It's a common misconception that life is quiet here. Our little corner on the North West coast is down a twisty road, riddled with potholes and populated by more deer than people. If you drive further down the road, you reach the end. We literally live on a road to nowhere. Next stop, the Atlantic, with a wee wave to Uist and Harris as you pass. But it's anything but quiet.
It is an early evening in middle May and I am sitting outside with a cup of tea, watching the haar moving in over the hill. You can feel the haar before you see it. The air turns cold. It's a special kind of cold, different to the cold of Winter. The haar itself is a fog which rolls in from the sea. It descends quickly and you can almost feel the salty waves on your skin. It blots out the sun and the blue skies; but sunset is fast approaching and we've had our share of sunshine today.
The neighbours are moving their flock of sheep two fields across. I love to hear their sing-song shouts and calls echo across the land. The clattering of gates and bleating of ewes and lambs. It is the sound of continuation of a traditional way of life. I'll also guiltily admit that I am breathing a sigh of relief that they are working sheep and not us. We moved sheep this morning and it was anything but joyful. Looking, or listening in from the outside, life can often appear idyllic but often it's not the case. Especially where moving sheep is involved.
Our sheep have obviously heard the goings-on too. A few ewes have started to bleat shrilly, calling their lambs to them in a panic. Their flock mates, hearing the cue, have all started too. And wait for it….yes. There he goes. Our youngest and most excitable dog, Peat, has started barking. I can hear his feet padding on the ground as he paces the fence between himself and the flock. The sheep are still relatively new to him and while the older dogs lie around sleepily oblivious to all around, Peat constantly watches the flock, on high alert in case they do anything interesting. Like moving. Or looking at him. Or simply being. He is quite obsessed. I tell him to be quiet and he lies down, staring at me bemused. The sheep, realising that they aren't involved in next doors activities have also quietened down and resumed their grazing.
The rhododendrons behind the bench where I am sitting are in full bloom. There is a washed out pink bush and another, my favourite, with voluptuous white flowers. They look like clusters of wedding dresses and have attracted the attention of a swarm of admirers. Countless bees flit from one flower to the next, becoming more and more sluggish as their back legs become heavier with pollen. Their wings work hard - beating over two hundred times a second - creating the buzzing sound that now fills the bushes behind me.
High above the bees, the birds in the sky are roisterous. The crows seem especially offended by the presence of a lone seagull. The seagull in question spends most of his days sitting on the hen house roof. I'm fairly convinced that he steals eggs but I have no evidence as of yet. Tonight, he is flying low, soaring and diving. The crows are having none of it. They run a tight territory and take border control very seriously. To them, the seagull is an intruder and the battle is unfolding above me. The crows attack; squawking and dive bombing. Songbirds chirrup away, like an excited crowd egging them on. The seagull darts back and forth, it's shrieking like a mocking laugh. I'd like to think that the last laugh however goes to the cuckoo, who I can hear close by. The crows are so consumed with the seagull chase that they likely haven't noticed that the cuckoo is sitting in their tree right now - probably laying in their nests.
No. It is anything but quiet here. There are layers and layers of sound. You only have to be quiet yourself. Open your ears and heart to it.
The quietest place I've ever known : Glasgow's Buchanan Street at 5.45am on a Sunday morning. Absolute silence in the city is the strangest thing. Broken only by hushed conversation with a coffee vendor.
Anyway, I digress, those are stories for another day. The haar is closer now, bringing a stronger wind with it. The laundry on the line, hanging motionlessly half an hour ago, begins to flap wildly. If I close my eyes, it almost sounds like a ship's sails. Coupled with the seagull calling and the further drop in temperature, I'm more or less feeling like a pirate now. The girls chattering brings me back to earth. I have promised them hot milk and honey before bed and they are holding me to it.
This was such an enjoyable read! Thank you! 🩵🩵🩵
You might like to read a poem called Silence by Thomas Hood. It’s as beautiful a description as yours.