31 July 2024

When I finally take a turn around the garden, views and judgment are quick to surface. Last year the semi-abandoned vibe could be ascribed to Julie “finding her way”. This year it’s clear that – apart from the big polytunnel, which is bursting with healthy tomato and cucumber plants – the lack of productivity and controversial aesthetic is a choice. I would need to find a degree of acceptance beyond what I can currently muster to work in this environment. Just as well, then, that my 3 island days haven’t put me there.

I have a bit of time before Grant takes me off the island. So I mozy along to the 15-minute meditation session that some of the volunteers have instigated in the refurbed yurt. It’s a strange development. What’s wrong with the beautiful shrine room and scheduled sitting sessions that have served us non-Tibetan Buddhists for decades? “Some people don’t like the icon of Buddha”, Graham says. Oh come on.

I have found it physically tough, this visit. Am I coming to the end of the time when I can put in a six-hour working day? On the other hand, I managed three days. Perhaps there is a way for an old dog.

A younger version of myself would have seized the handful of hours I have in Brodick to get as far up Goat Fell as I could. Today’s ‭Rebecca is content to stroll along the stunning shore boardwalk and watch thoughts of cake and coffee come and go.

I am about to get into moonching-around-the-shops mode but think to check the ferry departure board. I discover that the CalMac service isn’t performing as timetable. And the next boat looks to be full. (How come? I’m only a foot passenger!) I adapt my plan, sailing to Troon instead of Ardrossan. 

Pentland Ferries seems to have bailed out CalMac with the loan of a vessel. Flocks of guillemots pepper the millpond-smooth water. A man with a lens half a metre long clicks continuously. A group of day trippers speculate about the relative populations of the Arran towns. Lucky people who live within such easy reach of the island.

The Stagecoach bus brings me to Glasgow, basking in 20°. I treat myself to a mocktail in the (packed) sun-kissed café occupying the former The Citizen offices in St Vincent St. Terrace-café-people-watching is an aspect of Glasgow I haven’t enjoyed before.

Boarding my 23:45 pm train some hours later the external corridor is so narrow I can barely wheel my suitcase through. My minuscule “cabin” is a bit like being enclosed in a tin – I can’t imagine sharing the space. (Luggage?) 

But the bed is comfy and, after my initial moment of panic, I locate light switches etc, and all is good. I glide through the night, lulled by the rocking/jolting/grinding until the 6:30 am cup of tea/wake-up call. My faith in, and enjoyment of, train travel is undiminished. Good morning, Euston.