Times Enigma

A poetic desciption of a visit to the idylic Scottish island of Rum which segues into an enigmatic dream-like story of time travel.

Times enigma!

I sit slumped, serene, on

scruffed black plastic chair, gnarled

head to bothy wall, harled          

against brutal atlantic storms

Ghuirdal bothy, six Rum miles remote

from Bulloughs castellated folly           

imprudent hummingbirds and alligators

succumbed to their inevitable fate

(as in their turn, did the Bulloughs!)

Edwardian jollies,

rich men’s follies!

I squint into the warm evening sun

toasting my sun beaten face

limbs pleasantly weary

That long walk in, bog and heather,

burdened, distracted by easy blether

with Ian, well met fellow walker

 

Ghuirdal’s bay on day like this

girded by steep grassy slope and crag

it’s wee arc of round boulder shore

so near to heaven, a god sent bliss.

neck crickingly high above

Bloodstone hill squints down

benign!

Closing weary eyes I hear

the mumbling burn of Ghuir’s dale

louping, rumbling o’er linn          

then ‘neath the boulders,

seaward tumbling.

 

Rasp and hiss of white foam 

wheezing rush through rocky throat

Liquid lap of wavelets on seaweed

deep slow rhythm of swell

ringing wave rounded stones

 

Earlier we thrilled to spy

a great shark, basking

ever open maw, tail and fin, feeding

languidly, quartering the bay

Further out I spot a waterspout

Two great minke whales arch smoothly and dive 

Yards away, eight curious red deer,

antlers in velvet, graze endlessly.

Birds interrupt in each own tongue

Hoodies, oystercatchers piping

wheatears, stonechats, pippits

cormorants leap and plunge to fishy depths,

a single heron stalks patiently

till lethal rapier strike

gulls scream and dive

as otter threatens nest and young

while on the brae a cuckoo calls

this feast for senses, natures gift enthrals

 

The evening sun slips down

above the indigo isle of Canna

A blinding iridescent blaze of light

slashes shimmering sea

Distant misted Hebridean isles tantalise

while near, etched in cobalt, clear as crystal

each familiar notch and rough gabbro pinnacle

on Skye’s feared and beloved Cuillin ridge

 

My eyes close, I drift inwards, until

a voice, friendly, inquisitive, coaxes me back,

his tongue is strange, but strangely making sense

  

‘Welcome stranger, how far have you come this day’?

‘Just from the mainland’. I answer

‘I am Donald McLean’.

 He smiles. Shakes my hand firmly.

‘Join us for a meal, stranger. Visitors from afar are rare.’

 

I look at Donald. His clothes seem from another age,

brown jacket, rough woven;

shirt, uncollared, plain;

trousers, patched;

leather boots, well worn.

Looking around I realise for the first time I am in a small village.

Donald’s primitive house is one of perhaps a dozen lining a rough stony road.

Each, an inward sloping stony wall with low door

turf roof roped down, boulder-safe from storm.

Peaty smoke spirals from each roof.

 

I suddenly realise that I am in turn being examined.

Wrinkled, weathered old women spin by their doors,

gaggles of barefoot children gaze with undisguised curiosity.

Beyond the township every spare scrap of land is cultivated,

narrow strips growing potatoes, kale and oats.

Black cattle graze the slopes.

Something unsettling nags away 

I’ve no recollection of arriving at this disconcerting place.

 

Donald returns.

‘Our simple meal is ready, pray come inside.’

I dip my head to enter the gloom. A makeshift table has been set between the two beds that nearly fill the room.  A candle burns, to light, alter like, a white tablecloth spread with finest crockery.

 

‘This is my good wife Mhairidh and my five bairns.’

They are shy, tongue tied, faces glowing in the flickering candle light.

The simple meal, a feast - a jug of cream, oatcakes, a bowl of potatoes, a plate of salted herring, cheese.

‘Stranger, would you care for a glass of fine red Lisbon wine?’

Donald laughs as he sees my surprise.

‘We salvaged many from the ship that wrecked on the seal rocks.’

‘Let us thank the Lord now for our meal.’ Donald bows his head. He speaks a few words and we say an ‘Amen’.

 

As we eat, we speak.

First, I, of my journey here.

The train journey from Edinburgh to Mallaig and then the ferry trip across to the Island. I tell them of my work with computers. My words puzzle and it is the eldest lad that asks the most searching questions. Donald says with pride,

‘Alasdair is a clever lad, far too bright to spend his days on this island. Come the summer he will stay with his uncle in Glasgow and carry on his education.’

 

There is most amazement when I look at my digital watch to check the time. I take it from my wrist and pass it round to gasps as the numbers change. Trying to explain how it works I feel light headed.

Donald speaks in turn of their lives,

the mutual support of kin and neighbours,

wild ceilidh nights of stories, fiddle and dance

but then the daily struggle to win a living from the land and sea,

the hard times of hunger and illness.

He does not forget to mention, above them all, the minister and the good Lord.

As I listen I become more perplexed - who are these folk who have forsaken the bustle and vices of modern life?

 

‘Will you take a wee dram with me?’ Donald offers.

‘That’s very kind.’

‘You have a pleasant life here I think?

 

Donald’s brow furrows.

‘I am fain to cause you worry stranger but a dark shadow has been cast over our island. Just this year we have learned that an English lord has purchased the island. His factor is, at this moment, issuing notice of eviction, under threat of force, to the people of Kilmory township. As he says this Mhairidh sobs.

‘Surely not! I gasp in outrage. This seems like a cruel tale from centuries before.

The whisky was fine but I was weary and the inevitable happened - my eyes close. Thoughts muddle and I sleep.

 

 

I awake in pained confusion as head bangs bothy wall.

By now the sunset’s gone but myriad stars blaze undiminished.

As I prepare my bed unsettling fragments come together in my head. Then all comes back in vivid detail - I can even taste the whisky!  But of course - a dream!

By the next day it’s all but gone - but where’s my watch?

 

A year passes. My Rum idyll becomes but one more pleasant memory to file away but I decide to repeat the trip again with my wife. It’s a gamble for I know well that attempts to repeat perfection are doomed to failure. All goes well, the train to Mallaig, a night’s B and B and then we take the morning ferry to Rum.

 

 The sun shines as we hike over to the Ghuirdal bothy. As we breast the grassy slope and gaze down on the bay I am pleased that she is lost for words. After unpacking we have a brew and I suggest taking the short walk up to see the old township.

 

 As we stroll up past the ruined black houses an unsettling feeling of familiarity grips me. Some urge makes me stop outside one house and my dream of the year before floods back in vivid detail. I am drawn inside and dip my head under the low door to enter. Closing my eyes I can see the table set with white cloth and candle, the meal, the bottle of Lisbon wine, Donald and his wife and the children’s shining faces.  Dreams can be so real! Then for some inexplicable reason I put my fingers into a narrow crack on one side of the door lintel. I feel something smooth and gasp as I pull out my black plastic digital watch lost the year before. I’m puzzled but there is obviously a logical explanation - perhaps some visitor found it and put it in the crack, perhaps I even put it there myself thinking it was broken. My memory is definitely going!

 

 Back home again.

A few weeks on I am in Waterstone’s and I happen to see a newly published book on the history of Rum. As I browse, I am intrigued to see a chapter on the Ghuirdal township. It covers the end of the clan system and the clearances in the 1820’s. Of particular interest are extracts from a newly discovered diary written in the period by a local man Alasdair McLean. He had left the island just before his family were cleared to live with his uncle and continue his education in Glasgow. As I started reading I suddenly felt faint and my heart started to race.

 

‘At the age of ten a curious incident caused consternation in our township. One day my father returned from the field to find a stranger sitting at our door. He was clad in outlandish garb. He spoke in a fine English tongue but although we speak only a few words of the language and he had none of the Gaelic

we seemed to comprehend each other. My father offered hospitality as is our custom and even brought out our last bottle of the fine red Lisbon wine salvaged from the wreck. As we conversed he spoke of many unbelievable things ranging from wheeled carriages that moved on iron rails and great winged flying machines that carried many people at great speed through the air. What amazed us most however was the timepiece the stranger wore on his wrist. He showed us how the numbers showing the time changed is if by magic.’

 

As the afternoon drew on the stranger wearied, perhaps it was the Lisbon wine and the dram, and he eventually fell asleep. We left him to rest but when we returned later there was no sign of him and no-one in the township had seen him go. The next morning as my mother was sweeping she found his timepiece on the floor. My father decided to put it for safe keeping in the crack below the door lintel and we left a note with the ferryman lest he should return. Of course the matter was soon forgotten and anyway within the year our home was a roofless ruin.’

(at the turn of the 20th century the industrialist George Bullough built a grand house on the Isle of Rum - the palmhouse had alligators and hummingbirds!)

 

Reviews

[Kathy Van Kurin]

"Times Enigma"
alangraham,
How many people have had incredible times away from home; a holiday like yours. I found the experience enhanced as it becomes a flight of imagination about what the area you were enjoying may once of been like. It was great! The lead part of this piece brought a person to a sweet dreamy state with the feel of what you saw and it's effect upon you. This was perfect to see you falling asleep and the ensuing experience in a vision. It was a blast to read and really sparked my own imagination.
Blessings to ya!
Kathy

[alanwgraham]

Great kathy. I'm really pleased that you took the trouble to dig back in time and enjoy this story. Reading over it again it has given me the urge to visit again. It is so near perfection apart from the last time I returned home and my wife picked off 42 ticks i had picked up. I also realised that the story has a similar time travel feel to my recent story deja vu. Hope you are well Kathy.
Alan

[Kathy Van Kurin]

I was encouraged as I have found myself thinking about other people's living in ancient times. Right where I live. We all are dwelling on what was once the locations of others now long gone. It is just so interesting. Ya did good. Oh and the bit in your response about the ticks. Your sweet gal is the best to rid you of those nasty critters. I hope you can both go back.
Blessings,
Kathy

[barleygirl]

I have to admit, I wasn't snagged until the 4th stanza. I was a little mind-boggled, but then the whole thing picked up to a much more interesting & straightforward pace after the 4th. I loved the descriptions of the sea. The whole dream thing & then finding the book, etc. . . . this feels like outlandish imagination but knowing you, it's probably true (this reminds me of a similar story of yours). Anyhow, once I got hooked after the 4th stanza, then I was definitely interested & fascinated thru-out.

[alanwgraham]

Thanks once again M and happy new year!
First of all this place Guirdal bay on the Isle of Rum may be my favourite place in the world. I went on my own first and I saw and heard perfection. As I sat with my eyes shut in the sun I imagined what life would have like in he ruined township just a few yards away and then came up with this story about visiting the village in a dream and then added the enigma about whether the time slippage had actually happened. That bit is definitely imagination and i can understand why readers don't know what to make of it. Someone actually asked me where they could get the book!
To change the subject i'm glad you mentioned the hiccup on WC - I thought it might just be my machine.
I am amazed at your writing output and have seen quite a difference in your style since I started on here - I definitely prefer writing that is based on life experience although I know it can be tough (but also hopefully therapeutic) for the writer.
All the best,
Alan

[barleygirl]

Thank you so much for the kind words, too! When I started on WritersCafe last February, I never wrote more than one thing per month, as far as creative writing (of course, I wrote every day as a technical writer for 30+ years). But this website has inspired me greatly, reading all the other writers, & this is the first time I've done creative writing, polishing at least 2 or 3 pieces a week. I have a long list of things I want to get to! *wink! wink!* Happy New Year of the Rooster! C**k-a-doodle-doooo! (((HUGS)))

[Gerald Parker]

Initial reaction - am I reading a poem or a story? can't tell from the formatting and huge amount of prose.

[alanwgraham]

I had anticipated that could cause confusion so I put an explanatory note below the title. What happened was that I sat dosing at the bothy and wrote the poem about my surroundings. Later on this developed into the story which forms the second part. The answer to your question is therefore both! Thanks for having a look.
Cheers.
Alan

[Gerald Parker]

The part which you say is poetry should in my opinion be re-presented as prose as most of it is in long prosey sentences. Writing, whether it be a poem or a story, should be able to be understood on its own, without introductory notes.

[alanwgraham]

Thanks again Gerald. I have just written in the way that I felt worked for me. I was a bit puzzled by your initial question on whether it was poem or prose. Why is it that you have to tell? The others that reviewed it seemed to be quite happy and not consider it to be an issue. My own knowledge of how poetry or prose could be defined is very limited but I believe that when Miles Davis was pushing musical boundaries he said 'its all music!'
I think I will keep it as it is but I value your suggestion.
Regards.
Alan

[Trudi]

Just fabulous! Loved it! Do you think we could put it up on our Isle of Rum website? I'll put in a link on my Ranger facebook page, so people can have a read here on Writer's Cafe.

[alanwgraham]

Thanks Trudy. It is such a wonderful place. Of course you can use the poem or give the link. By the way we did meet in the hostel in mapping in early May. My friend and I chatted to you (about Bristol!) For a while in the little sitting room.
Cheers, alan

[Armistead Lindsey]

This was one if those pieces that was a pure joy to read.

yet a total pain to come up with any comment I felt would be fitting - and I have nothing but 'thank you for writing something that was so nice to read'

It made me smile in many places, had me sat here thinking back so the times I used to go and sit in the remotest parts of the surrounding country to the village I grew up in. In a few places I even chuckled.

It was once of the few pieces I didn't do a preliminary skim read of, I just dove in (4 times specifically) and found each time as fulfilling and blissful as the last.

[alanwgraham]

Thanks for your lovely positive review. I have just returned from another visit with a friend to this special place and he was bowled over. Everything was perfect- and no midges. This piece of writing was a bit special for me too because I had produced a whole screed of free poetry in a manic state but then the well ran dry.
Hope all is well,
Regards, alan

[Gaia Octavia]

You can tell by the poem that the setting really affected the writer and there is almost a feeling of yearning to be back there from the very first lines. A sense of longing is a good way to pull a reader in. I know you segue the poem into a story, which is an interesting and unique format. My only thought (while this may be the very thing you intended) was that it was hard to tell where exactly the transition happened. I wonder if you formatted the beginning of the story to look more like a poem as a way to visually meld them together? Either way, it's an interesting concept. I like how the descriptions are not only visual but auditory as well. Hearing is a sense a lot of people (me definitely) leave out. Nice job.


Just a couple suggestions: unless it's part of the poem, the note about Bulloughs you have there may be disrupting your poem towards the top and may better serve you as an asterisk. You can then put the note in the "author's note" box. After all, most readers would know to scroll down to find the *note at the bottom. You could add a **note about the word "bothy" as well if you wanted to since most readers may not have any clue what that means and so they lose a lot of potential imagery of the stone structure and what it is (which explains bumping into fellow walker). Some readers might already give up there if they don't understand what you mean but it's not a must. Just a couple thoughts ☺

[alanwgraham]

Thanks very much for this! I had just added the note about the castle. You really can't win at this because I had another reviewer that had completely missed the point because he hadn't read the authors note. I think you are correct though - I was a bit uneasy about adding the note like that. The segues into the story is really meant to happen when he falls asleep but it is not that clear. It is great to get constructive criticism like this and thanks for your time.
Alan

[Gaia Octavia]

You win every time you express yourself through poetry ☺ Keep going!