My Stroma Home part 6 The return of the Wanderer.

 I had not returned to the Island for several years. It is no longer the isle of my memories but a sad, neglected place. 

It is September, the sky is a bright blue, the sea is calm and the wind is fair.  The tide is in, and the harbour is ideal for wild swimmers.

The back of the pier wall has been demolished due to frequent storms, but otherwise, the harbour gives the same refuge as it did when it was built in 1956, after over six years of argument and counter-argument between the islanders, the local council and The Scottish Home Department, it was finally completed at a cost of £30,000. 

These are the workmen who took time from their farms and fishing to build the harbour. In the photo are three generations of my family. My grandfather, (middle back row) my father (far right second row) and my brother (far left front row)

The engineer was Jake Lindsey who lodged with us. He was a lovely, friendly man and remained friends with the family until his death. (He is not in the photo) 

The house where I was born on 10th October 1946, always known as Eben's, sadly being slowly taken over by nature.

The trees at the bottom of our garden, or at least what I saw as trees, appear nothing more than overgrown hedging. The nettles are rampant.

The whole island should be renamed Rabbit Island, as the rabbits seem to have taken over.

The view from a window that once held glass and curtains.

Once upon a time, these houses were filled with families and pets. Animals would be grazing the fields, other fields would be filled with various crops. vehicles and walkers would be on the roads.

Some houses seem to have weathered the storms better than others. One could almost imagine that they still could be saved.

Unfortunately, My grandmother's house, Garrispow, is not one of them. I remember that front porch. Three pots of geraniums sat in the window, red white and pink, their scent filling your nostrils the minute you entered. The garden had daffodils and poppies. I dug up some of the double-faced daffodils and took them home with me. They have followed me from house to house until they got lost among others of their kind in the gardens of Scaraben.

Inside the houses, are the remnants of ranges, and even box beds.

Unfortunately, the animals have left proof of their occupation. 

Ignoring that, can you close your eyes for a moment and imagine a family sitting around this range of an evening? 

A large kettle, singing softly, would be on the top. A brass rod would stretch across the front of the mantlepiece for drying clothes. A clock would tick away the hours. Most likely a radio would be imparting either news or music, whatever the family's preference. 

Most families had a dog and a couple of cats.

 In winter months, the man of the house might be making lead sinkers for the fishing, knitting nets or playing games with the children, mother would be knitting or sewing. 

Sometimes the neighbours came around and there would be a sing-song. My mother played the accordion, and my granny had a repertoire of songs. Or we might be playing records on the gramophone which was powered by winding up, and the needle changed every time. 

We had three records, China Doll and Love Song of the Waterfall by Slim  Whitman,  The Little Red Caboose behind the Train by the Pichard Family and Just a Poor Batchelor by Frankie Laine. 

Not quite the same but as near as I can find to our original music center. Imagine us, four bairns, and I guess more with the cousins and all, dancing along 

Time to go home, and down to the harbour we trek. We must leave our island once more to the sheep, the birds, the rabbits., and, of course, the ghosts of our past.