Here on the Isle of Arran the jagged hills stand like natural ramparts. At first their dark silhouettes can appear harsh to the eye, but as you get closer they welcome you into their brown and green arms, like sedentary big friendly giants. Along with the surrounding Firth of Clyde, they protect those below from the cruel hustle and bustle of a seemingly distant mainland.
A few intrepid steps down from the hill tops all manner of trees cluster together in batches, if I was even remotely interested in the details then I would know some of their names. Perhaps some red squirrels roam free among them, unperturbed by any diseases or unwarranted warfare waged by their grey American cousins. We have not seen any, much to my wife’s disappointment. The local brewery, however, does a fine Red Squirrel mild ale. One of the toothy furry creatures stares at me from the bottle’s branding. I salute him as I take a sip.
Even further down from there, what look like palm trees (but I have been told by my wife are tree ferns) give the isle an exotic look that it both strangely, at times, exudes — and (in my mind) deserves. The guidebook talks of Arran’s microclimate; mild winters and summers granted by its position in the Gulf Stream and close proximity to the Atlantic Ocean. You can feel it when you walk near the sea, when the wind whips up, a chill, yes. But also a comforting warmth that pats your back as the wind dies down (look, I’m never going to present the weather forecast on TV, OK?).
At the edge of every beach, the crystal clear blue water looks as if it flows directly from heaven. Paddle boarders drift over the surface, children splash in the shallow edge of the tide, their laughter and smiles clear as day despite the cold spray. Dogs race along the sand and pebbles, trying to catch the ball their owner has thrown as if their very lives depended on it.
The shores are like barren winter Nordic seafronts when the sky is grey. Then, just a minute later, they transform themselves into sun-kissed North American-type landscapes when there is a break in the clouds. Nobody know how to dress. Some wear shorts and T-shirts (I tag them as Glaswegians), others are layered up well enough to spend a couple of hours on the North Pole (anyone from below Hadrian’s Wall, but not from Newcastle).
After an evening walk by the sea we pass by a bagpipe band practising on a field. Perhaps they are getting ready for a Jubilee celebration.
Below our hotel room some guests— gathered together for a wedding scheduled for tomorrow — chat and laugh on a large balcony. Their evening may well be long. By the time the sun sets, they will have been partying for a good few hours. A hearty Scottish breakfast and a brisk walk in the fresh morning air will no doubt get them ready for the day’s celebration.
Tomorrow we will return home. But we will miss this haven of tranquility. This testament to a fallen yet still beautiful world.
Progress report:
See previous post (that’s right, I haven’t written a single word. June will be better.)
Take it easy. And thanks for reading.