91热爆

Nothing鈥檚 ever easy.

I鈥檓 still not there yet. Paperwork going mysteriously missing, folk who are meant to be handling the paperwork heading off on hols for 2 weeks and not telling me!! And I lost my lucky wee Skye marble necklace鈥� ack.

I had never visited Skye prior to getting the chance to move there. And my first visit 鈥� just a few weeks ago - wasn鈥檛 a long one. But it was all I needed. I just knew. In the midst of it 鈥� when the rain stopped 鈥� I went into a wee gift shop that was just getting the stoor blown off the shelves after reopening following being shut over the winter. And I saw a wee thing that caught my eye and which said 鈥淚鈥檓 the thing you鈥檙e going to take away with you from your first trip.鈥� It was a wee smooth white marble stone from the Cuillins, strung onto a plain black cord. Smooth and offwhite, almost round, and with faint streaks of heathery purple and moss green through it. Not dear. And I blethered to the shopkeeper, and bought the necklace, and wore it all the time, until I lost it, two weeks ago. A brief meeting. Sick as a dog. Offered a reward, put up notices in the place I know I lost it鈥� nothing. My wee stone; all those millennia waiting to come to my attention, then wheeched off the island, there around my neck when I made the decision and when I shook the man鈥檚 hand, when I wrote my first blog and dreamed my first Portree dream鈥o be promptly lost in a laundry in the city by a careless eejit, i.e. me.

Somebody tried to cheer me up. 鈥淎ye well, it鈥檚 worked its wee bit of luck on you. So now it鈥檚 off away into the big wide world, waiting to spread more luck to the next person who finds it. See - you did A Good Thing 鈥� you set the Wee Skye Stone on its way!鈥�

But I鈥檓 too superstitious to be cheered by this. I saw that wee stone, and it spoke to me. It was my very thing from Skye. And I lost it. And somebody has got it, and I know they must have seen the ads asking for it back. But鈥ot a sausage. More reason to be scunnered with the city.

Meanwhile; I have been getting very little sleep. Looking at the full moon from my window as the pubs close, listening to the noisy and not very happy drunks passing by and wondering if I鈥檒l be seeing the next moon from the harbour at Portree. Worrying if I鈥檒l be able to hack it, on my own up there (well; not really on my own, but鈥�. acht. Too complicated).

For all the fact that I鈥檓 sick to death of the city and that I am absolutely cock a hoop at what is about to happen, the fact is, I鈥檝e been in the city for over 20 years. What if I find myself in a year up there thinking 鈥渉elpmaboab what the heck have I done?? I鈥檓 stuck in a wee fishing town on a soaking wet boggy isle where it never stops raining and I cannae see the Cuillins and the midges will strip ye to the bone in 2 minutes and there is not a thing to do most of the time and What About Cocktails?? and I鈥檓 too fat for hillwalking and I鈥檓 drinkin too much lager and I鈥檓 seriously thinking of taking up knitting???....鈥�

鈥nd then I smile. And I remember standing alone at the top of the wee tower on The Lump at 6am that first Sunday morning, with a brilliant sunrise in front of me coming up over Raasay, delighted; and then feeling鈥�. Something鈥oming up behind me鈥erie sensation. I turned around, and there was the filthiest mankiest smear of black coming racing over the sky, headlong towards the sunrise, and closing over everything, and the light disappearing like a coffin lid being screwed down. And a howling blore of a gale, and a stinging blast of pelting rain. The Old Man disappeared in a trice. I stood agape. I tried to put up my gamp 鈥� stupid! 鈥� which of course was immediately snatched away out of my hands and whizzed gaily away into the murk, to be fished out of the bushes later, a mangled mess.

And then just as quickly the drama was over; the blackness roared over my head and over the tower and boiled away, and the sun continued quietly rising, swallowing the blackness.

It was wonderful. I grinned like a loon. Elements. Space. Air. To see them and feel them; the basics, moving and interacting around me. That鈥檚 what I have been needing to be around, for a long long time. I don鈥檛 want anything from the city any more. I don鈥檛 need anything in the city. I need this. When was the last time I could actually even see the weather coming at me, never mind feel it coming at my back?

I love rain. I was born in exactly the right spot on the globe. As long as my feet are dry and the wind isn鈥檛 completely Baltic, I can take any sort of weather this grand wee country wants to throw at me. And I especially love watching rain. But you don鈥檛 get to watch much rain in the city. You鈥檙e always busy trying to get somewhere, or finding yourself in conversations about how awful the weather is.

And all the rest of that day, as I made my first promenadings of that wee town, the enchantment grew and grew. I stood among the dear silly sheep I chanced upon, who hardly even looked up at me; I watched the sunbeams shining through the fat raindrops (totally different sort of rain, later that day) over the garden of the nice house with the big conservatory on the shore; I sat by the roaring waterfall; I walked past the fronts of the wee guesthouses, with the fires just getting started and the breakfasts cooking, what an exquisite combination of smells; I went for a half in the pub by the harbour and had the local Portree man鈥檚 amazing story pointed out to me in the pages of that day鈥檚 Sunday Post; and (though I know it sounds awfy patronising and I really don鈥檛 want it to sound that way) but oh my, how soothing those lilting, melodious voices were. Not city voices. I could listen to those voices all day and all of the night.

And in the other gift shop, not the one I got the necklace from, I saw a picture in a frame that I can鈥檛 get out of my head and I didn鈥檛 have the money to buy it at the time, but I wish I had. It is stuck in my head. A picture of a lone house by a shore under a full moon, with one single window lit up. The picture was mainly lovely blues, moonlight blues, and the two splashes of yellow brightness, the moon and the window. Lonesome image, yet comforting. And dammit I can鈥檛 remember the name of the pic or the painter. Or the bloomin shop where I saw it. I鈥檒l know it again when I see it. Perhaps it鈥檒l still be there in the shop when I finally make the move.

As I say, I鈥檇 never been that far north before. Beautiful sights, beautiful smells, beautiful sounds, beautiful thoughts. Can鈥檛 wait!

I Will Be Fine.