Crying over a Necklace

I woke suddenly in the night realising with anxious panic that I’d left my necklace accidentally in a pocket and now that pocket was in the washing machine. I knew it would be gone. Even so, as I pulled the washing out, I briefly closed my eyes and took a big hopeful inhale but of course there was no sign of it and a wave of deep sadness washed over me. The simple gold chain had huge sentimental value and I can’t help but be upset; I find four links attached to a sock, which somehow feels even crueler. Can you grieve over such a thing?

I know I can get emotional over simple things; the swift shadows of a kittiwake on the limestone boulders, raindrops held in a lady’s mantle leaf, old quarry tile floors and the hot smell of a meadow in high summer. It never feels irrationally emotional. Besides, the necklace reminded me of you.

Larrybane

The day is so clear and bright it looks like the island has been pulled closer, even Scotland seems as if it’s floated forward towards our shores. I can easily make out the turbines on Kintyre. On the way to Larrybane I notice the green berries on the elderflower and have a stern word with myself to embrace summer now, right now, as autumn is only around the corner. The sea breeze has an unwelcome chill and I wish I’d brought a layer, quickening my pace instead. When I reach the cliff path, it’s warm, lined with tall grasses and hawthorn holding the heat in, a toasty shelter. At the bay I find a place to sit and watch a perfectly straight line of gannets, shining bright white against the blues, flying parallel to the horizon. I forget about the necklace momentarily.

Flowers finishing, berries beginning

Being sentimental about objects always carries a potential risk for me. I can be scatty and forgetful, I think about those lost keys, purses and my ever-growing collection of single earrings. Treasure for the metal detectors of the future. I worry about having emotional attachments to physical objects as I fear the likelihood of them being lost or broken is so high or maybe inevitable. It would make much more sense to detach meaning, not to be so materialistic. The cracked favourite mug, the foxing on the wedding dress. Low financial value, high emotional value.

When a floor is so pretty it needs a photo

It would be good practice to remind myself of those who have so little. At the harbour I take the path down to the secret beach, where we once brought a rescued herring gull for triumphant release. After the rain the beach smells of the sweet damp flowers of the Rosa Rugosa. I think of how we sat for hours fishing for mackerel here, a favourite place for wave watching on wild winter days and remember how we stood in excitable anticipation at the blowhole? This whole coast has sentimental nostalgia in absolute spades.

Roses on the sand

Maybe that’s why I love being out in the land, each and every familiar place rich with memory and sentimental feeling. I always smile when I find that smooth part of the rocks where our little scampering toes ran around all day, sandwiches in hand and we grabbed towels and made the basalt a sun lounger. Or the caves where we threw a wild party back when summer and carefree youth felt it would never end. Or a first kiss on the precipice above Portmoon. I have countless stories of our coastline, more precious than anything I own.

Shine! An hour well spent

Back home I decide to polish granny’s preserving pan; the most satisfying transformation from dull to super shiny. I think of the pan being passed down and our family reminiscing about the things that were made in it, the memories of our first garden blackcurrant jam eaten on hot buttered toast by the pond, the spicy chutney enjoyed with friends and cheese and boardgames and the yearly elderberry syrup we call mummy’s medicine, for you poorly on the sofa with an afternoon film.

The secret beach

I still think about the speed peeler I bought at the car boot sale at Church hill fair for 50p, was I nine? It travelled with me through lots of cutlery drawers before it found itself accidentally in the bin with potato peelings. And the snapped handle of the lovingly whittled spoon made from the old cherry tree on the front lawn; the blossom under which we sat with babies and aperitifs.

Wildness in the garden

A funny old thing sentimentality. Lamenting over objects all the while trying to shrug shoulders and realise it probably doesn’t really matter because I will never not think of you, necklace or not.

Hangover food

After a particularly over indulgent night of mischievous fun I was in serious need of a cure, something fried, fresh and spicy. The fridge seemed empty but also full since there’s a whole shelf devoted to condiments and another to beer. But I find a kohlrabi, a slightly floppy rhubarb stalk and a couple of sad limes. I wonder if I can call this a salsa, it feels a stretch. Nevertheless it was inspired by it.

Enjoy x

Half a large Kohlrabi, peeled

Hot red chilli

Rhubarb stalk

Half a red onion diced

Zest and juice of two limes

Fresh coriander

Big pinch salt

Olive oil

Chop everything oh so tiny. Mix together in a bowl, add chopped coriander, salt lime zest and juice and olive oil. Zingy yum.

I used the other half of onion and kohlrabi along with a grated carrot and some feta to make little fritter/pakora things to satisfy the need for fried food. Good with anything you would have salsa with I’m guessing.