The Rock
The Rock is not a Rock; it’s a thousand and one Rocks.
The substrates; the gneiss Rock, the deep peat, the prehistoric Rocks.
The local Rocks: the crofters, the cruise ship tour guides, the Leòdhasach Scottish Makar, the villages hollowed out by holiday lets, Rocks. The teenagers working in the chip shops, the Townie whose lack of Gaelic feels like an, aching, amputated limb, Rocks.
The Scots Rocks: thon quine fae the Broch fa married Alasdair à Siabost, the Edinburgh seascape artist, the HebCelt film-camera volunteer from East Kilbride, Rocks.
The English Rocks: the saw the radiographer job online and thought, why not? The Londoner so thankful he escaped before Lockdown, the acid casualty, blown in for Solstice at the stones, marooned in a cheap tent on Barvas Moor, Rocks.
Me.
The Pakistani Rocks.
The Nepalese Hotel chef Rocks.
The Syrians from Aleppo, who had to get their children somewhere safe, Rocks.
The brochure and Facebook Rocks: the broch, the stones, the peerless beaches bathed in golden sunlight, where it never rains, Rocks.
The cancer diagnosis, the dialysis, the Parkinson’s consultation via video link to Glasgow, the can’t get a dentist, Rocks.
The, why did we buy this freezing ruin in the North Atlantic? Rocks.
The place that feels like home, Rocks.
The, oh God, I’ve got to get off this Rock, Rocks.
The, how do I get back from London, Dubai, Melbourne… to my Rock? Rocks.
The skein of long-tailed ducks, against a crimson sunset, Rock.
Responses
Sometimes an Island nation feels closed in. There is no way off of the “Rock” without traveling by a boat or ship. Things seem so far away. Other times it is just the place one needs to be. Far away from it all.
–Response from LL, Aland