There are bruishes on my legs, scratches from when I walked through the bushes in the forest and the trees with their branches caught me and held on. There are mosquito bites too and two, very small red marks from where the ticks got me. Half-healed scratches on my hands.
My knees are the brownest I have seen them in years, even if that doesn’t say a lot and for a few days my hair, my skin smelled of saltwater and the sun.
Every morning I woke up to it coming in through the curtained windows, filtered green from the greenness of the garden and stretching patches of light on the wooden floors. Waking me up to the prospect of a new adventure, however small its shape turned out to be.
A walk down to the old quarry hidden in the woods, with waters so deep we don’t know how far it goes. The calmness there but also the fear of slipping.
An even longer walk down a very long, a very winding country lane heading towards town and yet still so far away. Yet no further away than a call, to be picked up halfway back.
For a few days we feared the rain but then there were watercolours painted down by the lake and the heat of the planks under my feet, as I walked out along the jetty. The coolness of the water as we dipped in and of the sand as we walked back out.
On the warmest day there was the pulse of the engine as we headed for the island on the ferry, where the sun was in my face and everywhere we could see water. Heading for that little creek down by the cliffs like last year, walking out on to the rocks and just sitting there for a bit, one foot in the water, which was a bit too cold. Made up by the heat, which was just a bit too warm.
Then wandering off and seeing parts of the island we have never been to before, however unlikely, on an island this small.
And always this lightness and an endless series of horizons for the eyes to wander. Islands for them to rest at.
As soon as I go home, I dream about being there again.
In fact, I’m sorry I have been gone so long.