Out of the square window is Loch Snizort Beag and Lyndale Point. Where a heavily-bruised early morning sky is doing its best to smother everything with fast-moving pillows of mist and gloom … yet the origami landscape just about wins out.
In my semi-isolated loch-side chalet on Skye, a lazy morning spent in reading, writing and arithmetic. Literally nothing of any interest happens until around 1pm; it’s time very well spent with no interruptions and a life on pause.
Being here is like wrapping yourself in the most warming of comfort blankets, which no-one else knows about.
Apart from all the other visitors who have signed the guest book, that is.
Subsequent to my still life morning, over on the Waternish, a single-track road leads me to the Stein Inn, a 1790 free house which shouts it loud and proud on the sides of it’s whitewashed walls.
I take the hint, dropping in for a polite half which I proceed to pour over the table with relative ease. I put this down to the shock of seeing other people.
So I head back to the bar for the other half, and a large slab of carrot cake, which is served to me on a fine-china plate … possibly not the best type of crockery to be handing to me, given my tendency to be throwing things around this afternoon.
Folk are eating haggis toasties and foraged omelettes as though it’s perfectly normal, and they’re doing this mere yards away from me.
The playroom and the bogs are around the back – although these weren’t built in in the eighteenth century I don’t think.
Outside, the sky is collapsing onto the scenery again.
Up the hill, the road delivers my car to Trumpan, and the ruined church.
Past the red phone box, the minibus graveyard, the perfectly-manicured B&B, the arts and crafts gallery.
There’s no-one at the church today, except for the sleeping souls, who are temporarily illuminated by a rare glimpse of a sun.
Strangely, the headstones appear to stand taller for it, eager for a shot of light and colour.
I feel the need to constantly look over my shoulder towards Dunvegan Head, watching out for any of those marauding MacDonalds who might be sneaking up on me.
Back in the day, in 1578, everyone seemed to kill each other for a laugh. Afflicted by a touch of the old Gaamle Jaadeks, they were.
I tramp on up the road to Trumpan West, along the forgotten path, going the full mountain goat as my life turns into a boggy mess.
Cairns are brochs, if you will, and that abandoned village Inish has only just today fallen down the hillside.
On glimpsing human activity in my widened vicinity, I retreat backwards.
The clouds part in a perfect circle above the sea, and a shining light is reflected back from the water, sphere-like.
It’s a momentary glimpse of a possible heaven, and I half-expect a pitch-perfect choir to suddenly descend and soundtrack the scene.
Yet I’m brought back down to earth by the surrounding sheep, who all seem to be suddenly staring in my general direction, throwing accusatory glances and emitting increasingly menacing bleats.
I know where I’m not wanted …
The faded rainbow, framed by the murky cloud-nothings who persist in their one-sided threat to envelope me. In the event, they will overtake me.
The postman, the disappearing sheepdog, the Brummie and the Yeti. All these things which are so far away, yet will run me close to soft grass verges, given half a chance.
The broken-down car, the old mobile library, the vintage red tractor – these are the things which identify with me.
We sing together in solemn baritones of our fear of drowning. Our chances of existence and non-existence are so slim as to not exist, when rounded to the nearest integer.
The rocks around us are mirth-like at this – small wonder considering how long they’ve been here, and the things they’ve seen.
I can’t compete.
Accordingly, I hand over cash money to Stewart Taggart in the Co-Op in exchange for several bottles of beer. I figure this transaction might help us both.
Back outside, there is a man in a cowboy hat waiting patiently in a Chevrolet Silverado for someone or something, forcing me to immediately question who I am and more importantly where I am.
I glance over to the trolley park, reassured that I’m still at the Co-Op, on the Isle of Skye.
Back at the gaff, under cover of darkness, I drink Ossian out of a glass and eat gently-cooked crisps.
This is how far I’ve come as a developed animal. And it’s a weekday night!
Whatever that means.
An Outside World 