Across the Firth of Clyde, west on silver water, the Isle of Bute abides October’s mismatched blue and green eyes. I have come to see again, as Scotland has always been generous to me in its gifts of clarity and perspective. Such charity reflected in that hammered sea of sky and the tripartite monoliths bereft of trapping or circumstance in this lonely field across the road from my croft. Oh that Nordic air hung with the sea’s breath is ripe here and gathering on every blade and tassel like that pregnant moment before speech. Speak to me, please speak to me.
But what I seek is the conveyance of truth, the way a sun ray warms, not the minimizing prison of words. There is fresh shadow falling from ancient stone, a ball of fire smeared across the clouds, distant peninsulas, and mountains of pasture. I am stood in this random field across the globe with my father, and I realize all this time I thought I was bringing him to Scotland he, in fact, has brought me. We have lost the names of these stones, but our names do not make us. We expand beyond the word. We are not one thing but many, the blue and the green and all the colors in between.
A memorable trip that lives in my heart and memory, a wild country full of beauty and good people. I want to say it was my best visit to Scotland but I have felt this after each one as I recall the warm companionship and unforgettable experiences in a distant familial homeland. Bute was a wonderful beginning to a kind of spiritual adventure for this auld git.
Unforgettable days. Thank you.