Journey Into Darkness

A dark tale woven from two personal experiences. The first, a weeks canoe trip with friends to an uninhabited island. The second a solo camping trip to the Isle of Barra (my photo)

A Journey Into Darkness

I arrived on the Isle of Barra on a fine evening in early May, after a long sail from the busy west coast port of Oban. I'd witnessed Scotland at its finest, a perfect blend of unspoiled beaches, ancient Caledonian forests, lochs and mountains, combining to give some of the bonniest scenery in the world.  Without doubt this journey can weave a magical spell on you if you are in the ‘zone’.

Five hours before I had boarded the ferry and the pressing need to unwind from the pressures of everyday life led me to the ship’s bustling bar for a pint of ‘Skye Black.’ The pint that slipped down beckoned for a second to follow but I soon felt the irresistible lure of the fabulous scenery we were passing. Reaching the deck I could see that we were still crossing the wide expanse of water leading from Oban to the channel between the Isle of Mull and the mainland. Here, protected by the land, all was calm and the sun beat down on a flat shimmering sea.

I stood alone on the rail watching the nearby coast slipping steadily past. I found myself tumbling into a weird reverie with thoughts whirling in my head. Time somehow turned elastic and past and present became one, but isn't that what happens to each one of us in our own internal universes? When I glanced again at that ruined, roofless black house by the shore I could miraculously see the mother spinning at the door with the ragged bairns playing at her feet and father tending the black cattle on the outfield. A red haired girl of perhaps eight or nine waved to me and without thinking I waved back.

 

When I roused from my dwam we were passing the stunningly picturesque town of Tobermory on Mull. I thought back to a short holiday with Mary and the kids, and recalled going down to the harbour in the dark to watch crate after crate of lobsters being loaded from the brightly lit boats into refrigerated lorries for the long drive to the dining tables of Madrid and Paris.

In our interconnected world nothing seems impossible. But time and tide wait for no man and the ship ploughed on remorselessly through the channel. On our starboard side we were passing the lonely coast between Kilchoan and the mainland’s most westerly rocky point of Ardnamurchan.

 I spotted a small deserted township of perhaps a half dozen roofless stone dwellings. Suddenly, feeling overcome with my knowledge of their sad story, I closed my eyes but when I opened my mind’s eye I could see the turf roofs ablaze and a pitiful crowd of perhaps twenty adults and the same number of bairns huddled by the shore. Somehow I could hear their weeping and wailing carrying to the ferry. The poor folk had been evicted by the landlord from their back-breaking strip of stony land and were waiting for the steamship to pick them up for the harrowing voyage to America.

By some strange coincidence I was suddenly transfixed by another (the same?) ginger haired lass standing on the shore and holding out her baby towards me. The faint sound of her voice carried across the water, ‘please sir, please - take him!’ I opened my own eyes now and self-consciously wiped away my tears. Did she somehow know that many would die, wracked by cholera, on the ‘coffin boat’ .

Out into the waters of the Minch we sailed past the islands of Coll and Tiree, while ahead, the indigo islands of Barra and the Uists grew steadily, emerging above the curve of the earth. I found it humbling to actually see that our earth was finite in the fathomless reaches of space. Along with Harris and Lewis to the north the chain of islands visible ahead form the Outer Hebrides. To the west of the Hebrides there is nothing but three thousand miles of tempestuous Atlantic Ocean.

Standing by the starboard rail I watched the bow wave and soon became mesmerised by its constant liquid curve. Three dolphins took up position ahead, as if guiding the boat. As they swam, they arced from the water as one, with all the easy strength and effortless grace of ballet dancers and as I watched them I felt an irresistible force drawing me in and somehow - I know this sounds ridiculous - I ‘became’ the leading dolphin. (zen and the art of dolphin leaping?)

What I was feeling wasn’t an intellectual thing, although I felt at one with the dolphins great innate wisdom encompassing his watery world. Perhaps it was possibly like a virtuosic musician becomes one with the music, or how Picasso knew exactly where that daub of red would go. I felt it as more of a bodily experience of the sheer pleasure of swimming with his (my!) fellow dolphins and plunging out together at speed. We were showing off and we were enjoying it - d****t, we were playing, and why not!

Perhaps man and dolphin knew that this was a moment never to be repeated and we suddenly experienced a deeply moving and wordless exchange of life experience. For the first time I had a deep sense of knowing that this sweet earth is shared by all that live on it.  For a moment I (as dolphin) glanced back and saw this man at the ship’s rail looking at me as if mesmerised. I made a coy dolphin wink and smiled a rubbery dolphin smile at him and it made him smile broadly.

I (as man) came back to myself with a start and looked across to the dolphins - something quite weird had just happened and my legs started to shake. The damn dolphin at the front had just winked at me?

Whew! - I needed another beer. This time I chose a Skye Red and it tasted fine but again I was drawn out to the deck unwilling to miss a single glimpse of the delectable views. This time I found a seat on the deck at the stern. To my right were the familiar small isles of Rhum, Eigg and Muck with the heavenly Isle of Skye rising beyond. Far to our left I caught a glimpse of a distinctively shaped island called the Dutchman’s Cap. Memories of a week’s sea kayak trip in a group of eight to the uninhabited isle of Lunga came flooding back. It had undoubtedly been one of the most magical experiences of my life.

I had hardly sat down but the combined effect of the ale and my dolphin exertions got the better of me. I fell fast asleep, slumped back on the orange plastic chair. Inside my head the mists of time cleared and I was back on Lunga all these years ago. After a day's paddle to Fingal’s cave (of Mendelssohn’s Hebridean overture fame) we built a fire between the large rounded boulders above the shore. We sat content, enthralled by the fine sunset slipping into a blaze of stars. In the darkness Dave strummed his guitar and we sang familiar and sentimental songs. Later we became aware of small dark shapes flitting about our heads like bats and then a churring coming from below the boulders. John told us that they were storm petrels coming back from the sea to their nests under the boulders. Later, as the talk took a philosophical turn, we were thrilled to hear the seals on the shore singing to each other.

Then I remembered a very strange thing that occurred that night. We talked in the darkness of this and that, then one of the girls, her face in the shadows, steered the conversation towards the weighty matter of our place on the earth. She spoke about the owner of our uninhabited island who had appeared in his speedboat earlier in the day and told us we should leave because he owned the island.  

Our leader John had withered him with a look but addressed him, at first, politely. ‘Well sir, go ahead and own it, whatever owning it might involve. Will you also inform the grass, the rabbits and the puffins that you own them? And after you’ve ‘owned’ all that lives here, you can f**k off!’

I glanced back at the girl and was stunned as I caught a glimpse of her hair, ginger in the firelight. She wasn't one of us! I called to John to tell him but when I looked back the girl had gone.

John then looked at each one of us seriously and lowered his voice as if there were strangers trying to overhear. ‘We’ve almost certainly been visited by a Selkie. A Selkie is a seal that can take the human form of a girl and then change back again. They were known in ancient times but of course no one believes in them now.’ We all felt a shiver, and not from the evening chill.

I awoke with a start, mid-snore, to find the two teenage girls sitting opposite, looking at me with pity.  ‘Are you OK mister?’ I mumbled a response. ‘Thanks, girls, I’m fine.’

Feeling embarrassed, I went to the port side and saw that Barra was close now and we would soon make the turn into Castle Bay. In a matter of minutes we slipped past Kisimul castle on its wee island, and manoeuvred alongside the pier.  We had arrived. After offloading the vehicles, the large throng of pedestrians and cyclists made their way down the ramp.

Most would be heading to hotels and hostels but I had everything I needed on my back.  Compared to early camping expeditions of decades ago all my gear was superlight but by the time you’ve added up a tent, sleeping bag, stove, fuel, food, spare clothes, torch etc my sack felt like a millstone.

My plan was to walk round the bay out of the village and then along the road to the causeway linking Barra to the island of Vattersay. It was only about three miles but trudging up the hill to the War memorial I started to feel weary. I had used google-earth to identify a camping spot just this side of the causeway. I still had an hour before darkness but when I reached the causeway there wasn’t as much as a postage stamp of level ground. I swore - imaginatively! It was now dusk. I backtracked and half a mile along the road I spotted a patch of green some way up the hill.

In the gathering darkness I picked my way uphill until I reached a fairly level patch of grass with large stones scattered alongside. A small burn gurgled down nearby. ‘This will do!’ I sighed in relief, and hurried to erect the tent before total darkness descended. Fifteen minutes later I was sitting with a mug of tea and my instant pasta meal simmering, enjoying the view over Vattersay. A half-moon gave enough light to shimmer the sea and lend some murky form to the land. The night sky above, the sweeping blaze of myriad stars, of familiar constellations, all undiminished by pollution, literally took my breath away. Soon, however, tiredness crept up and I crawled into my snug cocoon. I zipped up the door to keep out the mice and with the glow of contentment fell fast asleep.

Sometime later I gradually roused to an insistent scratching noise on the tent’s flysheet. ‘Damn mice.’ I swore. They could smell my food. I fumbled for my torch, put on my specs and unzipped the door. ‘Scram, b***** off!’ To say I was gobsmacked would understate my surprise considerably. In the beam of my torch stood a bare footed young girl of around eight attired in a rough woven grey cloak.

‘What are you doing up here lass?’ I stammered when I had recovered enough to speak. ‘It is pitch dark and you are in bare feet. Are you from the cottage further up the road?’

‘Cottage - what is that Sir? No, I live here in the wheelhouse. You must have come with your little shelter after we had lain down to sleep. Your snores woke us and my father sent me to invite you to join us. Come sir.’

The girl took my hand and I stumbled after her. Looking around with my head-torch I gasped at how the evening’s piles of stones had transmuted into a well-made, circular, low stone building with a conical thatched roof. I dipped my head as she led me through a low entrance. Inside, the space was divided up by eight stone aisles spaced like the spokes of a wheel. In the centre of the wheelhouse I could see around a dozen figures of all ages, faces lit by the fire flickering in the stone hearth, heads turned inquisitively towards this stranger.

‘Greetings sir, you are welcome to our simple dwelling. My name is Torun, what is your name?’

‘My name is Donald. I’ve come today from Glasgow by train and then across from Oban in the ferry.’

 

My answer seemed to cause confusion. ‘Donald, can you tell us what Glasgow is?’  Now, I laughed. ‘You’re winding me up, aren’t you? I live in Glasgow.’

‘How many dwellings does this Glasgow have, Donald? Is it more than six?’ 

I laughed. ‘More than six, Torun! There are more dwellings in Glasgow than there are stones on this hillside.’

Torun looked bemused. ‘But how do they all grow their food and find enough stones to build their roundhouses?’  I started to explain but floundered as at each step another ten questions arose.’

Torun stopped me.  ‘Our way of life is simple here Donald - we survive from what is around us. We make our clothes from our own wool. We grow our own crops, vegetables and oats for pottage. We have a few cows for milk and keep hens for eggs. Meat is a infrequent treat. A deer taken from the hill is a rare treasure. We gather berries in season and nuts from the trees. Of course we gather cockles and mussels from the shore and the men go out in the coracle to catch fish. We know that we can only take what we need as natures larder must replenish.’

I felt somehow humbled as I struggled to describe our own bloated and wasteful way of life, where success is judged by the number of our possessions and we boast about our numerous trips to far off places.

‘But, from what you say Donald, is the earth’s store of riches not empty.’

It was obvious that Torun knew from his own experience that the earth’s riches were limited. ‘You are right Torun - we have taken without foresight.’

‘And those that will come after you Donald, your children and grandchildren?’

All I could do was hang my head in shame.

Torun put his hand on my shoulder and laughed. ‘It isn’t you alone Donald.  Here, enjoy this ale with me.’ Torun passed me a brimming wooden tankard and we supped the yeasty brew contentedly.

‘That was delicious Torun. I think I can taste heather!’

‘I think we have learned much from each other Donald. It is time for us to sleep now. We will bid you good night. My daughter will guide you back to your strange wee shelter.’   

 

Torun’s daughter, who had been listening intently to all our exchanges, rose to her feet and gestured me to follow her. As the full light of the fire fell on her I was suddenly stunned to see that she had long red hair. I gasped. No - it can’t be - I realised that she also had the look of the red haired girl on the shore holding out her baby. I shuddered - then realised I hadn’t even asked the girl her name.  She laughed lightly.

‘Sir, my name is Corona. Perhaps, in times to come, I will visit you in your strange world. I may have something to teach you!'

April 2020

I woke early with a dry throat and feeling a bit feverish. During the day I developed a dry coughing fit that went on for nearly an hour. Over the next few days the cough and fever continued. I went into a state of frightened denial - ‘it’s just a late dose of flu Mary.’ She wasn’t convinced and by the third day I was feeling much worse and struggling with my breathing.  Mary convinced me to call the NHS help number. After describing my symptoms, the lady told me that an ambulance would be at my house within the hour and that I should pack a bag. I’d rather not describe our farewell.

After two days in a ward I felt like I was trying to breathe with a plastic bag over my head and I was moved into intensive care. The nurse, dressed in full personal protective equipment prepared me to get ‘hooked up’.  As soon as she entered the room a strange feeling of deja vu came over me.

‘Hi Donald, this won’t hurt!’  Just as she bent over to inject the sedative I caught a glimpse of a lock of red hair escaping from her cap. As I felt myself slipping under she whispered in my ear. ‘You were right Donald, my baby did die of the cholera on the voyage!’

You remember me don't you, it is me - Coro...

Reviews

[Lorry]

Ahh, it's true what they say about us Alan, only a Scotsman can miss Scotland while still being in Scotland. I was hearing Runrigs Loch Lomond live, with the massive crowd singalong, whilst feeling the euphoria of 1978's mini me when that goal was scored by Mr Gemmell... And I am still here, looking out over Ben Wyvis in the distance and it's looking like it put on it's best togs and done its make up for us.
Been patrolling beauty spots and campsites to make sure nobody is breaking lockdown, which sadly they have started doing since the lockdown.
If they refuse to leave, we just take pics of them and vehicles and pass them on to the authorities, then tell them they've got 10 minutes to sod off or we do it again, doubling their fines.
Its working to an extent, but at least I'm not cooped up at home... I'm cooped up in a van.
Thanks for the tour doon the watter and giving me ideas about what I'll be doing once this is all over. Haven't been to Barra since Loch Ness was a puddle 😀

[alanwgraham]

Thanks Lorry, coincidentally I was born in Dingwall so Ben Wyvis was my first taste of the hills. These are weird times and we're all doing things we'd never have imagined. And not doing things! I bet you have some interesting conversations with your clients. My writing dried up for a while but there are a few ideas whirling about now.
Take care.
Alan

[Lorry]

I can't understand most of them, as anyone caught feigns no speak english and tries to carry on their way.
They've got us all over the place these days, just driving miles and miles to have a look to see if anyone's around or evidence of them being there. Sooner I get back home to my normal boring job and my own bed, the better.
Hopefully next week, but who knows. I just hope for some rain to keep them all away.
On the plus side, we've found loads of takeaways that are still open 😀

[barleygirl]

Did you really get covid? I hope that part is fiction. I've really missed reading your long highly-structured stories. Nobody can pile on the descriptive writing like you can, without it becoming too much. You obviously love the land you share in your writing, as it feels as if you are effervescent in sharing your observations so detailed. Like sharing a loved one. One of the best things you do in this story is TRANSITIONS! You are a master at transitioning into & out of fantastical scenes & realistic ones. You depict this narrator as a bit bumbling, forgetful, what's happening? Voila! You've convinced us with yet another whimsical/magical transition. I love how you use the red hair as a "marker" to remind us of your symbolic use of this specter. I love the contrast, toward the end, of the frugal ancient ways, compared to our wasteful materialistic shallowness these days. I have the utmost regard for your ability to master such a complex ever-changing story. This is a well-woven load of imagination (((HUGS))) Fondly, Margie

[alanwgraham]

Hi Margie, I really do appreciate that you take time to read these stories. It's frustrating but understandable that not so many are keen to read these longer pieces. This tale is woven round two events in real life. The first was the canoe trip out to the uninhabited Island and the second was camping beside the 2000 year old ruins of the wheel House. The rest is all imagination. Scotland is really a beautiful island and I've been to many lovely places. To change the subject you must be sleeping easier now that Trump nightmare has ended.
Take care,
Alan

[barleygirl]

It's so quiet over here. You could hear a pin drop. The minions are still yapping, but nobody considers it news anymore. Some T-supporting friend on FB posted something about how do we like choking down our oatmeal leader now? Let me tell ya. Oatmeal never tasted so good.

As for your writing with dual inspiring events, I'm at that age where everything in my life is a big mish-mash of memories I can't really discern & when I'm high it all blends together seamlessly into whatever concoction I want to bottle it up in! I laugh at you & admire you for your fastidious ways of analyzing how you're putting a story together (((HUGS)))

[Beavo]

what a great Scottish word Dwam is Donald, one of my favs. must try and fit it in to something of my own.
I think lockdown has had us all looking to express ourselves and use our creative outlets to escape the confines of home. well done on this story, a nice idea, lets hope that Corona doesnt show her face again tho

[alanwgraham]

Thanks Beavo, I appreciate that you took the time to read this. I quite like taking a few ideas and doing a mashup. I must say I'm quite happy with this. It normally helps when you have personal experience to draw on.
Take care,
Alan

[Jean Lagace]

Well, I visited the Isle of Barra, thanks to you, not only through your nice words but by googling the place. Oban. About 60 miles the trip to your destination in a boat, I guess. I enjoy the encounter with the dolphins. There are a lot of those in Pt-Brittany, St-Pete, when, in winter, I look toward the water after a bit of writing. You never know when you will catch those elegant hoofers cabrioling in pursuit of the fishes they eat. Sad ending though. Lol

[alanwgraham]

Belated thanks Jean, for your generous review. Barra is indeed a magical place but I suppose we all think our home turf is best. I hope you are surviving our challenging times.
Take care
Alan