Muchness
Somewhere near the Isle of Rum, which lies near the Isle of Eigg, which lies near the Isle of Skye, lies the Isle of Muck. The locals, for the obvious reasons, prefer “Isle of Much,” which may or may not be derived from the traditional Gaelic, but if you look on most maps, the anglicized “Muck” is the commonly accepted spelling.
On this island, a man may straddle the windswept strand and gaze desolately into the dark sea beyond. Even on this rare sunlit day, the water is dark, grey, steely and deeply shadowed. The slow white-capped rollers tumble towards the shoreline gracefully, and the calm, steady, sea-salt wind rustles your hair gently. But make no mistake: you are standing on an ancient battleground, one that has been pounded mercilessly for millennia by wild Atlantic storms. Frigid wrathful veins run beneath those sequined, seagull-strewn waves: a furnace of coldness. And if you come back here in six months time -- well, boy, I'll show you the face of Mother Nature’s vengeance. It is darkness filled with the sound of all-consuming, terrifying, desperate, howling feminine ruthlessness.
Today, though, is a placid day. The native green beachgrass pokes through the alabaster sand, swaying happily in the breeze. We lay down the plaid blanket upon those soft grains. We pin it with the woven picnic basket. We lie back and stare into the stratus-brushed sky. We dream of times long ago.
Up the hill, a stone cottage stands humbly behind a whitewashed fence, which shades a row of cabbage and radishes thriving in the dark soil. The sound of waves is distant -- a consistent, layered rush of water. If you listen closely, though, the sound of drums is in there somewhere, the drumming Scottish ghosts of bygone clans. They are the clans who settled here, the hardy ones, the ones who scraped out a living on this unforgiving land, who clung for dear life, who barricaded themselves with stone and lumber and earth against the roaring mouth of the northern Atlantic. They may have been strong enough to make a living here, but they didn’t tame this place, oh no -- no one ever will.
The fading sunlight gleams off the water’s broad surface. The sheen of light on a sword. A lone trawler crawls slowly across the distant horizon.
On this island, a man may straddle the windswept strand and gaze desolately into the dark sea beyond. Even on this rare sunlit day, the water is dark, grey, steely and deeply shadowed. The slow white-capped rollers tumble towards the shoreline gracefully, and the calm, steady, sea-salt wind rustles your hair gently. But make no mistake: you are standing on an ancient battleground, one that has been pounded mercilessly for millennia by wild Atlantic storms. Frigid wrathful veins run beneath those sequined, seagull-strewn waves: a furnace of coldness. And if you come back here in six months time -- well, boy, I'll show you the face of Mother Nature’s vengeance. It is darkness filled with the sound of all-consuming, terrifying, desperate, howling feminine ruthlessness.
Today, though, is a placid day. The native green beachgrass pokes through the alabaster sand, swaying happily in the breeze. We lay down the plaid blanket upon those soft grains. We pin it with the woven picnic basket. We lie back and stare into the stratus-brushed sky. We dream of times long ago.
Up the hill, a stone cottage stands humbly behind a whitewashed fence, which shades a row of cabbage and radishes thriving in the dark soil. The sound of waves is distant -- a consistent, layered rush of water. If you listen closely, though, the sound of drums is in there somewhere, the drumming Scottish ghosts of bygone clans. They are the clans who settled here, the hardy ones, the ones who scraped out a living on this unforgiving land, who clung for dear life, who barricaded themselves with stone and lumber and earth against the roaring mouth of the northern Atlantic. They may have been strong enough to make a living here, but they didn’t tame this place, oh no -- no one ever will.
The fading sunlight gleams off the water’s broad surface. The sheen of light on a sword. A lone trawler crawls slowly across the distant horizon.
posted by Jeweled Accumulation at 4:16 PM
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