It began to get light about 7am on Rathlin.

 

 

 

Three hours free before the ferry, and Bruce’s Kitchen Cafe was closed, maybe related to a resident’s funeral.

Above: a stone chair dedicated to the island, with a poem by Seamus Heaney.I wandered around the shoreline, taking photos and attracting the attention of a dog. The eponymous Rathlin became my companion for half an hour, bringing a stick for me to throw. yanking out tubed stem seaweed for me to throw, lifting a plank from a building yard and dragging it across the street, presumably to throw, and as an ailibi.  And when I washed the seaweed off in a little stream, Rathlin piled right into it, all four legs.

 

And then, the money ran out. And I went home

 

 

 

I’ll be back though. I’ve already twisted the arm of the Belfast Writer’s Group for a retreat out there, and Richard sent me this text earlier,

“Cheers 4 lovely postcard. Is just a place out a time up there – like a realm just slightly off the frequency. U know 4 yr bday there shud b a party up there. Out in the wilderness, us all imagining we’re the last remains of something, and we’re braced against the outside closing in”

Which sounds very tempting. My birthday is 70 days away,