The Cottage - Day 15
It’s grey, it’s cloudy, it’s misty, but it all feels different now.
I walk outside with the dog beside me and I look at the headlands, and the mountains, all so familiar now, and wonder if this is the last week.
The near islands are in view as dark misty shadows on a sea the same shade of off-white as the sky it merges into. The sun trying to get through the clouds picks out a far part of the near island, a pale olive echo of itself with a strip of golden beach. It is like a ghost island among the other real islands.
High above me the clouds are white, golden and fluffy, and I notice it isn’t cold. It’s what September should feel like, the winter of a few days ago premature.
The village is in dark shadow. It seems asleep. Maybe it is, because this is Sunday morning, but then being 3 miles away as the crow flies it always seems asleep. Beyond it a headland is lit up, all golden and brown dotted with white and yellow cottages. And beyond that the conical mountain that is usually dark brown is but a barely percetible pale blue misty impression.
There’s no postal deliveries on late Saturday nights or early Sunday mornings, but I gamble on the dog not knowing that and invite her on a walk down to the gate. Because it’s dry. Because it’s beautiful. Just because.
But first I go back in and leave my tea behind.
We walk for half a mile beyond the gate talking quietly, and as a dunnock lands on a fence post beside us the clouds behind us darken almost to black. We turn back and make it to the cottage as the first drops, cold and large, fall.
I could probably have a look at the porch and see how the leak repairs are doing, but I don’t seem to care anymore and instead put the kettle on as the rain turns to mist.
It is mid-afternoon and I realise I haven’t eaten anything today. Outside eveything but the conifers and the bog is swallowed by the clouds and I hear a single bird chirp.
I stand in the porch. Its slate floor is dry. I look at the wood supporting the glass panels; they are dry. I look at the wood by the big gaping hole where the porch joins the house; it is dry. I stand in the porch and look out at the world, which in the misty rain ends at the horizon of the bog making it as though the bog goes on forever.
What if yesterday’s half band-aid fixed everything? I like this world so much, and now there is a sick feeling in my stomach. People do that to me. Landscapes never do. Outside the window I watch a wren on the fuchsia. Drip.
The first drip hits my shoulder. I have no television here, and no radio. My internet connection won’t sustain streaming anything so the only noise in the house you ever hear is of myself and the dog, with the gentle hum of the fridge in the background, and sometimes the odd insect. The dog is asleep in her bed. The sound of the next drop on the slate floor is a loud splat with an echo of sadness. Quickly the drops accelerate into almost a pour. They are coming from where the landlord placed more flashband yesterday. I make the tea.
As I drink my tea at my art table in the kitchen, the regular splats I hear from the porch of water drops hitting slate changes to the slapping sound of water dropping on water. There is now a puddle 12 inches in diameter.
As the rain moves on leaving everything outside glistening and rich in colour, I go online and look for alternative houses in the area, but I know I won’t find any. I don’t.
Sunday? That means my team is playing in England. It means the Ryder Cup is on its last day. Japers, it means the All-Ireland is taking place right now. As I wonder if I should bother with an updating screen of text updates, in the porch I see there are 3 more leaks.
I take out some tins to stamp on. The sun is out now and in the healthy wind I enjoy the islands and mountains again. There is never any movement in the landscape. A single motor vehicle somewhere once in a while, or the ferry a dancing speck beyond the islands, but any sense of movement comes from nature, the vegetation in the wind, the clouds in a hurry to dampen somewhere, or the waves bashing off the cliffs.
Although sunny, the warmth has gone from the day with the wind being from the east now, and the sensation a hot cup of tea makes, when fully grasped by two cold hands, is lovely. It’s all too nice to just stand and look at though so I tell Dog-dog that we will venture into it. Just as soon as I finish this pot of tea.
We walk. Out the gap. The sun is in shadows immediately. It is cold without its rays. I put Dog-dog on the leash at the gate in case we might meet any loose sheep.
We turn at the bushes and as we walk up into the gap there is a loose sheep just ahead of us eating by some freshly dumped rubbish. Seeing us it trots away. Seeing the sheep the dog pulls me uphill.
As we pass through the gap 3 sheep ascend sheer rocks slowly, looking back down on us. It is like a scene from Last of the Mohicans. We are the bad guys.
-You’re the one with the tendency to rip live hearts out, I say to the dog who ignores me other than pulling me forward by force of nose.
Along the road we stand aside when we see a tractor coming. But it turns into a bog track just before it reaches us. It is going where we walked yesterday. Its earth digging bucket is full of rubbish and items that can only be destined for dumping. I take a photo. The mountain is a magnificent backdrop.
The dog and I stand still and just watch the tractor for a mile as he goes through the bog, clanging throught the stream fords and on to the foot of THE mountain. And it dumps. We turn around to walk home as he turns his tractor around to come back.
Coming down through the gap we hear cars. 3 cars together. They appear to be rally driving. They stop at the bushes near my gate and get out. Kids. We’re 300 meters away walking toward them.
It looks like they have one car to play with, to drive into the ground. In the turn near my gate that one car does handbrake circles for a few minutes. When I’m 200 meters away they all drive off in the direction of the village but stop a mile on at the hill and repeat the process. There is so much smoke I assume one car is on fire but when it clears all 3 cars have moved on. I hear them in the distance repeat again.
Directly overhead a twin prop looks fantastic against the evening deep blue sky and large golden edged grey fluffy clouds. As we near our gate the cars get louder. They are coming our way. We run into our drive and take cover from sight in the trees. The 3 cars speed and limp by.
If I do leave it would be next weekend. I can only get a van driver on Saturdays, and it would take days anyway to pack everything up again and to put the cottage back to how it was when I arrived.
Should I just paint furiously amid the boxes for 4 days? But much of my art materials are still packed away, never unpacked as I waited in vain for the promised fixing of the roof. And if I was to leave I’d need to pack away what I was painting with. There would be no room for error. Everything would have to be ready to go when the van arrives or the cost of moving would double.
Whether I stay or go, I don’t see me getting any painting done this week.
Read the Next Day at the cottage
Read the Previous Day at the cottage
List of all the Days at the Cottage
More from The Cottage:
• Day 1 at The Cottage
• Photos of The Cottage
• 12 Photos of Scenery Around The Cottage
• 12 Photos not all Mountains and Islands
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