Return to Witch Island

The journey is hell, utter total hell. Despite my flip-flops, light gypsy skirt and T-shirt, I am boiling on the train. Packed in with sweating people on their way to their holidays, drinking a coke that five minutes ago was chilled and which is now the same temperature as everything else in the carriage. A couple of boys are messing around at the end of the compartment, throwing water at each other and annoying the collection of grannies next to them. I find myself wondering at what temperature stupidity catches fire. My long hair weighs on me like I’m wearing an enormous hat, over really heavy hair.
Just to add insult to sunburn and sweatiness, when I eventually arrive in Scotland it is raining; cold horrible rain that drips down your neck and makes your sandaled feet slippery and gritty. I run to the boat, ignoring the huge droplets of water that flick from my bushy hair. The village is as deserted as it was on my first visit, and I’m in no mood to call in on Pam, so I head straight home. The journey over the hill is…eventful. I lose my shoe twice to the gripping mud and my clothes are plastered to me with rain when I finally reach the house, only to find the gate swollen totally shut. I rip my skirt climbing over the wall and then waste time hunting for the key to the door in my bag, getting the contents soaked in the process. At last I’m inside. I kick off my wet, squeaky shoes and pad, dripping to the candles which are where I left them last time I was here.
I change into my mostly dry pyjamas and bash the dust from the sleeping bag which I had stowed under the folding bed. Too late I realise that all the firewood is outside in the rain, so I can’t light the stove. The only food I have is a flapjack from the train station shop, which I have to save for breakfast. None of my things will be here until tomorrow…maybe. So I sit, wrapped in my sleeping bag in front of the cold stove, a single candle at my elbow, wondering what I have done to deserve this.
Eventually I must have slept, because I wake up to daylight and a burnt out candle. The rain, though not completely gone, is now light and misty. I tug on my dampish clothes with a slight shiver of disgust, and go outside to check on my toilet block. It’s coming along rather nicely, with all the walls now up and one toilet installed. It is as yet sink-less and without tiles, but still useable which is a small mercy if I ever saw one. I give the whole block a quick look over then walk down to the village, munching my flapjack. With a little bit of luck my boxes will be arriving soon. In the end I limited myself to one box of clothes, one of books and one of assorted food stuffs and oddments like matches and string. Everything else I will have to buy in town. While I’m waiting for the boat to arrive I call in on Pam for a cup of tea and a chat.
“It’s nice to see someone make it this far” she confides over a second cup “to be honest, most of the others found the place a little…unwelcoming.”
“The locals or the house?” I quip, helping myself to a chocolate biscuit.
“Both!” she laughs “Not many people here like change, especially not from all the city born brats that came looking…no offence.” I nod, inviting her to continue “Then there’s that story about the woman who built the place.”
“What woman?” I ask, a little sharply.
“Oh, it doesn’t matter dear; it would just give you nightmares. Now, is that your luggage out there?” I look out of the window and, sure enough my boxes are stacked neatly in the square beside a “Mighty Mover” holding a “Mighty Clipboard”. Resenting the interruption I go outside and sign for the boxes, pick one up and wave and awkward goodbye to Pam, before lugging it up the hill to my house.
It takes hours, what with all the heavy boxes and the forty minute journey each way, but eventually all three boxes are stacked against the wall. I rescue some firewood from outside and leave is to dry in a corner while I change into some dry clothes. Now seems like as good a time as any to go shopping for some actual furniture. I catch the boat into town, fortunately the captain hung around for a chat with Pam so I didn’t have to wait until tomorrow, and start poking around in the second-hand shops.
I love second-hand shops! You never really know what it is you’re going to find. I examine a heap of gorgeous tiles, a porcelain chandelier and a tangled clump of old jewellery. I can’t help falling in love with a plain white, rectangular blanket box, which is perfect for keeping my clothes in. I’ve decided to opt for minimal furniture, after all, the place isn’t huge, but I still need a table and two chairs, maybe a bookcase too. I spot a beautiful table in the window of a little shop up a side alley. It’s square and solid old wood, scarred and stained with use. I’ve reached my limit on what I can carry, so I balance the large chest on top of the table and slowly work my way back to the boat.
By evening I am established. My clothes are folded neatly in the blanket box with their little lavender sachets (this being the only environment in which they might actually be useful). I have a table, though no chairs so I cannot sit at it. Instead I take my meal of fried bacon topped baked potato seated on my bed, admiring the colourful heaps of books that litter the floor. That night, well fed and at last alone in my own home, I curl up on my bed for the first time and sleep, dreamlessly.
Aww bless. But you don’t know what I’m dreaming about do ya? Next time – on to the present, I can’t wait to see what happens now that I can write about.