Thursday 13th April, W6D7

Wow, end of 6th week of the Great Spring Escape. Hard to believe I've been on the road that long. Cate and I reported our sailing  trip as 99 days, so it doesn't compare with that, but it's still the longest time I've been away solo. Anyway, here I am in a new Campsite in Skye, just outside Portree. And a really nice site it is.

I related the sorry tale of my prescription problems yesterday, and this morning I met the pharmacist in the town and wrote my private script (at considerable expense) and now have enough pills to carry on travelling  for another month. Stop cheering, back home, I know you're missing me!

Apart from doing my laundry (I know you don't want to know about that) I set off on one short walk, from a book I bought in the excellent book shop in town, to the ruin of St Columba's church, on a tiny island in the River Snizort. The site was quite hard to locate, but worthwhile. I was enjoying the peace of communing with the old gravestones, apart from one abrupt interruption by a large yellow dog which was rushing around the sacred space enjoying his freedom. But once he and his owner had gone I spent some time moving around the rough ground between the stones, ranging from very ancient to 19th century to a single WW1 grave, designated as a Commonwealth War Grave on a notice at the bridge across the River which gives access from the path. 

I'm not going to describe more about my experience, but with apologies will instead append a poem, just written and therefore very rough, about my feelings for stones, ancient and modern. (As an addendum, I had a good supper of freshly caught salmon at the Isles Inn in town.)

Touching  stones...

... because you have to

Whether it’s a Moore, or a Hepworth,

Kapoor or Wai Wei,

It’s all just stones isn’t it? 

But they invite the touch.

Their soundtracks differ in the open air:

At Calanais, the wind whistles descant through the tall stones, 

On St Columba’s Isle, the Snizort plays a midrange continuo of white noise 

as its stream rushes over  the weir. 

But there’s also a deeper tone, below our aural  sense, 

whether resounding from the massive work of ancient hands,

built for unnamed memory from millennia, 

or from the low, simple overgrown stones, each named, though many faded, 

some within the distant memory of their living makers,

or in honour of sacrifice in conflict. 

Each in its way will forever be as old as our earth

And each still calls out to be touched by living hands 

That’s the hidden frequency we can feel in each stone, 

connecting us both with antiquity and with  humanity. 

Touching stones.