I want to take you to the island
But I'm soloing
The blackbird singing its heart out woke me before my alarm and I quietly packed a bag in the half-light, leaving the house to greet the sun. After the usual indecisive wobble, I left it to my inner wisdom and drove the eight miles to the beach of my childhood. The energy of the bay has always felt mystical, there’s a presence and my connection to it is fiercely loyal, my beach. Having shrugged off the possibility of celebrating the solstice with others I opted instead for the beauty of quiet solitude, content in my own company. To set intentions for the next part of the year I brought some plants from the garden and focussed my energy on them while I considered their representations; love, happiness, wisdom, inner peace, protection. I waded into the water and watched the red sun rise from behind Bull Point, distracted from time to time by the gannets torpedoing close to shore. Leaving the beach I turned around for one last look and by solstice magic a pod of dolphins was crossing the bay east to west. Their joyful somersaults making me smile.
Earlier in the week I took myself and the bike to the island. Part fun, part work, part therapy, this immersion in the landscape is vital, tied to me so tightly I think it likely that I’d unravel completely without it. There’s an immediate palpable stillness as I step off the ferry onto the Rathlin shore and I breathe it in. On a whim I decide to visit each of the three lighthouses which will mean around 17 miles in the saddle; a dawdle for some perhaps but I factor in a well-earned rest in the form of a creamy pint at the picnic tables before the boat home.
Despite being fully aware that the first half mile out of the harbour is entirely uphill at a steep (killer) incline, I clearly felt like I was chasing the maillot jaune and had forgotten that at the very top of this part of the road there’s a defibrillator attached to one of the houses. Presumably precisely because of the rash stupidity of people like me trying to get to the top too quickly. I laugh when I see it, but it’s a kind of gasping for air laugh, which is embarrassing as it cuts through the otherwise almost complete silence.
The roadsides are lined with orchids and there’s an intoxicating scent of honeysuckle in the warm air. I’m listening carefully for a corncrake though gently humming the loveliness of Paul Brady’s ‘The Island’. My eyes scan the fields for the legendary Golden Hare and the skies for a glimpse of a Skua, before being suddenly and violently shaken by a cattle grid; a reminder to pay attention to the road. The cliffs at the West Light are ever impressive but especially amazing when covered with nesting seabirds loud with activity. I jog down the steep 162 steps and am mesmerised by the scene of this city of birds. I stop briefly on the way back at Kinramer to feast on my leftover pizza and a jarful of strawberries which I end up sharing with a friendly French man.
By some beautiful serendipity the weather is always perfect when I visit the island; always clear enough to admire the views; suspended in the Atlantic flanked by Ireland to the south and Scotland to the north east, with Fairhead commanding most of my attention. I text my friend to meet for a swim in the bay before I continue to the second lighthouse and she makes me fresh watermelon juice as I apologise for my sweaty hug. Before I’m properly out of the harbour I hear the sound I’d hoped for; The Corncrake. I jump off my bike so quickly it slams against my thigh and I limp down to the wall where two men sit quietly with their binoculars locked on the fence. They point him out to me and for the first time in my life I watch him call; a kind of life affirming moment, like watching Bon Iver play ‘Flume’ or standing at the top of Errigal, I forget about bumping my leg. One of the men told me with tears in his eyes that he used to hear them as a boy but he hadn’t heard one for 42 years.
At Rue point I hang out with the seals for a bit, they’re singing and I find I am too, I don’t go right down to the light for fear I won’t have time for a pint. This part of island is serene and I wish I could go back by Roonivoolan but it doesn’t work with the bike so I return to Ushet watching out for the Great Egret. The unexpected field of Alpaca has a disjointed absurdness which I find funny but am more at ease when I spot a wheatear and family of Raven. The East Light is my favourite; it is classic lighthouse romance. The walls house a large site with a variety of buildings and there is currently a project to create an incredible space for not only the community but for researchers, artists and visitors. It seems to me there’s always something interesting happening on the island and on days like this I think I could stay, I could really stay.
If you can’t make it to Rathlin, read this gorgeous book by Bernie McGill
Another morning with bright warm sunshine and a clear plan in my head. I pack the camping stove, a lighter, one pan, a fork and a wooden spoon. I crack two eggs into a jam jar, add a clove of garlic, milk, salt and pepper, a few basil leaves and a little parmesan. Plus a couple of slices of focaccia and some butter. Away to the shore.
I get dressed after a luxuriously long swim, the black basalt rocks are holding so much heat that they have warmed my clothes. I sit looking out to sea, scrambling eggs on the stove while the tide starts changing and the waves get splashier. Total contentment staring at the cliffs of Bull Point whilst mopping up the hot buttery mixture straight from the pan.
Next morning I step barefoot out into the garden before the house wakes up, the ground still warm from the heat of the sun. The landscape has its own natural soundtrack, full of birdsong and the odd cow or sheep. And the non stop, fairly annoying, crowing of our cockerel. It seems a strange juxtaposition to be sitting, held within this natural scene with my laptop, adding the sound of tapping typing to the birds.
I start to think about what to eat, which takes up a lot of my brain power daily. Back in the kitchen I keep coming back for just one more piece of torn off bread, thickly spread with butter. Oh, this weather making the butter so easily spreadable, the simple pleasures. But today my excitement is a single courgette and since I haven’t eaten one since autumn I’m kind of giddy at the potential possibilities. Plus the broad bean tops which I absolutely love though have to accept that I definitely ate some greenfly.
Broad bean tops, Blackcurrants + First Courgette
For one
One smallish courgette, cut into coins
A few tops off the broad beans
A scallion, sliced
Blue cheese
Small handful of ripe blackcurrants
Olive oil
Fennel and mint
Salt and pepper
Heat a large frying pan, when hot add a tablespoon of oil. Arrange the courgette slices in a single layer and let cook for a few minutes, carefully turn them over, add salt and pepper and let them get golden on the other side. Just at the cusp of collapse throw in the broad bean tops and scallion for a minute and then take everything out of the pan and put in a bowl or on a plate. While the pan is still hot add the currants with a tablespoon of olive oil. Meanwhile break up the blue cheese and tear up your herbs, add to the veg. Pour the oil and currants into a small bowl and smoosh then dot over the plate.
You could add pasta/quinoa/cous cous etc for a more substantial feast.
Another lyrical piece! Your beautiful writing brings me much joy.
The three lighthouses are still so evocative. We’ve heard curlews down here on the Shannon Estuary (a long diagonal distance from you) this year. They were missing last year. But we are hopeful they will re-establish as it seems to be a good year all round for nesting birds. We have two swift/house martin nests settled in late but comfortably here.
I went to Rathlin a few years ago, so enchanting (though I wore gloves and a hat in mid June!) one of the loveliest of days.