Without walking on broken glass
A generation ago, if you saw a piece of broken bottle on the beach, the parent in charge would warn against the danger of cutting off a limb. Now, we sell that same shard as precious jewellry, in shops boasting access to “sea glass”. How times change.
The side of the car has turned grey, with a fine layer of dust from the main street. Imported dust, since roadbuilders aren’t satisfied with Island shale as a base. Everything washes away, given heavy rainshowers, and maybe tomorrow’s forecast will bring a return to my preferred cobalt blue.
We cooked up a feed of fresh scallops on the campstove, and other than a lack of condiments (who knew that lemon juice was essential to a summer kitchen), the taste was worth the effort. Lightly crisped in a bit of hot olive oil, with some salt and pepper, it was as good as any small restaurant might offer us, at an hour that we controlled. Camping isn’t deprivation, in spite of what the hotel industry might whisper to the rest of you.
Last evening, I stood in a graveyard, surrounded by rows of old stones. There was purpose to my visit; a chance to attend an informal lecture on the history of the area. Never forget; those who are interred are those who remained, cold summer after cold winter. The real settlers. This cemetery has been closed to new names for better than a century, and the stone have changed places. One of those strange dance steps done by people filled with good intentions and a penchant for neat appearance. We were warned: “Your ancestor has little chance of being beneath a named stone”. Think of it as a Gestalt instance.
