day of sun, day of light
my fleeting soul, as Bertie sings. It all felt aerial, so ethereal and magical from dawn till now. The Met Office application on my iPod had somehow whispered to make the best of our Sunday… Dazzled by blue from dawn till dusk, the island weighed its mass of gold. Fuelled by might of our Nordic light, I packed my heart with adventures found on the shore of the South End – its very tip made of white sand.
West Voe was littered with uprooted kelp forests tides bring to rest on silver shores after each storm. Warmth on my skin, as I stepped out of the motor and began my first wandering. Whereas folk made it to the other side of arch, I followed the song of the waves and scrutinised the very edge of my own world. Life comes and feasts on rotting kelp,
from wading friends to the tiniest!
What better spectacle but watch waders – turnstones and purple sandpipers – mingle with lace made by the surf. Each one looked so mechanical every time they got their feet wet! I soon sealed time in a bubble and let my eye play through the lens.
And yet, behind me, the magic of our elusive jenny wren that too made the most of earth bonanza and played hide and seek in boulders. Magic moments.
A drive around Spiggie led us to geese – greylag, white-fronted and bean – scattered around the loch and the lush fields in-between Spiggie and Bigton.
Bigton, la voie royale to Arcania! So I went to salute my dear sandbridge for the first time since Yule and found new rocks on its shoreline… We shall never underestimate the power of water. Oceans and seas carry the world in their currents. We came to find shells of all kinds. And so we did… As spray flew high half-way though the tombolo and tide was high, we found happiness at its base. I marvelled at the game of light through marram grass… Like angel hair all around us. When the world sounds so loud, I always come back to the shore and listen for its earthly song. And love the island in such light.
By mid-afternoon, I reconvened with my troupe in the town, as theatre needs rehearsals. Dusk draped Sunday without a word. This epilogue back inside night – somewhat distracted by a glow of Aurora in the evening – hovers like a silvery cloak of a day more than well spent.
And I want to remember how it all began,