Wednesday 26 September 2007
Ru Idrigill - guard to the Southern Minch .Pelagic heading set for Fladda Chúain, Harris, Scalp & the Uists, West-Nor-West. An eagre Fulmar escort stands-by, throwing arced warm up laps overhead, while the radio crackles out dutiful prose in my right ear, familiarity over strengthening wind...
Malin Hebrides: Northerly 5 or 6, veering easterly 3 or 4. Moderate or rough, occasionally very rough at first. Fair. Good.
Malin Hebrides: Northerly 5 or 6, veering easterly 3 or 4. Moderate or rough, occasionally very rough at first. Fair. Good.
You bang out the coffee mug on clattering black basalt, & breathing in the sky, everything is how it should be - just as it is either way, & you're good to go. You listen to that poetic timbre sliding further North along the hips of the current, letting the loch decide temperament.
Fair Isle, Cromarty: Variable 3 or 4. Moderate or rough...
Remembered days way back, finding Finisterre to be a Latin corruption of Finis Terre....end of earth. Radio 4 & Sailing By - almost...womb music for adults, or children of the Gael; those of us who sprouted up like weeds beyond range of the TV signal. Curled warm at night by a creaking storm window with the Long Ranger placing markers in the soul, & those markers, like pipe smoke, somehow force a stronger navigational bearing than the lone black starting gun of Ru Idrigill.
The drone of a mad forging prawner herd becomes nothing more than an occasional flicker of green & red on the horizon. The wake of LRSF drifts out behind, becoming silent & Harris forms a distant shape across open territory.
Good to go.
Fair Isle, Cromarty: Variable 3 or 4. Moderate or rough...
Remembered days way back, finding Finisterre to be a Latin corruption of Finis Terre....end of earth. Radio 4 & Sailing By - almost...womb music for adults, or children of the Gael; those of us who sprouted up like weeds beyond range of the TV signal. Curled warm at night by a creaking storm window with the Long Ranger placing markers in the soul, & those markers, like pipe smoke, somehow force a stronger navigational bearing than the lone black starting gun of Ru Idrigill.
The drone of a mad forging prawner herd becomes nothing more than an occasional flicker of green & red on the horizon. The wake of LRSF drifts out behind, becoming silent & Harris forms a distant shape across open territory.
Good to go.
posted by •≈ Sgian Dubh at 17:48:00 | 
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