me, the I of I. Nobody, not ever. Only me. So this flipshake of clockwise and widdershins, this whole July departure, and the next month and the next, the expectations of those cemented in some man-made control programme, not one of them can decide me.

I turn off the washing machine, hang my clothes on the pulley. Nobody has them anymore, not in the new world of everything aesthetic and clueless. I watch them dangle. They’ll be dry the morra.

by

Island blog – The Plosive and the Fricative

The Cafe was bajonkers today. It seems to be a Wednesday thing, although I imagine, now that most of Englandshire is on holiday here in big vehicles with kids and dogs and a tiny wish they were on a beach in Spain, that Wednesday will not be the only bajonkers day. Serving excellent coffees, an abundance of quirky teas and hot chocolates, a fairground of colourful high rise cakes of many flavours and combinations, people thronged. In fact, there was so much thronging that all inside tables filled over and over again, thus sending those made of tough stuff out into the spitspot of west coast rain. Those ones ate fast, with good humour and in rainproof jackets. It was all smiles, it was, even when the queue was long enough to cause me pause on my return from sourcing more brown sugar lumps and another bag of ethnically farmed (and salted) hot chocolate nubbits, with a lot of excuse me’s.

What all this meant to me as the small and salty washerwoman was a deal of dishwasher management. It’s a great wee thing, maw of a young whale and a very hot wash in five. A purging, apparently, and one insisted upon by the gods of cafe standards. However, I have discovered that this delightful washhelper has her, or his, limitations. He/she is crap at sourdough mix. We all are crap at something, yes, but this dough takes the prize. Soaking, endless, stuck bits, concrete, drain-blocking, spectacular. The bread is gorgeous, so that makes it all ok.

I did notice, pausing more as my arms disappeared into the depths of a mammoth sink, the water hot as Hades, a rise of wordage in my gullet. Such an unattractive word. Picture me, in this cocoon, although I doubt the butterfly bit, surrounded in steam, endless dishes coming at me, and I mean endless. I noticed how I say nothing, just keep moving, keep working. I also notice how my co-workers, decades younger than I, do expel breath, plosive, after a huge rush of soups, quiches, pita with hummus, cakes, scones with this, without that, as they speak out the phew of a break in pressure, pulling back into the fricative when another customer appears and smiley welcome slaps on. They are so professional. And, then I wonder at myself, all quiet in the Washeroo, no plosives, not even a fricative. I know, of course I do. This is training, this is my learning. You just don’t expel anything young lady, not ever, and there is a huge weight of pressure in just that admonition. My generation, my time.

I love the new.

by

Island Blog – Do You Remember?

I walk today in the Tapselteerie woods. After a refresh of rain, after yesterday moving through a thick of tourists and shoppers, there are no Excuse Me’s here, no need. I am alone amongst the hidden faeries, the ground-dwellers, the dripping leaves, alone in the glorious, yet musical silence, even though it isn’t silent at all, not with all this dripping and faerie chatter. There’s a thrum from the soft ground, I can feel its rhythm through my soft shoes, my toes connecting with the gentle buzz of conversation, nature speke. I stand awhile to listen, just stand, to take in the peaty smell, think ‘whisky’, laugh at myself, the sound caught up in the air, held in the massive branches overhead, then released back into silence. I see a broken limb, a huge one, and put my hand on the beech bark, murmer something, a thank you. You are old, you are fallen, I see you. My fingers, gnarled and bent look like my mum’s now. I never saw that coming, but nor did the beech limb, thrust out wide, fighting for light, tangled in it, too far, too high, too ‘out there’ to survive.

I move on and out of the woods, the only sound my rainproof jacket (awful noisy things) and begin my walk home. There’s a mist across the sea-loch, a smokey rub-out, a loss of definition. Everything is lush, green, ebullient, a disguise. In winter everything is clearly defined, the start and the stop, the contours of rocks and hills recognisable like a something laid bare, naked, a woman without make-up, just woken. I slow my pace. The rushing in me is like a burn in spate, a river, even, a tidal flow and this is not always a wonderful thing. I know that my life required a great deal of rushing, but not now, yet still I rush. To slow, to sit, to wander, to ponder, all can feel like anathema even as I see others who can and to wonder why I cannot.

I think back to the fallen limb, to all the fallen limbs I have encountered throughout my years among the Tapselteerie woods, as an islander. I remind myself of all the moments I have calmed and gentled others in turmoil; how many times I have heard said that my bright spirit has uplifted a falling soul, how many I have welcomed in with warmth and light and music and ideas. And then I remember how easy it is to forget the legacy of what I have given, of the who I am, of the how I eased life, of the when I showed up, stood tall, made laughter a bridge of opportunity for another. I did that, and I forget that.

I’m home now, and writing this, but my mind scoots back to the old beech. She gave and gave, proffering her strength for a ‘great place for a kiddies swing’ as she pushed and fought for light within the canopy. She struck out, braved herself, gradually over a long time, silently, determinedly, proudly, independently. I did too.

And so did you. Do your remember?