Janus
I stop on the path that leads back to the road-head at Blairmore from Sandwood Bay and look across the the magical, mirroring surface of the loch. The wind has dropped, all is calm, not even a wandering zephyr ruffles the surface of the water. A soft white feather seems to float above the surface on a reflection of itself, not daring to enter the unknown world beneath. The bright, white clouds drift slowly across the cerulean sky as their twins swim in the loch below, exact inverted images framed by the rocky shores.
The clouds move on the water but do not disturb it. Which is real, the cloud in the sky or the inverted reflection in the water? Does it matter? If I took away the picture, by tossing a stone into the loch, the cloud in the sky would still be there if I looked up; but if the cloud in the sky was moved away by a gentle breeze, the cloud in the water would disappear, it cannot survive alone, it needs its skybourne sibling.
Which am I, the cloud in the sky or the image in the water? Does it matter? Yes, I need to know. Can I exist alone in this universe or do I need something else to reflect me into existence?
I cannot stand to think about this, I must sit to contemplate. I slip off my rucksack, enjoying its heft as I swing it off my shoulder. I sit on a rock worn smooth by the passing eons of deep time, waiting and willing to be my seat for a minute fraction of its vast age. It is a block of Lewisian GneissI that has lived for three billion years longer than me. It has contributed to two thirds of the history of this planet. I respect its seniority.
The thermos waits with sweet, warm coffee. How does it know to keep it hot or cold? Where is the changeover switch?
The encompassing silence wraps itself around me like a blank canvas on an artist’s easel. Miniature dabs of the artist’s brush produce small sounds; a guttural grunt of a sheep, a sibilant shriek of a seagull, on the pale background whispering wash of the breakers on the shore.
I am in the moment, wanting this day never to end. I’ll bring the tent next time, lay cosy in my sleeping bag, lulled to sleep by the endless crashing of the Atlantic breakers on the sand.
I pour coffee into the plastic cup, luckily the flask has decided to keep it hot -must be set to ‘automatic’. I fold my hands around the cup to enjoy the warmth. I shake a handful of nuts and raisins into my palm and hoover them up with lips that are chilled by the winter air but comforted by the warmth of the coffee and munch with great satisfaction. I munch with savouring satisfaction as I relish the reassuring squelch of water in my boots that have been over topped by the sea racing across the silent sweep of singing sands. A tangible memory of a wonderful place. I will always remember sliding down the ten metre dunes, built by the genius of the marram grass, as if I was equipped with seven league boots, then looking up to see the majestic sea stack, Am Buachaille, pointing defiantly to the heavens.
I decide I cannot survive alone and compose my life mantra.
Just living is not enough, I must have fresh air, freedom, mountains and music.
I repack the rucksack, shrug it onto my shoulders, check the rock is well and thank it for its hospitality. I leave it for its journey onwards through the next billion years of space and time. It will be here long after I am worn to dust and recycled into Mother Earth. I have a feeling of great privilege to be here, in this instant of time and place, as I wander along the path through this ancient ice - scoured landscape.
*****
My feet hurt. My boots have leaked so my wet socks are busy rubbing a blister on each of my heels. They hurt with each step. This path seems never ending. It was only supposed to be a short stroll but it has turned into a hike. The path is longer than I thought. I have been hurrying to get back in time and to keep warm so now I have a sweaty patch on my back under the bulky, uncomfortable rucksack. It is too heavy and rubs my shoulders. I forgot my gloves so my hands are cold and stiff.
I look up and see the clouds rolling in. I’ll have to hurry as I think my waterproof isn’t. I don’t want to get caught in the rain. If I had more time I would stop for a rest and a cup of coffee but there is nothing to sit on, just a few rocks along the side of the pond. I need to try and catch hime up, but he walks so fast. The coffee will probably be cold by now anyway, these flasks aren’t much good at keeping things warm. I’m getting hungry, but I didn’t think to bring any decent food, just some bags of mixed nuts and raisins, the ones that get stuck in your teeth as you chew and chew then try to swallow the resulting dry bolus.
Why did we have to come all this way anyway? There is nothing here, no trees, just heather, some wispy marsh grass and a few angrey looking sheep. It is so deadly quiet here. I should have brought my i pod with perhaps a track or two of Iron Maiden - that would liven it up a bit.
The beach we came to see was just another empty beach, not even a cafe to get so,me decent food, just big mounds of sand with a bit of wispy grass. The pond near the path is full. It overflows on to the the path in places so I cannot avoid getting my feet even more wet. Perhaps they should drain the pond, get rid of the rocks and then put down a nice smooth bit of tarmac. I could walk in my trainers then rather than these ridiculous, heavy, leaky boots. Maybe even drive to a decent car park on the beach, near a cafe.
He is walking too fast now. Just because I said I wanted to get back before it rained. Can’t he see I am struggling in these boots? The blisters are hurting more now, they must have burst. I dread taking the boots off when we finally get back to the car but at least we can get the engine going so that I can warm up.
‘Come with me to see the most beautiful beach in the British Isles,’ he said.
‘It’s only a short walk,’ he said.
‘The weather looks good,’ he said.
‘A once in a lifetime experience,’ he said.
Never again.
*****
Critique.
This is a piece written from two contrasting points of view.
It starts with an attempted piece of euphonic writing that is seemingly intended to be poetic with its pseudo philosophical musings, comparing the lyrical beauty of the place with the existential pondering of the first character.
The intrusion of the very old rock sets the scene in time and place.
The mood is interrupted by odd thoughts about the thermos and this should probably be left out - it doesn’t add anything to the narrative except to set the senses of the characters in a season.
There are too many adjectives included, possibly in an attempt to better set the scene and increase the poetic descriptions. These tend to be alliterative, some are a little forced and so could be left out. This author seems to have a little too much affection for alliteration, puns and the use of portmanteau words. This may be seen as a little irritating for some readers.
I am not sure that the conflation of an artist painting the sounds works but it does add to the feeling of small ‘sounds of silence’ against the murmuring backdrop of a restless ocean.
The comparison of the cold winter air with the warmth of the coffee is a welcome addition to the undescribed character of the first person as is his life mantra.
The second character is also described by his reaction to the place and the weather conditions. His view is diametrically opposed to that of the first character.
Overall, this is a plot driven piece that aims to describe the two characters purely by their differing reactions to the same place.
As it relies so strongly on the description of the place and then the two character’s reaction to it, the description of the scene at the start of the piece could be less euphonic and poetic with a more straightforwardly description.
It is left to the reader to decide whether the two characters are separate people or the opposing facings of the one Janus figure of the title. I think this conceit works well.
