The rain man cometh... but he needs a roof on Keiss bolt-hole!
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The Real MacKay by Dan MacKay
Wow. That was some rain. Truly days for ducks. And although it is the end of the season the gardener in me was really quite pleased.
An old workmate, holidaying in the area with his girlfriend, sat entranced looking out of his rented cottage window. It commanded fine views over Keiss beach right across to Noss Head. But there’s not much to do on rainy days…
The holiday had started off well – I think it is his third or fourth visit to the county in as many years. He tells me on their first night crystal-clear night skies exposed the full majestic panoply of the starry heavens. "Unbelievable," he said.
His name is Tim, a published poet, he writes very fine observational pieces under the monicker Knotbrook Taylor.
His latest poem, ‘For what is a window’, is a lovely piece of meandering whimsy inspired by that view over Sinclair Bay. It seems to question everything: the restless sea, the dark depths of its ‘hinterland’, the ghostly Noss lighthouse one minute visible the next absent in a "vague grey daylight".
Knotbrook tries to find the groove in the syncopated jazz rhythm of the steady rainfall. "If ever there was a thread," he admits, "I lost it." But, then, it’s not so much about our understanding he reflects, more about the moment itself. Appreciating the view from the cottage, light playing tricks – I can identify with that.
Just along the seashore from their holiday cottage is the ruin of an old stone-built kelp store. A few years back I’d set my heart on buying it and restoring it to some basic state of habitation. That was before a huge storm tore the slate roof off and set the gable ends a-teetering.
I imagined it would have been a perfect weekend bolt-hole. After all, what does a man need? A log burner (fed with driftwood from the shore), some books, a guitar and a nightly visit from a buxom wench from the nearby village inn bearing steak, chips and frothing ale. Surely not too much to ask for?
My days would be filled contemplating an answer to that eternal mission to find meaning in the study of light: how its rays break through clouds, probe the landscape exposing hitherto unseen, yet fabulous, meaning-of-life revelations.
If things had gone according to plan that stone bothy above the shore would probably have solar panels by now and a wee wind turbine to generate my essential utility needs – mostly to power online communications with the wider world. There are people out there who crave the sort of Zen insights arising from sudden illuminations of marvel and serendipity.
I guess I’d be some sort of modern-day monastic type, alone for the most part, albeit awaiting his essential evening delivery. It reminds me of that "Grail quest" I once went on back in the year 2010 when I took three months off work to tour around Scotland and its islands on my Yamaha Drag Star "in search of the key to the whole shebang".
Alas, the book I’d planned – The Motorcycle Musings of a Mad Dog – never did get written…
In Knotbrook’s poem Vincent Van Gogh, "in a yellow slicker and a slouch hat", walks by whistling a tune. Apparently, he seemed quite happy.
