We heard a cuckoo calling this morning at 4 am, and as it is
the first time we’ve heard it this week it must have arrived only yesterday;
all the way from West Africa…3500 miles or so, crossing the Mediterranean and then
Spain and the Bay of Biscay. Such a mysterious journey defies imagination.
Time here on Iona is a variable thing, punctuated now and
then by the sounds of the Mull Ferry arriving and departing and by the changing
sounds of birdsong. There is a parliament of rooks in the trees behind the
hotel and their cawing and cackling goes on all day. We have yet to hear a corn
crake, which creates a loud buzzing sea-saw call in late Spring and Summer.
In the cloisters of the Abbey a clutch of starlings create a
chaotic, exotic mixture of sounds: clicks, whines, trills and the odd patch of
bird song they have copied from elsewhere. They are real clowns these birds,
and yesterday morning we watched one dance about on the top of the central
statue, showing off for all the world like a court jester, its song echoing
around the cloisters and bouncing around in the shadows.
We spotted a flock of geese flying south at midday, quiet as
they flew, in a determined fashion and the clouds grew and changed and yet
there was no rain.
Nicholas
Today we were with the stones again, this time on a return
visit to the Bay at the Back of the Ocean. The day, forecast last in England to
be hideous, was instead glorious with sunshine and billowy clouds.
I love these stones…well, actually I love all stones. I
think I have picked up stones from most beaches I have spent time on, both in
the United States and in Europe. There is something about the nature of their
constancy, their journey; that reminds me to hold fast, to trust.
As if to reinforce this, I met a woman named Essa in the
Scottish National Trust shop attached to the Abbey-she thought she recognized
me. It was true, she was remembering a time Nicholas and I journeyed here with
all of our parents in 2002. How amazing! We went on to share our personal
stories, and in the end we spoke of our mutual passion for stones. Essa is a
collector, and she told me that she has taken to polishing hers, in not one but
four machines. One thing in particular that she told me stands out as I recall
our conversation…
She said that the tumbling of the rough stone reveals its
inner beauty, reveals a varnished-like surface that shines in the light as if
it were fresh from the sea. How often I come back with pockets full of
treasures I have acquired, only to find they are grey and faded and not what I thought
I’d found. I will look forward to tumbling them back to glory.
Funny, both Dave and I keep rocks, found special rocks, in a bowl of water on our kitchen windowsills. It keeps them always looking as we found them. I've tumbled rocks before, when the kids were little, and have found I prefer the rough outer look, knowing there is hidden beauty inside anyway.
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