autumn, part two

by the sea

Will you stand by the sea this autumn?

Last week I visited the Isle of Skye and looked across the Sound of Raasay, its waters grey as a selkie’s eye. The damp rock chilled my skin and the rustle of water over rock reminded me of the Erl-King’s coat, back home in the woods.

On the island, the crackle of decaying leaves is replaced by the splash and sob of waves. A hypnotic sound that might lure me to sleep if I wasn’t on my guard for unseelie suitors, or the wind wasn’t pinching me awake.

Or memories didn’t surface, stark as a midnight-feathered cormorant settling on the sunlit water…

One memory is book-shaped; the first time I read about selkies. They came to me in a book called Stories by Firelight by Shirley Hughes. Perhaps you’ve read it, too?

It’s a book full of wintry scenes - bare trees, and rain-soaked pavements. Rhymes inspired by blustery walks and a story, not about the sparkle and wonder of putting up the Christmas tree, but chopping it down. Yet somehow they captivated me, a child of five already familiar with the small grief of December’s magic turning to slush come January.

The book reflected the peculiar beauty of the dark seasons - the glint of a lone berry jewelling a thorn thicket like a bead of blood, the Gothic twist of oak branches skinned of leaves, a ghostly dog-walker emerging from a foggy field. I think the dark months had already claimed me as their child, but these pages opened my eyes wide to the sometimes ordinary, sometimes eldritch magic that appears once the leaves start to fall.

The tale in Stories by Firelight that captivated me most was called ‘Sea Singing’, told by a wee girl who is convalescing by the sea. She stays with her mother’s friend, a painter called Morag. One day while walking along the cliff path, the girl hears a woman singing. She searches the empty beach for the owner of the voice. Unsuccessful, she says:

Sometimes I thought about my friends at home, doing proper things like going to school and shopping and watching their favourite programmes on television, and how silly they’d think me wandering an empty beach listening for voices.

She tells Morag about the voice she heard. Morag replies, “I expect it was a selkie”. Morag then tells a tragic tale about a selkie woman who has her sealskin stolen from her by a fisherman. When he refuses to return the sealskin she becomes his wife. Eventually, they have children together, but of course, the selkie woman is always seeking an opportunity to return to her true home and family. One day she seizes her chance and returns to the sea.

The fisherman never sees his wife again, until one night he catches her sneaking into their children’s bedroom to kiss them goodnight. He begs her to come back to him, but she says her place is with her seal family in the land under the waves.

This tale haunted me for years. Even now, when I visit the sea outwith summer I think of those stormy, swirling illustrations, of the seal woman’s hunted look and the fisherman’s sleekit eyes.

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On a chilly walk to the shore, my eyes scanned the sea but the seal-folk remained elusive. The leaves in the small wood by the water hadn’t yet deepened to gold, but rusty kelp wound over the rocks like a mermaid’s hair. I wondered if I’d always be this way, looking for fairy tales around every corner.

I used to feel ashamed of this romantic part of my character, especially when I went to university and still hadn’t ‘grown out of’ fantasy and fairy tales. I felt pressured to appear logical and academic, but a secret thrill rushed through me when we studied Le Mort D’arthur and Beowulf - texts filled with knights, dragons, and ancient magic.

While sitting on the rocks, re-enacting one of my favourite pieces of folklore, I recalled an Amnesty International book sale held at my uni. Me and my friends browsed the books for ages and I felt I’d struck gold when I found The Iron Wolf, a book of stunningly illustrated folk tales from around the world.

We bumped into our Philosophy tutor and she asked to see what we’d bought. I felt so embarrassed for the rest of the day after she raised her eyebrows at my book and looked dismissive. I worked extra hard in her class after that to get As, just to prove I wasn’t a frivolous child who still believed in fairytales!!

I think my secretive, twenty-year-old, inner romantic would be ecstatic to see me now, clambering over sea-sprayed rocks in a white, vintage dress, still writing about selkies and frequently visiting the Isle of Skye.

I’ve since come to the conclusion that folk and fairy tales belong to an ancient corner of our souls, one that still believes in magic. I don’t want to ever subdue this wild part of me and now turn from austere rationalism as a fairy shrinks from cold iron.

Moreover, fantasy is in my blood. As we wandered the drizzly streets of Portree, my boyfriend pointed out a hill known locally as Fingal’s Seat. Fingal is a legendary Gaelic hero, once so revered that many hills and landmarks throughout Scotland are named after him. Therefore, how can I set aside wonder tales as unimportant or childish when they’re woven into the land I walk on, like threads in a giant tapestry?

Thankfully, I’ve now found a community of kindred spirits who share my feelings. I don’t know about you, but my life is a thousand times more meaningful for keeping these old stories close. Sitting by the chilly October sea, I felt grateful to have arrived in that moment, no longer afraid to openly cherish what’s important.

p.s. on Skye the shadowy veil between worlds becomes thin, and I managed to capture a foggy glimpse of the Otherworld, posted here on instagram.