Image Left: The Croft Landing
Saturday 28th November
There are no waves to count today, the bay sits like a shard of glass thrust in amongst landscape. The storm has past and the dawn has erased any memory of it as if it was somehow an unpleasant part of my psyche rather than a physicality. A couple of days ago I watched the Iona Ferry take blow after blow from a force nine, the waves crashed high over its front trailing spray down the sound, eventually it turned tail and retreated to the safety of the Bull Hole*.
I walk through kelp fronds piled knee deep at the high tide mark of Christine’s bay and think about fishing. Even today the stillness of the bay says little about the open ocean or even the sound for that matter. On my last fishing trip of the season I sat in the valleys of a giant swells and while I was momentarily becalmed the world shrank back, only to surge forward again as the engine pushed on. So my fishing rod lies idle while I pursue tracks in the sand, and the rest of the landscape.
*Bull Hole, Natural harbour in the sound of Iona
