I'm here to dream

diaries: 20th ~ 23rd february

27th of February. 5.26 pm. Diary of a weekend on the Isle of Skye. Three short days tucked away into the shortest month…

Friday 20th February

Woke at 7 am to take my iron supplements. Should have stayed awake but couldn’t resist the warm lure of cosy bedsheets. Dawn of grey, drizzling mist, of a brain half-swathed in dreams. Curled up under the covers for another hour. There is a lack of urgency to the day that feels comforting. John doesn’t clock out until 5 pm so it’s only me and stretches of snow-sprinkled highland road for seven luxurious hours. Key in ignition at 10 am as intended. Travel mug of tea in the cupholder. CDs littered across the passenger seat. My ride or dies (plushies) for company. Took my usual route, breathed my usual sigh of relief when I turned off the A9. Heavy rain battered the roof from Laggan onwards. Water, water, water. Then a clear spell — two beautiful rainbows. Cranked up my music to disguise the disconcerting rattle coming from my car engine. Ignoring it for now (or until I break down). Pitstop at Spean Brig to stretch and touch a tree. Ominous Glen Shiel brought more rain. Always, Glen Shiel brings mist and drama, even on otherwise sunny days. Pulled into a layby and filmed waterfalls gushing like molten silver down the mountainside, the road sign stickered to death, and the mountain with its cap of snow. Tha currac air a’ bheinn. Beauty everywhere. Beauty blurred by rain is still beautiful. More beautiful, sometimes. Eerily so in this dark glen, where the hills keep eternal watch — they’re said to be maidens transfigured by a wizard. Felt their eyes on my back as I exited the glen, meeting one of the shaggy, brown feral goats as I crossed Shiel Bridge. Only one more hour and one more bridge until I get to the bridge. The bridge to Skye and my love. It’s been five months since I was last on the island. Finally, I cross from mainland Scotland to Skye, heart louping against my ribs. One day we’ll find our wee home, one day one day. Devoured a chocolate chip cookie at Lean To (my old haunt, the best coffee on the island imo). Savoured the flat white I’ve been craving since leaving Skye. Considered turning down the Sleat road to the college to see if any old friends were around but followed the main road instead. Wandered around the tourist tat shops in Broadford in search of hidden treasure. Found: beautiful but grimy opera glasses, mysterious painting of a woman in a twilit garden, amethyst brooch. I’d deliberately left my purse in the car and left empty-handed. Noticed a thin sliver of snow on Beinn Cailleach. A summit I’ve yet to clamber up. Had another hour and a half until John finished work but felt restless, eager to get the last hour of the journey over with. Hopped back in the car and made for Portree. February is a good time to drive around the island; less moichers on the road and hardly any tourists. Passing Sligachan I thought about how Skye no longer feels like an alien landscape but more like home. Especially when I park up and see him walking across the carpark towards me. One hug and the past six weeks melt away. Winter melts away. Feels like a beginning, even though our beginning happened nearly fourteen years ago. Turned around and who is getting out of the car opposite but [redacted]! If I’d taken the road down to the college we would have missed each other. Trysts and chance meetings. Winter, indeed, is melting away.

7pm. The cottage. Arrived in John’s car, in the pitch black. Porch light illuminates snowdrops. Clusters of them, bobbing in the dark wind. Gealagan-làir in Gaelic — little white things of the floor. Everything about the cottage is quaint, quiet, pristine. We imagine it’s ours. Two wee attic rooms. The living room with its writing desk and log burner. An adorable kitchen. Cosy dining room. A hot tub! The garden owned by two hens and a bossy cockerel. And a road that rolls down to the castle and sea. John is here to film the cottage’s best bits for Instagram, in exchange for a weekend stay. I’m here to dream.

Saturday 21st February

Mini diary for a Saturday that too quickly slipped away:

~ Woke early for a day of filming. Outside the attic window: damp, brown hills and damp, brown sheep. The glassy grey of the sea. White cottages across the fields. Geese making a squint arrow across the sky.

~ Got ready listening to A Blaze In The Northern Sky. My new hyperfixation.

~ Brewed coffee. Filmed the richly scented steam curling into the air. Took my mug outside to watch the geese. Fed the hens and cockerel. Life is calm and good. If only all mornings could start this way.

~ Made toast on scrambled eggs with fresh eggs from the hens while John flew the drone around. Everything we ate/drank ended up stone cold because John needed to film it. The cost of our luxury stay. Tried to capture the liminal moments on my shaky wee camera — unedited, candid, true life. The diary is about truth. Less interested these days in creating something from scratch; I want to record what’s already there.

~ Visited the new bookshop in Dunvegan. Found an interesting magazine called Seaside Gothic. Resisted buying books because pennies are precious at the moment. Bought butter and jam from the village shop. My souvenirs. Took photos of Dunvegan Castle, looming over rocks kilted in golden seaweed. A fairy flag resides within its dour stone walls, stitched with magical powers. Legend says that the Dunvegan MacLeods can call upon the fairies’ aid three times by waving the flag. Most accounts say the flag has only been unfurled twice. The ragged, yellow scrap of silk is said to be at least 1,500 years old. I love Otta Swire’s account about the expert who traced the flag’s origin to Syria. The then chief of the MacLeods retorted, “You know that it comes from there, but I believe it came from the fairies.” Anyway, we didn’t have time to visit the castle properly. Even though I’ve seen it before, my inner romantic pined for the ‘elf-dots’ stitched onto the silk like droplets of blood. Keep forgetting that John is here to work, so I must return to my job of dreaming. Dreaming about the fairies.

~ Afternoon. More filming. Ghostlike in my nightgown. Pretend reading. Pretend drinking. Through the attic window, the sky blues to soaked denim, its moon bared like a tooth. Winter pervades the cottage, chilling skin and tea. Finished filming. Brewed more tea, typed at the kitchen window, willing this to be a reality and not pretend.

~ Evening, huddled on reindeer skins. In addition to the hot tub, chickens, and overall adorable atmosphere, this place has a barbecue hut. John made up the fire. Need to learn how to make a fire. Fire is alien and beautiful to me. Primal, pure energy. My elements are earth and water — stability and depth. Air is maverick and mercurial. Fire is kind of hypnotising, dangerous. Two tumblers of whisky catch the light. Now the fire is in our throats. Amber liquid reflects amber flames. Meat browns in the heat. Smoke insinuates itself into every fibre and pore. Sitting before a fire carries the same primitive thrill as swimming in seas and rivers. Our playlist drifts through folk, jazz fusion, metal…but my favourite sound is the wild sound of the wind rattling the hut windows. Grabbed my camera to record the sickle moon. How many wild women over how many years have sent their wild wishes up to the moon?

~ Evening, much later. A hot shower to wash off the smoke. Water washing away the ash and hair, hair, hair. Shedding everywhere, even here, even when all is calm. Iron pills, please do your magic. Slipped into my cotton nightgown and curled up on the sofa. Wrote in my diary. Wrote exactly what happened and looked for the poetry in it. That’s all I want this diary to be: mysterious & mundane.

Sunday 22nd February

4.16 pm. Writing this from my cosy perch on the living room sofa while John checks if the hottub is ready. Think I needed this brush with luxury. Nerves have gone agley lately. It’s probably a deeper fix than a cottage with a hot tub but it’s a start. Excited for the sting of February wind followed by warm, bubbling water. And Prosecco. And for the moment John takes the last picture and puts the camera away. Then we can enjoy our last night without any pressure. Client wants textbook ‘romantic retreat in Scotland’ pictures so that’s what we’re trying to give them. Don’t feel like a ‘hot tub girl’ but I’ll do my best. Don’t care for Prosecco but I’ll drink it.

7.35 pm. Showered. Dressed. Writing. Clearly, I cared for Prosecco more than I thought. Diarying by the dark kitchen window while our food cooks. Slightly ravenous, slightly tipsy. Drunk mostly from warm water and the bright moon. From being together again. Don’t want this weekend to be over but it almost is. Messaged friends to say I’m on Skye, to see who is free tomorrow. I love that Gaelic text speak exists:

Ngd - Na gabh dragh / No worries

Cgl - Ceart gu leòr / ok, fine

OMC - Oh mo chreach! / OMG

Fmf - Feumaidh mi falbh / I need to go

Final night at the cottage and it is [redacted redacted redacted]

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