“Reading the lines he loves,
he slips them into a pocket,
wishes to die with his clothes on,
full of torn-free stanzas
and the telephone numbers
of his children in far cities”
Lock, Michael Ondaatje
Poetry – where language is made to work hardest and burns with a gem-like flame – is what Michael Ondaatje returns to in the intimate history, “A Year of Last Things”. I mulled over the elegant lyricism of his sentences, his love of the world and its wonders, his odes to kindness. In a way, he records the mercurial, mysterious feeling of being alive. Today's post explores this concept...
“Michael Ondaatje’s love of the world and its wonders…restore belief in the beauty and power of literature and, by extension, humanity.”
Aleksander Hemon, author of “The Lazarus Project”.
As I look back on the outset of last week's challenging beginnings, it’s clear that every hurdle, every setback was a lesson waiting to be learned. Several sad things happened all at once, as sad things have a habit of doing, and these set me back… I won’t bore you with the details, but they weren’t easy lessons to learn and I really felt momentarily derailed.
Then, I met Theo. I came face to face with one pure and poignant reminder that there is beauty amidst adversity, and it came in the form of this bundle of joy… my cousin’s seven-month-old baby boy.
A baby has such simplicity of presence. So much goodness, sweetness, naïvety. His bright wee eyes, as yet untouched by the complexities that often cloud our own… It was a wonderful reminder that bad things happen, but good things persist.
With that thought in mind, I boarded a train from London and headed North. A night spent at home in Edinburgh, and then… on to Inverness and Thurso.
The journey to the northeast of Scotland had beckoned me for a while. I’d actually budgeted for the trip with my strict February “No-Buy” plan, drilled into me by the Saturday Savers Club, and yet the holiday really couldn’t have come at a better time. The rugged landscapes, ancient castles, and whispers of history carried on the winds sweep through the Highlands... the perfect escape.
“It arrives all at once tonight,
not as a memory, but as a gift
from forgetfulness,
as a desire can wake you”
5 A.M. For stan Dragland and for Kris Coleman, Michael Ondaatje
As the week unfolded, I couldn’t help but build awareness for the fact that every trial leads to triumph, and every obstacle paves the way for new beginnings. And the untamed beauty of Scotland’s north-eastern realms instilled this in me.
Inverness itself proffers nothing grand, it must be said… I think if I hadn’t stumbled, quite by chance, into Leakey’s Bookshop I would have annexed the city entirely (feel free to dispute this)… But, approximately eight kilometres east of Inverness, nestled amidst the picturesque landscape, lie two poignant sites steeped in history and mystique: Clava Cairns and Culloden.
Clava Cairns, a cluster of ancient burial chambers dating back over 4,000 years, stands as a testament to the enduring legacy of Scotland's prehistoric peoples. Having taken my bike, the journey into the gorge was an unexpected delight – a speedy downhill, aware of very little signage, met by a sudden eerie and powerful sight.
On the shortest day of the year, sunlight streams up the passageway to illuminate the chamber. Both of Clava’s large cairns are aligned to the midwinter sunset. For the Bronze-Age farmer this was a forbidding time of year with short days, long nights, cold weather and dead crops. As you wander among the standing stones and passage graves, you can’t help but feel a sense of reverence for the lives and rituals of those who came before…
And within a stone’s throw from Clava Cairns lies Culloden Moor, where history took a more sombre turn. It was here, on April 16, 1746, that the Jacobite uprising met its tragic end in a brutal and decisive battle. Walking through the battlefield, now preserved as a solemn memorial, one can almost hear the echoes of the past... The clash of swords, the cries of the fallen, and the whispers of a nation forever changed. Stones marked with clan names dotted the west bank, and I paid my respects to one marked “Mixed Clans” – the banner beneath which my ancestors proudly stood.
The following day I left my bike with a newfound pal at Inverness station and caught the Stagecoach 917 bus to Urquhart Castle. (There was a panic-stricken moment mid-commute where I questioned whether it was sweetly naïve or plain stupid to leave my road bike with a stranger.)
Perched atop a rocky promontory overlooking the dark waters of Loch Ness, sits Urquhart Castle. Following Jacobite uprisings, the castle fell into eventual ruin – its strategic position made it a focal point of power struggles throughout Scotland’s turbulent past. Yet, prior to deterioration, it must have been a majestic sight to behold. Borne witness to countless tales of siege, conquest, and intrigue. It was very atmospheric – and although I didn’t catch sight of the infamous Nessie, I still believe the site held onto some semblance of magic… As historic sites in Scotland often do.
After reclaiming my bike (not stupid, but naïve – yes) I hopped [tripped] aboard the train bound for Thurso. It must be noted that the journeys I mention, from London to Edinburgh, Edinburgh to Inverness, Inverness to Thurso are long – so, a good book is necessary. “Dune” was a welcome companion, and the fact that I’m now on my last chapter, having begun the text on the journey down to London, one can only imagine the hours spent travelling… But oh, I love the train. I’d do it all again in a heartbeat.
Thurso sits along the rugged coastline of Caithness, its rich history dating back thousands of years. Pictish tribes, Norse invaders, and later Scottish settlers came and went from this part of the mainland. From the beach, I could see Orkney bold and beckoning on the crests of waves, but that – dear friends - is a trip for another time.
As the sun beamed delightfully down, I made the decision to follow the coastal trail down to Wick, stopping along the way to witness some breath-taking sights.
Perched on the northernmost tip of mainland Britain, Dunnet Head offers a dramatic landscape of rugged cliffs and sweeping sea views. It is windswept, remote – and a little off the beaten track for bikers. The location makes it a haven for wildlife enthusiasts and adventurers seeking solitude amidst the untamed wilderness of the Scottish Highlands, however. And a young couple I met along the way, both cyclists, had their daughter Sophie cheer me on from window of their passing caravan on the climb up to the white, weather-beaten lighthouse.
The iconic symbol of the journey's end/start for travellers trekking the length of Britain, John o' Groats holds a special place in the hearts of wanderers. So, I headed there next. The café by the multicoloured church presented an enjoyable viewpoint from which to observe passers-by… all walks of life wandered in and out. I met one individual about to start a 27-day run from this point down to Lands End. Also a must-visit destination, by all accounts.
But more impressive, I think, than John o’ Groats were the ancient sentinels around the corner – those that stood against the backdrop of the North Sea, the Duncansby Stacks. Instantly, I thought back to the Twelve Apostles in Victoria. They commanded attention with their towering forms and ancient geological formations, shaped over millions of years.
Erosion of the old red sandstone, a sedimentary rock formed during the Devonian Period around 400 million years ago, stilled time to a stop… if that makes sense. Ancient river systems and shallow seas are tattooed into the facades. I trekked along the path in awe, making sure I absorbed as many details as possible before mounting the bike and continuing down to Wick for a bite to eat, and then back to Thurso.
Cycling, I’ve come to appreciate, offers a sensory journey unlike any other. I’m addicted to the positive feeling that endorphins coursing through my body bring, but also to the opportunity cycling offers for immersion. With every pedal stroke, you engage all your senses: the sights, the sounds, the scents, the tastes. It’s an unfiltered, exhilarating, mindful experience. One in which you allow yourself to become fully inebriated by your surroundings. This form of intoxication, the rolling hills, the fragrance of wildflowers, the sound of birdsong, wind in my hair – every sensation matters – nothing beats it, haha. Really! I would encourage everyone to cycle, and if cycling is not your thing, then at least aim to savour as many sensations and experiences as you can in this short life. It’s the purest, clearest route to engaging with one’s pursuit of happiness.
Sometimes it’s difficult when you harbour such strong feelings for places, for people, and I scold myself for pinning such strong emotions to these things, time and again. But, as we experienced with Theo at the start of this entry, through his innate innocence and ability to bring such joy to others, it’s far more powerful to yield to love and enchantment than it is to steer clear of the things that make life, well, life.
I'll conclude with one more poem by Ondaatje, written in full, to tie my rambles up nicely... it best captures the ethereal beauty of fleeting moments.
"That poet you scorned
for retiring when he was forty
Then beginning thirty years later
with the same voice and style
the crack in his life invisible
What he said in youth
and approaching death
having the same breath
that precise pitch
unaffected by time
What a wonder to think now
after all those wars and eras
of love he must have passed through
Not one gesture altered
as he wrote, as if he always slept
this way beside her
What could we learn
by leaving the colour blue
for another"
Evening, Michael Ondaatje
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Photographs: unless otherwise noted, all images were taken by me with an iPhone 8
