Ancient harbour rings, clattering trawlers, & ropes & marker bouys & mistral gannets, nets & weeds & clouds & things that move in rings, like light...I'll be down there...resting days before the next kayaking expedition across the Minch, visualizing the next rolling scenarios, rigging the prawner with Fraser. Gaff-cutter-rigged that one is...gaff-cutter-rigged; & I've got one eye on the Cuillin one eye on the straits up along Rona - one hand on the winch. Hot village coffee in chipped enamel mugs, sore shoulders, a grinding knee, kids turning shells & shrieks on the mud slithering tide, shadowed by dark dank & dripping green joists. They move along the shore ahead of the shadow, almost subconsciously...not much changes in generations of play. Packing trays, hose pipes & boning knives. Extended sessions of street blether, leaves drafted along guttered yellow lines, free mackerel, lost change in drains & the pie shop ovens on the breeze. There is a feeling of snow in the air...the kayak is being licked by a creeping tide...I'll have a roll in at 3pm...a cows knee from old Doni Matheson for they dug & using his cleaver as an expression of full-stop, he extends to me in Gaelic, the whole historical village heyday, & his youth in hard shoes, & I'm hurried along inside great vivacious swirls of laughing ghosts...of herring port clammer, salmon fishery finery & bustle, swept into my grandfathers days, when women had beards & men kept worms on Iniseer...Sump oil for the soul boy. Sump oil for the soul.