The Calm
Summer solstice at Hallan, South Uist
This piece of nature writing was awarded Finalist in the Wild Atlantic Writing Awards competition in 2022.
In the aftermath of every turbulent weather front and the passing of the storm season, calm returns to the island once more. As the days grow longer, twilight lingers through the night.
Arriving on the ferry in the week of the summer solstice, we hurry to the beach for a late evening walk. It is as bright as midday. The lochs and lochans on the approach are brimming with licking flames; a thousand tiny tealights of floating water-lilies. We park up at ‘our’ beach, where a Bronze Age community once lived. This is Hallan. Or Cladh Hallan, in Scottish Gaelic. Mounds and middens of roundhouses undulate underfoot, and two oystercatchers stand sentry on the tower blocks of rabbit high-rises. Specks of skylarks shower us with clouds of aural confetti.
Paths trodden over many centuries weave through a sea of machair, which stretch as far as the eye can see. We stand between the white waves of daisies and the yellows of buttercups and bird’s-foot-trefoil. The sea winks in the distance, blinking back the sunshine, as we clamber over the dunes onto talcum powder sands.
The faintest of breezes kisses my cheek and twists loose tendrils of hair, like the comfortable companionship of an old friend. The ocean has the glow of sun-kissed skin, and the shush of waves is as calming as a mother soothing a baby.
Hugging the high-tide line, shooting stars of sand martins flash their white bellies as they skim the shore, hoovering up flies before disappearing underneath the dune’s puckered lips.
An oystercatcher circles me, its red-beak squeaks like a creaky well-worn mattress, wings signposting a welcome party. Its call is pure joy, a sound that takes me back to visiting these islands for the first time fifteen years ago.
Any traces of clouds have dissipated now, and the sky is still-ocean blue. Inhaling the fresh salty sea air tinged with a tang of seaweed, my breathing slows, and our walk becomes a meander. It’s been too long.
As the sleepy sun drops its head onto the horizon’s pillow, the sky glows orange and rose-gold, with just a whisper of silver in the ever-changing light. I am touching heaven. And my heart is touching home.
WAWA Finalists, Please Take A Bow (irelandwritingretreat.com)
