A picture of Clancy, clad in a purple shirt and perched on the bench of a cabin deck, with his back to the camera, as he gazed into the green pastures of a coastal hamlet, made me want to relive the cherished moments associated with the place, besides prodding me, at last, to commence writing about a journey that took place more than a year ago, thus putting an end to the scriptorial procrastination.
It was the thalassic side of Scotland that I desired to see, and to this end, Dian had chosen a cabin in Port Patrick, a village on the southwest coast. Our onward journey lasted much longer than estimated, due to a road closure that we blithely overlooked. The detour was, none the less, agreeable, for it was through charming villages where I espied no human, and then through a sepia landscape that proffered views of the faraway mountains, still sprinkled with snow in early March. When we arrived at the cabin, which was on a farm whose edge opened on to the Irish Sea towards Northern Ireland, I was elated at Dian’s choice, for the sundown seascape was fully visible therefrom.
The following morning, we walked down to a neighbouring beach with a euphonious name, Knockinaam, where I, for the first time, with some rare optimism that befell me, untethered a self-willed Clancy. Sprinting happily, he came back to us only when Dian—as a ruse to attract his attention—exclaimed and pretended to have found something of interest for him on the shore. Thereupon, I hurriedly tethered the capricious dog, who devoted the ensuing minutes to a wildly fierce excavation of the shingly shore.
Among the littoral deposits were found stones in moss green, cobalt blue, and fire red, which, I wanted to believe, were rare. An inviting bouquet of pebbles had filled the void between the rocks that were imprinted with paw marks left by a balancing Clancy, in his pursuit of Dian, who was engaged in picturing reflections in rock pools. With treasures collected and photography concluded, we were about to leave the beach when an elliptic face emerging from the sea caught our collective attention. At first glance, I supposed that it was a fish, whilst Dian thought that it was a dolphin, but as the object of our speculation came into view once again, with sweet disbelief, we joyously conceded that it was, after all, a seal—a seal that we spotted in its natural habitat, by chance, for the very first time! My day was complete, or so I thought.
Back in the cabin, as the day was closing, the anticipation of an aureate seaside sunset induced Dian to ready his photographic appurtenances, its eventual arrival seducing him into shooting its splendour. On the edge of midnight, the rare phenomenon of the aurora borealis dazzled the bejewelled coastal empyrean, with flashes of red and green. Amidst such visual delights, ensconced in the warmth of a fireplace amongst darling creatures, the night was spent.
The following noon, I betook myself, alone, to the Knockinaam Beach, the place that had favoured me with my first glimpse of a marine mammal. I beguiled my hours devouring the pacifying sight of the sea that was bewitchingly glittering beneath a beaming sun, her dulcet waves rocking in harmony with the dawdling clouds. No creature graced the shimmering surface, as far as I could see. After gazing, to my heart’s content, at the entrancing expanse of water embellished with solar gems, I concluded the daydream and quit the radiant beach. A joyful Clancy greeted me upon my return. In the evening, after a short stopover at a sandy beach, we headed to the southernmost point of Scotland, Mull of Galloway, where the fierce cliffside winds swiftly drove us away. Driving along the shore on empty roads only enhanced the appeal of the coastal purlieu. At dusk, clusters of birds perched, end to end, on the cables of the utility poles, their silhouetted presence discerned only upon their collective flight against the sombre sky.
The following evening, we went to see the ruins of the medieval Dunskey Castle. Situated on a promontory by the Irish Sea, the ruins, in silhouette, formed a captivating frame for the grand seascape below. Roosted in their many crevices were the wild rock doves, who, though camouflaged, did not escape Clancy’s survey. Nestled among the craggy cliffs of the promontory were clamorous colonies of gannets, whom, owing to their colour and call, I mistook for seagulls. A drowning sun at the horizon had embroidered the pulsating waves with glistening golden threads, and bathed the surroundings in exquisite gold. Soon, the gilded panorama mellowed into the rose of the afterglow. A patient Clancy began to whimper upon espying Dian, who was in the vicinity, taking pictures.
The twilight of the following day was passed in a cove of the near and familiar Knockinaam Beach, with Clancy sniffing, inspecting, and zealously digging into the sand, before finally planting himself there, and I recording such elaborate roguery. Nearby but out of sight was Dian, immersed in faithfully capturing the romantic rendezvous between the waves and the rocks, in the brief lustre of a pinkish sky.
On the evening of my birthday, we chose to traverse a tiny section of the coastal path of the Southern Upland Way. The narrow path, on one side of which ran the Irish sea and on the other a golf course, was bordered by the yellow flowers of the evergreen gorse. Poignantly reminding the traveller the perpetuity of love were simple words of verity, from Henry van Dyke’s “Time Is”, inscribed on a rest bench, in memory of someone’s beloved:
“Hours fly. Flowers die.
New days, old days pass by.
Love stays.”
The clifftop path meandered down to a bay, where the silken waves draped the silvery shore with their undulant forms. Near the bay lay a cave curtained by a trickling waterfall, where Dian, appositely, unleashed his photography.
Wishing to watch Clancy prance and romp on a beach—free of any physical restraints—and emboldened by his recent heed to our summons, I unbuckled his harness, and with that, my apprehension. When he perceived that he was no longer leashed, his unsure, seaward steps turned into a delightful gallop across the sandy beach agleam with the golden warmth. Unfettered, we played our fond game of chase, wherein I suddenly sprint away, spurring him to run after me with gusto, our eventual catchup culminating in jubilant shrieks and rewarding caresses.
As we were leaving the bay, we happened upon a woman and her Border Collie dog—Clancy’s barking at the latter turning the encounter into a conversation about canine personas. That he wagged his tail whilst barking was a matter of intrigue to the woman, and she surmised that he might express himself unreservedly, manifesting his true behaviour, if he were unrestrained. Encouraged thus, and eager to discover, I unbridled him, once again. After the customary, cautious sniffing on his part, off he ran to properly befriend the friendly collie, occasionally making an innocuous growl for self-defence. Presently before us were two frolicsome dogs—strangers hitherto—cheerfully darting across the beach with abandon, leaving their high-spirited paw prints all over. (Much as I have tried, earnestly, to be my goofy dog’s goofier playmate, watching Clancy gambol about with one of his own, for the first time, was heart-warming.) By trusting our cynical dog with her genial one, the kind stranger had afforded us a moment that left us wondrously overjoyed.
After such a fulfilling encounter at the Sandeel Bay, we came onto the adjoining Lairds Bay, where stood, sequestered, a pair of cable huts, from the 19th century. In the gloaming shone, on the horizon, a sailing ship, and from the dimming water, in the distance, emerged what initially resembled a sea stump. It was the familiar face of a pinniped, bottling in the waning light! My sensation of contentment acute, we bid the darkening bay adieu.
In the cobalt crepuscular glow, as I regarded the sea and its invisible, sacred inhabitants on one side, and my companions on the other, my soul was brimful of all-embracing gratitude for the blissful conjunction. That your cherished creatures exist, in this warped world, is a comfort in itself, their presence, in your life, a benison, and their being with you, as you witness the boundless beauty of this planet, a privilege too precious. My birthday present of Port Patrick was a cornucopia of cosmic and thalassic delights—a memory that I wished to preserve in writing, as I have, herewith.
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