ferry

by

Island Blog – To Disturb Gravity

There’s still a hooligan outside which is a damn sight better than one inside. At Tapselteerie one was the other but making different sounds. Outside it was all crashes and bangs and thumps, whumps and with a refusal to own up to any of them, whereas inside the whistles and toots, the rattles and shakes seemed quite happy to locate themselves. Many newspapers gave their lives for a gap filling, holes in the walls, gaps in the window panes, cavernous splits in outer doors, the underneath of which had never touched ground for decades. Rain found its way in, under, through and over. Even my children were damp of a morning, wondering, as they did, if they had wet the bed. Even I wondered that.

Nowadays, as the hooligan refuses to let go of it’s fury, my home is better protected, even though it is as old as Tapselteerie. Yes, there is the odd leak, and it isn’t wise to open a wind facing door to greet the exhausted postie unless I close it smartly behind me. The ferry didn’t run so. he had to wait for the possible next one, which wasn’t possible, thus demanding another two hour wait. Hey ho, island life. The disturbing of gravity is quite the thing up here. Lord knows what it must be like further north. Today I returned 8 wheelies to their upstandment, wheeched over and obviously nauseous judging from the mouthal eruptions littering the track. Interesting, nonetheless to see the food choices and waste of others. A load of plastic wrapped somethings, dog poo bags and a ton of wine bottles. Moving on.

Disturbing gravity, according to my ancient Thesaurus, refers to ‘being ridiculous’. I immediately jumped on that one as a brilliant interpretation. It thinks me, as I was talking just this lovely morning with a very dear friend about the importance of fun, of being, I suppose, ridiculous. We take too much seriously, especially ourselves when all we really want is to have fun. And it is entirely possible. In me it is natural. I can be in the most ‘serious’ situation, with everyone being ‘serious’ all I want to do is to play the fool because I can see the ridiculous. Not to hurt anyone, of course, but just to remind these wonderful doing-their-best humans that it is so much easier to let go of pretence and to be honest and thus, individual. I remember this in my younger days, but, like most, keen to be accepted as one-of-the Ones, I spent hours dressing myself up as someone who would fit. In short, it was not good enough to be who I was.

Now, over 70 I will be who I am and give diddly squat about trying to be someone else. However, I do acknowledge the young now, the ones still stiffing themselves into the wrong clothing, employing an almost alien language, a new shape, just to fit in. I. look, hopefully, towards the wise parents who probably suffered those restrictive chains themselves and who will now look carefully at the young of our future and get to understand them, to listen and to learn and to ask them the questions most of us have never been asked.

Who do you want to be?

What would you like your life to look like?

And then, and then, to sit and listen.

by

Island Blog – Eyesotropy

I would have been thrown out of English Language class for this one, but, as I often was, I stand strong on this one. Back then, in the days of switch ruling and rigid definitions and absolutely no questions ever asked when a bright and (obviously) challenging student rose like fire in an actively cool environment, words were only acceptable if there was proof of their existence in the old dictionary. It was, I’m sure, born from the fear of the fire. Moving on…….

I’m just back from a trip to Specsavers on the mainland, meaning the rest of the world, btw. You are welcome to it, all of you who enjoy filling pavements and streets with a bosom and butt closeness which (never ‘that’, thanks Dad) ever has appealed to me. I need acres spare around me, an ocean preferably. I went for an annual checkup and I was, I confess, a bit anxious. Last year sent me to Glasgow for checks. I would say I am not a ‘fearty’ but I was, a bit. Degeneration is not a fun thought, and nor are the possibilities of ageing and the maybe loss of independence. Eyes are pivotal, important, essential, all of those and more. However, I have a son and his warm family to warm me in, over that sluice of water, that stretch we have taken for granted as almost an easy ride for many years, and one which is now a right pain in the arse. Mostly, it is true, because of an Incomplete of adequate ferries. I refuse to join the bang-on about that.

I join my grown-up grandlings on the journey over and am collected by their dad and delivered. The appointment is welcoming, efficient, fun. I’m still sort of waiting for the demise chat, the ‘I’m sorry to say that…’ thing. It never came. My eyes are, she said, very healthy for my age. No, she didn’t say that, she just said the healthy word. She showed my my twin planets, red moons, a few striations in gold. I was impressed. They’re mine? She nodded. yep. So, downstairs I go to sort new specs, and frames. Two for reading, two for better clarity driving, one pair tinted grey. So exciting, and we had loads of laughs about ridonculous frames and how I looked and so on. I think I held my son up with all this hilarity. Result, no further nothings until next year. Oops, double negative……

Off we walked in the rain for toasties and soup passing dogs and cyclists and kids and puddles. The chats altered as we moved up or back in the skinny group and I learned much about more, here and there. Snatchtalk. Home now and so thankful for my eyesotropic balls.

Just saying.

by

Island Blog – Remote Control and Smartarse

I set off, car packed, morning bright with a few clouds that didn’t seem to know quite where to go, a sort of fluffy ‘what’s next?’ thing going on between cumulus and cirrus. I left them to their dilemma and headed for the ferry, nothing but sheep on the road, and radio two my upbeat companion. I had thought of everything, chosen what to take most carefully, organised this and sorted that and I was feeling cocky, or henny, in my case. The usual anxiety around travel was noticeably absent, and I was. surprised at that, wondering if it would arise and catastrophise me. Nothing. Just excitement and anticipation of an open road adventure. Early I was, of course, and took my place with the other Earlies in Lane One. The sea was a blue pancake with a couple of sailors already canvassed up to catch the little breeze. Waiting is no problem for me. I have learned how to wait like a pro and over decades of husband, children, guests, oldies, dodgy vehicles and stubborn animals. Noticing a friend pull up in the car behind, I got out to chat, share news, have a laugh. See you on the boat, I chirruped, bright as a wren, as the ticketmaster appeared to point his pinger thing at our QR codes, whatever the hell that means. Loading now, and I strap up, push the start button. Nothing. Again. Nothing. On my screen it says I must hold up the start button to release the steering wheel. This has happened before, and, come to think of it, quite a lot, lately. I obey and I pray, as Miss Pixty makes no sound, like she dead. I tell the behind me cars to pass me by, feeling very spiritually damp, and continue pushing buttons and praying as I watch all the cars load onto the boat, even the standbys. I am doomed. I also look ridiculous, well, we do, me and Miss P, alone in this vast empty space, and the ferry pulls out on time. My heart is in my boots. I have a meet with my son first, then a journey to other family and from what I could remember, this space on any boat was the only one today.

I and me need a word. One of us is panicking, the other smartarse, smartarsing. All shall be well, she says, calm as you like, to heart thumping me now flicking through the mini manual for a solution. My brain is on over-rush. Who do I call to sort my car? The AA on the island is actually far enough away to be extra terrestrial, many hours between us, and that’s only if the good man is free to come. The screen tells me my remote control needs a new battery. I have a remote control? Calming, and with the gentle guidance of the extremely handsome ticketmaster, I read that, if I hold the remote control (the key, for goodness sake) against the steering column whilst pushing the start button up, a message will go to Mini HQ and they will ignite my engine. Good flipping lord. Where is Mini HQ btw? I obey, the engine starts and I swear Miss P chuckles, a sort of throaty giggle. I’ll talk to you later, I say. About what, says the ticketmaster who looks about 19 and of the caring sort. Ah, not you, my car. O…K… he grins, adding, I’ll change your ticket for the next boat, due about an hour. I relax and pull forward to the top of Lane One, a huge smile on my face.

And, I congratulate myself. I did not panic. I found help, found a way, called my kids, felt no rise of anxiety, nothing more than oh bugger and that one is always sortable, all swash and buckle, like being threatened with a plastic sword. All, is, I concede to the smartarse, well. It thinks me.

I know I have been working a lot on perspective of late, just thinking about thoughts, the emotions they arise, the knee-jerks of old. I wanted change, hence the work. At each and any rise of anxiety, I notice it, and we have a chat. Thing is, if given clearance to develop, a little nothing much can grow into a monster, blocking out the light, the way forward invisible. It also brings indigestion, wobbly legs, a reminder of personal past failures and a sense of being quite pathetic and a mega wimp. It also brings in the ‘shoulds’. I should be able to do this, sort this, get over this, work this out, get through this, overcome this, change this, all followed by a slump of the shoulders and the turn into defeat and punishment. Well to hell with that damn nonsense! I know who I am, and so does the delightful ticketmaster, #bonkers. I have lived through many real and many imagined disasters and, on reflection, was good in a crisis, despite the fact that all my organs changed places for a few moments, unbalancing me somewhat. Missing one ferry, meeting kindness and support, my travel plans altered for an hour or two – absolutely not a disaster. Perspective is everything at such times. What ifs get blown away, adventure beckons. And, if I am honest, I feel proud of myself. I can do this, whatever the ‘this’ is, not only with my innate strength, both mental and physical (that’s the work), but more, with humour and curiosity.

The journey was a doddle. Roads were clear, sun shone merrily, having banished the dithering of both cirrus and cumulus, and I arrived safely. Yes I had to do the remote-to-steering colum thing, a few times, and yes, my heart did flutter each time, but we got here, to a family welcome. Then, my little granddaughter googled something, told me I needed a new battery, found one and all is well.

Smartarse is right, again.

by

Island Blog – An Eye on Things

The wind is wild today. She began with a huff and a puff, and a bit of spew, then, and I noticed this, she gathered her skirts into a whirl and then some, slewing everyone sideways, canting roses, ripping off their blooms. She felled a tree, well, not the whole tree, but a big limb, already compromised as I saw from the black ingress of water at the point of release. This limb fell right across the cut-off path through the woods. I bogged my way around the whole collapso wanting to see it all from another side. The fallen branches still shivered, still lived, still green and hopeful and I bent down to say something to the dying. The rich green was beautiful against the carpet of lift into the woods, still brown from lack of sunlight, fizzing with old needles, old nuts, old stories. I lifted myself, moved on, looked back, thought much. We leave life lost behind us, until we don’t. It thinks me.

Returning from a various on the mainland, over on the ferry, will there be a ferry, all thatshit, I am now home again, and so thankful for that. The plan was to go to a secret ceilidh for my beautiful daughter-in-law (such a clinical label) but and but and but, I had a sudden thing about my eyeball, left one, not good. So, after the most marvellous night of celebration and dancing and children and balloons and fun, I headed off for the eye thing. Thanks to my wonderful sisters, the tests were done and, oh my gosh, there is nothing to do! Who ever hears that! Nonetheless, being on the mainland where people, my favourite, become a crowd, a number to navigate, to avoid, to watch from a safe distance, confounded me. I would never choose to live in such a busy place. Being told where to walk, which lane to drive, no matter the wotwot of a life would piss me off, big time. I’m all about free movement without explaining, or ever needing to, my reason for rushing anywhere. Here, we respect that, if some vehicle is up your butt, they need to pass you. We know to pull in.

Now home, I think about what home means. I know that I want to stay here as long as possible, but I also know that people think too late. I never want to leave here. But I would, and I did consider that big time when the possibility of my left eye dodging me might mean no driving. I live in a wild place. I adore this place, my home. But it came to me that I am my home, no matter where. In fact, if I have my eye on things, I can see beauty, opportunity, dimension, fun, mischief, perspective, no matter where I am. When I was in the city, my elbows out, moving through the fear of missing a train, etcetera, I found a piano in the station. I had time. I sat down and played as travellers moved by in droves. For a few minutes I calmed myself. The piano was tuned and sounded good. And then I moved on, lugging my broken suitcase down the steps. In Glasgow I had time to buy a coffee. Another piano beckoned, but someone else was there. So, instead I walked outside and watched a man begging, jovial, polite, welcoming folk. I noticed no eyes on. Then a young woman’s suitcase, big, burst. He was up in a moment, helping her. She welcomed his help. I watched and watched, eyes on. Before I headed for my train to the home that is me, I went to give him something and to shake his hand. The young woman was still there. You know, she said, in her Australian accent, I have met a lot of shits on my travels, and then, right here, when my case bursts open, in Glasgow, I meet a real human.

by

Island Blog – Stasis, Statues and the Extraordinary

And so it is. The ferry will not carry anyone who cannot prove they live here; the shops are closed, as are the pubs, hotels and hostels. We are held in stasis, like the statues we see dotted around our cities. Whenever I walk past one, bronzed and frozen in some public place, I wonder what was happening to that notable person before that moment in time and after, if, indeed there was one of those. Did he or she live out a mostly ordinary life until he or she chose to perform something remarkable? Was that laudable moment his only laudable moment? Or was her life so very laudable that we, living out our own ordinary lives (that never epiphanied us into statue material) have to keep being reminded of our ordinariness every time we pass by? Did his feet ache in ill-fitting shoes or no shoes at all? Was she late for school/work/choir practice and did her teeth hurt eating ice cream? What does this laudable dude think of the pigeons that perch on their horizontals and shit them white and greasy grey? Do they notice the baggy coated homeless wanderer who slumps beneath their lofty limbs glugging poison from a bottle and staring out at the world through nearlydead eyes?

Who knows. Statement, not question. I would have to stop, obviously, and read the plaque, the blurb about this hero or heroine but I rarely do if I’m honest. I notice, more, the face, the expression, and I follow the trajectory of their gaze and even that cursorily because I am on my own trajectory from A to B, and this bronzed or marbled elevation of one human being (or been) will still be here should I come this way again with more time and with my specs on.

But now we are not marching from A to B, most of us. Those who aren’t directly servicing the good of our fellow men and women are at home behind window glass and doors with sterilised handles and knobs. The walks and talks and coffee meets and random encounters are now forbidden as we work together to prevent the unnecessary spread of a killer virus. Silent, deadly and very much alive. But we are enterprising, we ordinary people, and I am daily delighted as I hear more of this online idea or that distance contact. I laugh at the online videos created by minds with sparkle and am thankful when they are forwarded on to me. We are not statues. Most of us never will be anyway. But, in our ordinariness we are showing strong signs of the extraordinary. I knew we would. My granddaughter is doing a co-ordinated bake off with her school mates through WhatsApp or Skype. And what she is learning, what we are all learning, is that our ordinary brains are capable of so much more than we ever knew. The world will be forever changed once we come out on the other side of this war and although some won’t be with us, those who are left will walk into a new world and, although not many of us will warrant a statue in our name, there are those who would surely deserve to be remembered in such a way.

I remember a statue once, in Amsterdam. A rather splendid fellow in frock coat and tights with an ebullience of rakish hair and a fabulous face. He was holding out a painters palette in one hand, a paintbrush in the other. I was not on my way from A to B and he was worth a second look, so I did read the plaque. ‘Barent Fabritius – who lived till he went back to Amsterdam, whence he died’. Not a great ad for Amsterdam. It made me chuckle and look back up into his face. And then he moved.

He moved, he moved! I screeched at my friend who raised one eyebrow and shook her head. See that glass of white you had for lunch….? she said and walked away to check out some tulips. I risked another glance upwards. He smiled at me and winked and I laughed delightedly, upsetting the pigeons who burst into the sky, and the old homeless man on a nearby bench swore in technicolour, then slumped back down into the folds of his baggy old coat.

I knew then, as I know now, that nothing and no-one in this world is ordinary. Oh no, not at all.