Gatherings

Finding, keeping, leaving behind... And longing for rain

I was thinking out loud the other morning, about how the summer holidays used to be all about picnics and rock pooling, and that time on Skye when I went native and brought a fox’s skull home on a spike to clean (and, on another occasion, hacked away a section of whale’s vertebrae at Joe’s request).

Reminiscing over my coffee, I recalled long drives to Portree for ice creams, or across to the lighthouse with sandwiches and chocolate. The years preceding our move to the far north, we’d spent much time riding on the steam train and exploring in the woods. I can still feel that pudgy little hand holding mine, my pockets heavy with pebbles and other found treasures.

I mentioned that I now do these alone. It feels strange, that the holidays are spent either working or going on lone - but not lonely - excursions.

Joe seemed to think I was trying to prick his conscience, and responded by suggesting he could borrow my camera and come up to the common with me. Of course, he has that polite but reluctant demeanour down to a fine art (something teenagers seem to excel at) and I explained that I wasn’t sad; things change and we move on.