meish dot org: life, unfolding

A light dusting of snow over the island, and I’ve just woken up hot in a proper bed, by a phone call from far away. It feels good.

So christmas day is over, but thankfully there’s still ten days of lying around and reading to be done. Hoorah.

Yesterday afternoon, fortified by wine, we went out for a long walk to the white beach at the north end. The wind was coming in directly from the north, blowing such a gale as to make us lose our footing a few times. We leant forward at a steep angle and shouldered ahead.

When we reached the beach, our faces glowed from frozen wind, which carried snow (or at least the scent of it), and we could see it already swirling under heavy clouds in the distance over Tiree, Staffa, Ulva. We drank a toast to friends and family, here and far away, and I thought about the people I was missing the most.

The whisky warmed me up.

We turned around and headed home, this time pushed by the urgent wind towards the dinner table. My bum was frozen by the time we got back, in half the time it had taken to get there.

Then we ate too much, drank too much, discovered I can do an uncanny Dutch accent, and played Trivial Pursuits. And I won. It’s a family tradition – like so many others, we make it up as we go along.

From the inquisitive holiday department: what is yeast? Animal? Vegetable? Does it grow somewhere? Is it made of other things?

You know, in a bracing “my cheeks have just been buffed by a salty sea wind” sort of way. But still freezing, nevertheless.

I’m sleeping on a futon – which is, I think, my little sister’s way of getting back at me for making her sleep on the lumpy futon from hell in my flat in London last month. Oops.

The futon in the spare room of my mum’s house up here is, like all other uncomfortable futons, for most of its working life actually a sofa. As a sofa, it’s marvellous. Long, comfy, arms – pretty much everything you could desire in a sofa, really. As a bed, however, it leaves a girl hankering for her own bed, it really does.

See, the futon, when folded out, gives the impression that it has been slept in by two rather – what’s the word they use these days when they’re trying to be polite – statuesque? – well, chunky anyway – heffalumps, who liked to lie on the matress, motionless, side by side, with about eight inches between them. There’s a big dip on the left, then a pronounced ridge in the centre, and then another big dip on the right, before the edge of the bed.

I’m only aware of this because while I already knew the futon was slightly uncomfortable because Paul and I used it when we came up in September – we each had a side of the bed, and that was fine.

Now, sleeping alone (feels very odd, by the way), I find myself naturally gravitating to the centre of the bed. That’s what you do when you find yourself alone in a double bed, no? Anyway. The middle of the bed is a ridge, and monumentally uncomfortable. Like trying to sleep on a fence, only covered with a duvet, and without the possibility of splinters. The only way to avoid the ridge is to lie in one of the dips – but you must face inwards, towards the middle of the bed, as I discovered in the wee small hours of the morning, when, facing out, the entire bed overbalanced on one side and tipped me out. Nice.

Actually, now I come to think about it, I seem to remember that P and I ended up putting the futon mattress on the floor to avoid the same tipping danger. Hmm.

Anyway, tonight, I think I’ve cracked it. I’ve folded spare blankets and laid them in the dips. There’s a spare duvet on top of those, and then a sheet (very scandanavian). Then I’ve got me (in socks), my hot water bottle, and then two duvets, a blanket and a bedspread. I feel a little like a robin lining her nest for winter.

The north wind doth blow
And we shall have snow
and what will the robin do then? Poor thing!

It’s not snowing here (yet), but it’s only a matter of time. There’s a fierce north wind rattling the windows (and my teeth), and apparently the north of England already has snow. I wish I was there – though not for the weather; for the company.

Time go go and hide my head under my wing, I think. I’ve got a cold nose.

Update, later:
I’m not going mad, and I’m not having a Princess-and-the-pea moment.

Those massive uncomfortable dips in the futon? Well, in the wee hours of this morning, in the process of remiving the matress to fluff it up, I discovered that the actual bed frame is broken and four slats had popped out of place.

Which would explain, you know, why I was sleeping in a hollow.

Mattress now on floor = colder, but much more comfortable. Oh, the trials of island life.

In Iona, huddled in my mum’s office, wearing four layers of clothing and slippers.

The wind is (literally) blowing a gale against the window – the stone walls of this building are three feet thick, but the windows are vulnerable. Makes you appreciate double glazing, I assure you.

So, the journey here. Well. I was sick last night – part worry, part I don’t know what – so I got about 4.3 minutes sleep. The alarm was set for six so I could get up and get organised before walking at a leisurely pace the 20 minute stroll to the station, where I was to catch the 07.12am to the airport, where I would then check in by 8am, a full hour and a quarter before my flight. Easy peasy.

It didn’t quite happen like that.

The alarm went off, and I rolled over and looked at it, before sitting bolt upright in bed screeching “faaaaaaaaaaark” and shaking Paul awake. Quarter past seven. Oops. Got up and ready in about five minutes flat and then sprinted (as much as one can with a backpack full of woollens and a hold-all bulging with pressies) to the station, in time for the quarter to eight train. Which didn’t go to the airport.

I had to change to another train, then get a bus to the airport, all the while checking my watch and chanting to myself “come ON come ON come ON” as other passengers faffed needlessly with their luggage/hair/wallets in the doorway of the bus. Time ticked by. I had mild palpitations. The bus pulled up to the kerb in front of the terminal with a full two minutes to go before check in closed at nine. Hah.

Then I had to run to the gate, pausing only to discover that I’d somehow managed to pack two toothbrushes in my cabin baggage, but no toothpaste. Anyway, I’m only glad there wasn’t an ITV soapumentary crew legging it after me through the terminal, making some fly-on-the-wall guff about Luton airport….

The flight was turbulent – we bounced around the sky in a this-is-not-natural kind of way, and only the fact that I hadn’t yet had breakfast (come to that, I hadn’t even woken up properly) prevented me from losing it all over the cabin.

Then there was a bus and a train, and then a ferry crossing (rough) and a long bus journey over the isle of mull (still nauseous), and one final rough ferry crossing in the dark and over big waves.Yeeech.

I got here. I’m glad.

I’m also stressed and exhausted – it’s taken removing me from the city, from my pattern of life, to realise just how knackered, off-kilter and out-of-sorts I have become recently. Bad Meg. Bad Meg.

The lack of updates to this site which may follow could be caused by electrical failure, excessive wine, not being able to get out of bed or being buffetted around by the wind up a hill somewhere. Someone asked me what my plans were for christmas, yesterday, and I told him, straight-faced, that I planned to work on inducing deep-vein thrombosis by sitting in one position for a very very very long time, on the sofa, watching tv, talking, drinking tea or wine, reading. Wish me luck.

But in the meantime, if you check back here in the next few days and see nothing, don’t be disappointed. Be happy for the silences – they mean I am regenerating, resting, coming back to life.

Where we are going tomorrow, there are no modern amenities: official. Yahoo news covers a story in which a mother dashes 900 miles to deliver a GameBoy that her son forgot to pack – when he was going to the Isle of Iona on a school trip.

I don’t know about no amenities – my mum certainly has a telly, though I’m not sure that’s she’s watched it at all in the last five years, and fair enough, she doesn’t get channel five (but she should count her blessings, really), and ok, I’ll concede that in order to get a mobile phone signal my little sister has to go down to the beach and stand on a rock holding the phone at arm’s length, but you know, there are modern amenities on Iona. Honest.

Not so at Camas, though. Camas Tuath is an outdoor adventure centre on the Isle of Mull, a few miles from Iona. It’s based in four abandoned quarrymen’s cottages, which have since been used as a salmon fishing station and a rehabilitation for Borstal Boys. To get there, you need to walk a couple of miles across a peat bog and over a mountain – there is no road in, no vehicle access, and everything that needs to get to the camp (food, propane gas, firewood) has to either be hoiked in on the backs of visitors or staff or brought around the coastline by dinghy.

In 1995, I worked at Camas, and loved every minute of it. My sleeping quarters consisted of a garden shed, whitewashed inside, overlooking the sea. I swam every morning, though it was freezing. There was no electricity at the camp, and no running water, (and definitely no hot water), which meant doing everything by candlelight, from evening ablutions to ghost-storytelling around the fire (lit to scare off the midges).

The kids that came to stay at the camp, took part in kayaking and climbing and orienteering every day, as well as lots of team-building activities, brain-games and trust exercises. They mostly came from inner cities around the country, usually showed up in sparkling brand new trainers, carrying a portable stereo, booming dance music. When they asked where they could plug it in, we laughed. They echoed, hollowly “you mean you have no electricity? Like none? Not even a little bit?”

One of the first things I did when I started work there was buy a white plastic lightswitch from the local post office shop and screw it to the door jamb of the common room, where people usually spent each evening. That night, and throughout the rest of the season, I took great pleasure in catching kids unaware by asking them to switch the light on when dusk drew in. Out of habit, they lunged for the switch, and then, when nothing happened and they realised they had forgotten that there was no electricity, they blushed furiously and we had a good giggle. Funny? You bet. Cruel? Nah, not really.

Life without modern amenities was good, up there – it was simple and enjoyable. If anyone comes running up to me as I board the ferry at Oban, telling me I forgot my laptop, I shall fling them (and it) into the murky water by the ferry terminal. So there.

So on Sunday night we were on the way home from Lucky Break (better-than-average BritFlick starring James Nesbitt in a George Clooney-esque wig) and we passed a late-night deli, so we thought we’d stop in and buy yummy things for breakfast the next day.

We picked up some croissants and a thick wedge of baked cheesecake, and pointed at some fruit scones, and then wandered home to curl up and nod off.

In the morning, we ravenously unpacked the deli goodies stashed in the fridge hurriedly the night before.

Two croissants: check.
One wedge of artery-hardening cheesecake: check.
Two fruit scones: nowhere to be seen. Hmm.

So on went the pinny, up rolled the sleeves and out came the ingredients. I made scones, for the first time in ages, and we ate them hot and soggy with melting butter fresh from the oven.

When I worked up in Scotland (where my sister works now) I used to have to make dozens of scones every day – plain, fruit and cheese varieties – for lunch and snacks for the guests. It got to the point that I could make them blindfold, in about four minutes with no recipe, because I did it every single day.

One morning I went down to the kitchen early, a bit sleepy after a night at the ceilidh, and started baking bread and scones as usual. To my horror, I discovered a large margarine tub of semi-liquified yellow gunk sitting next to the stove, melting slowly in the bright sunshine pouring through the window.

“Oh bollocks!” I thought, “someone’s been for a midnight snack here and has forgotten to put away the margarine and now it’s gone all runny. The fools!”

Before anyone else got in, I quickly rubbed the yellow goop into some flour, added some cheese and mustard and cayenne pepper, rolled the dough out and whacked the formed scones into the oven to bake for twelve minutes. Phew. No-one needs to know.

Just as I was preparing to make another batch of fruit scones, one of my co-workers wandered into the kitchen blearily looking for coffee. He spied the empty margarine tub next to the stove and ran his finger around the inside, licking the remnants greedily from his hands.

“Eeeeeeeeuuuw!” I exclaimed, “that’s disgusting!”

He looked puzzled. “What do you mean?” he asked, “it’s only last-night’s custard”

Ah. Custard. Not margarine, then.

Two things suddenly became crystal clear to me:

1. The night before, dessert had been apple crumble and custard, and some well-meaning soul had put the leftover custard into an empty margarine tub without labelling it, leaving it on the counter-top to cool down before putting it in the fridge, as good health and safety practices dictate.
2. I’d just made cheese and custard scones.

At lunch that day, I played a game with the guests – “guess the mystery ingredient”. None of them guessed correctly, although a few commented on their strangely appealing sweet-spicy flavour and slightly sticky texture.

Let this be a lesson to you: always label your leftovers. And most importantly, if you fuck up, never let on.

Meg’s Basic Scone Recipe

• 8oz self-raising flour
• 2oz butter
• pinch of salt
• 2-4 tbsp milk (fine if slightly sour)
• sultanas/cheese and mustard

– Rub butter and flour and salt together between fingertips until the mixture resembles fine crumbs (chuck in sultanas or cheese/mustard or custard (eek!) if desired at this point).
– Add milk a splosh at a time and fold in using your hands until the mixture holds together and becomes like dough – better to be slightly on the sticky side than too dry.
– Knead lightly on a floured board, and then roll out to 1″-1.5″ thick (use rolling pin or if you don’t have one, use a wine bottle or can of soup or beans covered in clingfilm or plastic bag).
– Cut into squares a couple of inches square (frilly-edges are for girls), stick on a baking tray and whack in the oven for 10-15 minutes, at a medium-high heat, until lightly browned on top and risen slightly.
– Eat hot from the oven, slathered in butter and/or jam and/or vegemite and/or honey and accompanied by a cup of tea.

Went for a long walk. Very cold. No puffins.

Blogging is proving difficult from the Hebrides this Christmas, due to lack of electricity, decent computer and frankly, volition to get online. There’s so much else to do – like go for long walks bundled up in layers of fleece and wool; watch the northern lights dance across the horizon; linger over long lunches of homemade bread and hearty soup; curl up in front of the warm fire with the book I’ve been trying to finish since August; play cards and sillybuggers and do the King Williams’s Christmas Quiz with my brother and sister by candlelight; laugh until my cheeks ache; make the most of the short hours of daylight walking to deserted hebridean beaches, hands warm in pockets, eyes streaming from the north wind.

So sorry if I’m not online as often as I might originally have anticipated: but as Betty Boothroyd said, “be happy for me.” I need this.

So until I manage to get online again, which may be later rather than sooner (think the other side of crimbo, at least), I hope you have a very enjoyable and peaceful holiday season. Take care.

Later:

Still quiet on the blogging front: but this time owed to frisking in the snow on home-(and hastily-)made sledges, drinking too much Cabernet sauvignon by a blazing fire and getting to a really exciting bit of Cryptonomicon. Electricity still sporadic, but the good vibes I am sending you are not. Hope you’re having as good a time as I am. Hasta luegito…

I was talking to my mum tonight, and she mentioned that there’s a feasibility study in progress about building a causeway to the island she lives on from the Isle of Mull, because rough seas often mean the tiny ferries can’t run in winter.

I’m going up to the island for Christmas again, and I’ve allowed myself five days to get onto the island, although the timetables maintain that it’s physically possible to leave my front door in London at 4am and (via a combination of taxi, train, bus, plane, bus, train, train, foot, ferry, bus, ferry and foot) be snug in front of my mum’s hearth by 7pm. I’ve booked a B+B for two nights in Fionnphort, the tiny hamlet from which the final ferry sails, in case I get storm-stayed. It’s frustrating being so close to the island and yet unable to get there – it’s only a mile across the Sound of Iona, but the currents are deceptively strong.

When I was working up on Iona in November 1992, I left the island early one morning to visit the doctor in Bunnessan on the Ross of Mull. By the time I’d turned around to get back on the ferry, an hour later, the sea was too rough to cross. I was storm stayed at Fionnphort for three days, kipping on kind villagers’ couches and spending a lot of time in the pub, overlooking the island just a short distance away across the Sound. It might has well have been a hundred miles.

The currents are strong in the Sound of Iona, and what seems like a very short distance often involves a much longer journey to compensate for tide, wind and current. I’ve crossed that distance by dinghy, kayak, tiny sailboat and a little rowboat with an outboard. I’ve crossed that span too many times to count in the pitch black of night, after the last ferry, or after a jolly evening in the Keel Row pub in Fionnphort.

In 1998, four island men were drowned just before Christmas when attempting to cross the Sound after a Christmas party. A wave snuck up and overturned their boat, the current took them, and they were gone. I remember those boys well. I drank with them in the only pub on the island and danced wild versions of strip the willow with them at ceilidhs (Rab Hay spun me so hard once he sprained my wrist and snapped my watchstrap). I went to one of their birthday parties and crossed the Sound with another on midsummer’s night in the driving rain to see the Tempest re-enacted in a haunted nunnery. Those boys are gone.

Look at the pictures of Iona. Think about them building a causeway to the island. Think about the cars parked in long rows along the beach. Think about how easy it will be to get onto – and off – the island…if you have a car. Iona is a special place – the isolation is half the prize.