June 22 Hebridean Baptism..

It takes fourteen minutes to drive across the bog on the floating road to the tiny house where we are staying for ten days.   We set off at dawn but it’s 11pm when we arrive on isle, still light, cuckoo calling and almost colliding with an otter.  Three defiant young stags are grazing on the croft.

This time there was no dolphin fly past.  We tried to snuck in quietly under the radar, but the Uist welcome embraced us at the ferry terminal.  It feels good to be held dear in this place.

On waking, I count endless clouds and an assortment of feral sheep on the shore.  They lie like old snowdrifts, giant bottoms to the wind.  Oyster catchers plink like fury at our presence. 

We head up the moors for the long views across the island-studded waters towards the brooding hills of Harris.  I take my fill of skies and follow the golden plover’s moaning whiffles.  I’m delighted to see the dew-drenched sundews stretching in the sun and a familiar suite of plants.  Hello orchids,  have you missed me?

This visit is a kind of retreat.  My aim to complete the drawings for MacSprout, the book to honour Sprout and our years living in the islands.   And I am training a new dog, Oswald.  There’s a gap in our story.  I have not written about a spring of despair: a four month old pup with holes in his elbows which need to be screwed together and a father in hospital with Covid and heart complications.

There are reasons to celebrate.  All have made it.  Oz’s legs are mended and my Dad came home.  This is Oswald’s first visit to the Hebrides and he is out of confinement.   And would be out of control if not for the long line I have to deploy.  He is crazy for birds.  How deep are the reserves of patience needed to understand the inner workings of a young Springer spaniel!

My new companion is quiet and gentle when not following his instincts.  Beloved Sprout was velvety, like the black moley moss on the rocks by the waterfall.   Oz is gossamer.  His slight frame belies his strength and he moves like gazelle on the hill.

I swim in dark blue sky lochs and Oswald follows.  I draw to the calls of the whimpering plovers.   I feel rusty.  The book does not flow.  Maybe this is grief or tiredness or the weight of my own expectations bearing down on me.  Writing about my love and respect for this precious wild place should be cathartic, but the power of loss overwhelms me. 

Something shifts.  I have a vital conversation with an artist friend.  I gain some understanding of my fogginess.   I absorb myself in the place, collect local treasures, retrace four-legged footsteps on west coast beaches, fish for wild trout and spend time with precious friends.   Progress is slow.  There is a coming together and I am on my way.