Postcard Received at Eldridge & Clements — Isle of Mull
Dear Eldridge & Clements,
I thought it only right to write, as Scotland has been exactly as you suggested — though I suspect you already knew it would be.
I arrived on Mull three days ago, by ferry from Oban. The crossing was calm enough, though the wind had a way of finding its way through everything. There is something about arriving by water that feels more final than it ought to, as though one has properly left the rest of the world behind for a while.
I am staying near Tobermory. It is smaller than I expected, though no worse for it. The coloured houses along the harbour look almost arranged, but the place itself is not precious. Boats come and go without ceremony, and there is always the faint smell of salt and fuel in the air.
I walked out yesterday toward Calgary Bay, which I was told not to rush. This was sensible advice. The road gives way to quieter paths, and then to something that is not quite a path at all, just a direction that seems agreed upon. There are stretches where you will not see another person for some time, only sheep who appear mildly surprised to find you there.
The beach itself is wider than expected. White sand, which feels out of place at first, until you realise Scotland has no interest in matching expectations. The water was clear enough, though I did not test it beyond the edge. There are limits to these things. Robin’s Boat sells delicious local Mull ice creams at the beach from a quirky shop which I discovered from the proprietor’s grandfather’s upturned boat.
Today I walked in the opposite direction, inland for a time, where the ground becomes softer and the air stiller. I had intended to follow a marked route, but took a wrong turning somewhere after a gate that looked older than it should have been. It did not matter. The land has a way of guiding you back, provided you don’t argue with it.
You mentioned the light when I sat down with both of you and I did not quite understand what you meant until this evening. There is a point, just before the day settles, where everything seems to hold for a moment — the hills, the water, even the air itself — as if deciding whether to continue. It passed quickly, but it was enough.
I have been eating well, which I mention only because it feels relevant. Fish, mostly. Nothing complicated. It seems unnecessary to improve upon what is already there.
I had planned to move on after tomorrow. I may not.
There are walks here that feel unfinished, and it seems reasonable to see them through.
You were quite right about Scotland. It does not ask very much of you, but it does expect you to notice where you are.
I remain, for now,
— A.
