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Looking Back February 2013

I love that I have kept such detailed notes! It makes looking back and remembering so much easier. There were many times during the Shemaron ‘project’ when we felt the need to make the journey to Scotland in order to check on our boat. During the  storms of February 2013 we stayed on a farm not far from the Mull of Kintyre. I always felt there was an extra ‘something’ in the atmosphere around this area. Nothing spiritual, something that came from its geology and the way the weather and sea interacted with it.

On this particular visit the weather was really stormy. I was with my youngest daughter and my husband. Shemaron was jostling about so much it was difficult to get on board. One day we took the car down to the harbour a couple of times to check the ropes but spent most of our time in the farmhouse where we were staying.

 

 

 

 

Looking Back February 2013

 

I thought I heard the roar of wind through the sash window gaps,  but when I got up to look the trees were still. It was the sea that rolled beneath the hill.

It had hidden from the moon through the cloudy winter night. Rolling behind naked trunks, breaking white. It was reaching for the shore in the steely hours of dawn.

I could feel it just the same, it had not gone away or changed, it seemed stronger in the winter rain. There is something that goes on here and I think they know, the snowdrops nodding in the breeze, that hunker round the roots of the naked trees.

Up the hill and by the copse, moss has buried a sharp edged wall in layers so deep, its purpose has been rendered obsolete. A flourishing green embrace, seeking with verdant tread, soft and yielding on the stone. A Hornbeam shivered its tawny leaves, waving variance to the churning sea.

Along the track water spilled, banished from the heavy hills, and, even as the snowdrops bloomed, leaf rot squelched, black, beneath my shoe.

Later, curlews called in the evening bright; a heron stilled its hoop winged flight and landed in the squall.

As light spun on the declining day, rooks gathered in the empty trees and called the evening down. Just before the falling night a buzzard soared beneath the cloud, hunting in the lowered sky. It folded back its brawny wings and fell towards its prey.

On the hillside trees drank clouds, standing under lichen shrouds. Through all this time stalactites hung poised through dripping lime, under the vault of Balnabraid Bridge.

The colours of the day were grey and green with every saturated hue between.

 

 

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