The Lighthouse

 
 
 
Let me take you on an imaginary journey, away from the hubbub of city life, 
To a far away place and time. 
 
The place, Skerryvore Lighthouse, the time, 1844. 
The reason for going, well that will unfold in due course. 
 
But there’s the getting there, first and foremost, and since the journey is everything, we start back in London. 
 
Travelling back in time becomes easy, when you let your imagination weave and wander. Make your way across the city, through tunnels inhabited by trains, and then onto buses, bilging fumes and people, at their various destinations. 
 
Don’t let go of your imagination yet, for there are too many distractions 
 
Find yourself at Euston Station, and climb aboard the next train to Glasgow Central, four hours and thirty-three minutes of me/you time. Let the coil of your mind, slowly unwind, to the clickety-clack, of the wheels on the track, as urbanity slides past the window of our imaginations, to be replaced by rolling green hills, and blue-bird skies. 
 
Can you start to feel ourselves letting go now? Surrender to it, that’s important, if we’re going to travel back in time, while moving forwards. 
 
The slowing train, and the chirp of brakes, signal our approach into Glasgow Central. From here, let’s board the train to Oban, and spend three hours and fifteen minutes of you/me time, letting the landscape unfold before our eyes, which are the windows to our souls, which in turn are unfolding too. 
 
Let’s disembark at Oban, and breathe in the brackish air, mixed with the smells of seaweed, and whatever the fishermen’s’ catch of the day has been. 
 
While we idle the time, waiting for the Ferry, let’s keep our senses open, to the sounds of the sea, and the sun on our backs, for today is unusually balmy, and the Lynn of Lorne lies still as a mill-pond. 
 
This belies the unfathomable power that she, the Ocean can possess, and does, in her silky cobalt depths. That, along with the power for time travel, another of her many secrets. 
 
We hear the Ferrys’ horn, well before seeing her round the headland, of Duart Point, that protects Oban Harbour from the worst of the prevailing westerly weather. She scythes her bow through the salty brine with ease, and before long, will be ready to take us for three hours and fourty-five minutes, to the Isle of Tiree. 
 
“After you”, I say, as we head up the gang-plank, taking another step back in time, and another step forwards, towards our journeys’ end. The Ferry then disentangles herself from the land, and we’re away. 
 
I’ve steered this course many times, but never with you, and never back in time, and only as far as Tiree. I’ve seen basking sharks on the starboard side, while passing Tobermory to port, and porpoises playing in the bow-wave of the Ferry, while I spectate from the bow-sprit, my cigarette cupped against the wind, my feet and body absorbing the deep thrubbing of the engine, hidden far below, in the bowels of the Ferry. 
 
Let’s go back inside now, as it’s getting cold, into the Ferry’s womb, and warm our hands around mugs of tea, while our imaginings turn back the clock, and the Ferry furrows it’s path, through the blue, towards the western horizon. 
 
I consider the tides, and liken them to Mother Earth breathing, every breath taking six hours in, and another six hours out, while the Moon watches on, keeping count. 
 
The journey back in time, is becoming easier by every nautical mile, and we are woken from this reverie, by the Ferrys’ horn, announcing that we’ll soon be arriving on Tiree. And once we’re alongside, the Ferry re-entangles herself to the land, while we prepare to disembark. 
 
Skerryvore Lighthouse lies twelve miles South-West of here. She stands one-hundred and sixty feet tall, and her erection is recently complete. In spite of her phallic stance, she is definitely a she to me. Just like boats are, and the Oceans are, and Mother Earth is. The need now, is to touch, feel, smell her. Be in her, protected by her. 
 
Her construction began in 1838, helmed by Alan Stevenson, of the Robert Louis family. Hynesh harbor was built on Tiree first, as a satellite from which Skerryvore would emerge, the thousands of tons of granite, being hewn from rock, carved out of Mull, and transported by horse and cart, and boat, to Hynesh, and from there, onto the lonely rock. 
 
The sun is sinking now though, so we should rest a while, and sleep in the rugged landscape of this Hebridean outpost. 
 
In the shadows of the night, our dreams inter-twine, sharing their hopes and fears, in a language that words fail to encompass, yet we, in our knowing, understand fully. 
 
It would be a folly, to think of our lives as perfect, but as the sun un-sinks itself, and caresses the lids of my eyes open, it feels like today has the potential, to be just that. 
 
Let’s wander along the craggy coast of Tiree, which once boasted trees, long since gone, swept away by the Westerly Atlantic winds, and felled by Tireans, in the production of whisky, in years gone by. Stark, yet beautiful, whisky would be a pre-requisite, to make it through the long dark winters, which inhabit this place. 
 
Twelve miles separate us from Skerryvore, so let’s hasten now to Hynesh Harbour, in the hope of finding a friendly fisherman, willing to ballast us amongst his lobster pots. 
 
The Ferry that journeyed us here was big, the fishing boat we now find ourselves in small, so we’re at the mercy of the elements, as we skull out of the protection, that is the harbour wall of Hynesh. 
 
The oars rock to and fro in their rollocks, wood gently grinding against metal, as we pull, one, two, return, one two, making a rhythm with the Oceans’ swell. 
 
If the tides are her breathing, maybe the swell is Mother Earths’ heartbeat, on which we are riding, closing the gap between us, and the Lighthouse. 
 
With historic time travel, you’re looking backwards, and in the rowing, we’re facing that way too, but I glance over my shoulder, as we rise on a heartbeat, looking forward to find in my eye, the Lighthouse of Skerryvore. 
 
And there she stands in the distance, the size of a matchstick, held in the fingers of an outstretched hand, for there is still a way to go. 
 
Backwards and forwards, we move our muscles, to pull us through time and water, to a stillness of mind, that can only be found, on an ever-undulating Ocean. There will be the moment, beyond imagination, in the stepping from boat to rock, in which the now will be entered, of 1844. 
 
The anticipation has less long to wait, for the Lighthouse is now close enough to see the form, of her un-complex curves, reaching skywards, their beauty in their strength, and then the summit, holding her sole reason for being here, to bring guiding light to seafarers, and time travellers. 
 
The reflected waves from the rock, change the little boats’ rhythm as we near. A skipped heartbeat, as I give you a steadying hand, stepping from the bow, and onto the rock. 
 
We stand on the slippery, black, jutting tooth of Skerryvore, home to crabs and flotsam, brought on the tides. A resting place for weary-winged sea birds. 
 
The Lighthouse stands proudly resolute, against the sharp end of the elements, that nature will bring to visit, although one day, nature will prevail, and the rock shall remain, Lighthouseless. 
 
But for now, let’s climb the spiralling stairway, fingers gliding over the coarse granite blocks, carefully held together by dovetail joints, the mark of a stonemasons’ hand. 
 
Up and into the sparse living quarters, that the keeper will inhabit, and tend to the nightly duties of coal-fire lighting, and soot-rubbing, from polished surfaces, to help the light penetrate the dark. 
 
We reach the top, and marvel at the sea and sky, suspended somewhere between heaven and earth, past and present. 
 
Can you feel the pit of your stomach churn, at the realisation, of being so finite in this expanse, and how beautifully poignant that is. 
 
It means so much, that we mean so little. 
 
It strikes me now, that in trying to be alone with myself, I’m filled with fear, which is maybe why, I invited you to come along. 
 
The truth though, is that I am lost, and you were never here, and in this lonely place, I have found myself. 


 
 
 
 

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