Isle of Whithorn

A Sense of Place and A Poetic Diary

Welcome to A Wild Green Heart. It's lovely to have you joining me on holiday. I wasn't going to post this week, but I love this place so much that I wanted to share a taste of it with you all. No audio today though - I have my holiday limits!

So, where am I? Isle of Whithorn, or simply The Isle, is a quiet little place on the coast of South West Scotland - further south than the border with England, and one of the most southerly seaports in Scotland. There are a few streets of houses, a church with a strong maritime history, a community shop that doubles as a café, and a pub with lodgings, The Steam Packet Inn, named after The Steam Packet Company, which ran a regular ferry service between the Isle and Liverpool for passengers and cargo.

View across the harbour, high tide

Here's a brief history of the how this island became the Isle, taken from the Steam Packet’s website: https://www.thesteampacketinn.co.uk/our-story

Originally the buildings on the quayside were only connected to the mainland by a shingle causeway meaning the village was an island at high tide. From the 1790s, houses were built on the causeway and a church was built in 1834 as the landowner at the time wouldn’t give any land for a church on the mainland. The village now only infrequently becomes an island when it floods due to a high spring tide along with a storm from the south.

Following the path away from the main street leads to the Isle Head. There's a small campsite, rugged fields of wildflowers, two tiny pebbled beaches, and St. Ninian’s chapel. Ninian landed in the Isle in the fourth century, though the chapel was originally built in around 1100, and the remains of the current structure were erected two centuries later.

Evening sunlight spilling through St. Ninian's Chapel

Beyond that is Isle Head lighthouse, a whitewashed squat, square structure, and the point. There are ancient, rugged rock-forms here, hard to clamber across, but worthwhile for the unbroken view of sea and sky.

I say unbroken, but on a clear day - like the ones we've been experiencing here - you can clearly see across the water to the southern coast of Scotland to the north-east and, further away, to the east, the coast of north-west England. To the south, the Isle of Man is clearly visible, and I think, though I haven't managed to pick it out, the North of Ireland can be seen further away to the south-west. It's quite something.

From what I can tell from the accents I'm hearing, the majority of visitors here are from Scotland, the north-east of England, and the North of Ireland, though obviously there are those from much further afield too - including a group of Canadians sat outside the pub yesterday.

I've visited the Isle twice before, and was immediately delighted with the place. The peace and quiet, the glorious seaviews, the incredible birdlife - in particular the abundant oystercatchers and house martins. Its charm has worked its way into my body, and I'm beyond grateful to have been able to make the journey and to return for a few days, this time with my teenage son.

I've been attempting to keep a diary of my time here in the way I know best: short poetic pieces written in response to specific places or encounters. So here's my first 48 hours in three pieces, for anyone interested in my kind of specificity!

The Isle, Sunset, 10th July

Outside The Steam Packet

The familial squeak of the many oystercatchers.
The deft flight of the joyful sand martins. 
The plaintiff whistle of a redshank.
A host of roosting crows crawking in the distance. 
The gentle lapping of the incoming tide. 
A single motorboat puttering out of the harbour. 

If I ignore the human couple next to me, 
talking offhandedly about Palestine 
and quoting Ozzy fucking Osbourne, 
it is utterly, fabulously peaceful. 
But the soul must accept reality
in its awe-full, awful wholeness.

The Bookshop, Wigtown, 11th July

Wigtown is Scotland’s National book town, a one-street town with a population under a thousand people and more second hand bookshops than pretty much any city. It plays host to an annual book festival. The Bookshop is Scotland's largest bookshop and is crammed to the rafters with every conceivable type of volume. It's also an incredibly friendly place.

The Bookshop

All three women are seated. I'm not sure who is 
working and who has dropped in to chat, 
but it's a joy to stumble into the midst 
of such lightly-held warmth and care.

Holiday reading - the sci-fi section
has moved, but only to the next aisle 
of shelves. I browse, the women talk, 
listen, reminisce, support one another.

I've chosen a volume, though I linger 
as it seems a shame to disrupt their chat. 
When I approach the counter, they joke 
about this, and two of them say farewell. 

The other serves me at the till. Opening 
the book, she points out the yellow sticker 
on the first page: A & B Cox, Feb 1984.
From Glasgow. No. 881.9867

From a huge collection, she tells me; 
how many books must they have had? 
She wonders about the lives of all people 
from whom donated items come. 

She produces a straw hat in the shape 
of a pith helmet from under the counter. 
"Like this hat," she ponders, "what was its
owner like, the one who gave it away?"

At this, the antique lamp beside the till 
flickers and dims. We stare, taken aback,
then laugh. "They're trying to tell you 
right now!" I quip. Perhaps they really were. 

Wigtown street furniture

Cruggleton Old Church, 12th July

The grounds of Cruggleton Old Church is one of my favourite places on earth. The church, a simple, rectangular stone structure, dates back to the 1100’s. It is enclosed by a stone wall and sits in the middle of a field, some way from the road. The building is largely obscured by mature trees in the summer months, and hordes of crows dwell in their branches. Even someone paying the least attention would agree that it has quite an atmosphere. I always make a point to visit and, like today, go with a clear intention.

Cruggleton Old Church

The day is clear, bright, hot. 
The roads are mercifully quiet, 
the layby clear to park. Unusually
the gate to the church stands open. 

I ask if I may enter and receive
a welcome by name. I am Known. 

The air inside the churchyard, 
beneath the shade of many 
old trees is so much cooler, 
the breeze a welcome friend. 

I retrieve three black crow feathers
from the ground near the gate. 

I walk three times clockwise around, 
each time blessing and calling in 
the four directions, the four elements.
I now have seven sleek crow feathers.

Sitting on the wall behind the church
overlooking the field, I introduce myself
stating my love for this place, 
my intentions for being here today. 

Everything is so quiet. Only the breeze rustling 
a million leaves, the distant bleat of a sheep. 

I sit atop the wall facing west,
announce to all who are present 
that I am open, available. 
The whole living world speaks. 

I am sat beneath an ancient sycamore, 
whose leaves rustle the refrain: 
"All shall be well and all shall be well
and all manner of things shall be well!"

The whole living world speaks
and I attend, through all my senses. 

A solitary cabbage white floats 
across the field in front of me: 
"Your soul is utterly free, 
your soul shall always be free!"

The strident call of a goldfinch 
hidden in the branches overhead: 
"You will always fight for what you love, 
just as I will always do the same!"

The whole living world speaks
and I attend, through all my senses.

A crow perched on a fence post
across the field declares, 
"You have so many guardians 
and guides, more than you know!" 

The grass filling the lower half
of my field of vision silently cries: 
"Enough! There is always enough, 
if only you live in relationship!" 

The whole living world speaks
and I attend, through all my senses. 

A distant mountain to the north 
lies solemnly in hazy shadow. 
"I have been here longer than you
can imagine, and all of this is true!" 

Time expands and contracts.
Each speaks again, in harmony, 
Sycamore, butterfly, goldfinch, 
crow, grasses, mountain: all sing.

The whole living world sings
and I attend, through all my senses. 

The now, the now, the now, 
the glorious, everlasting now,
the only eternity I can conceive, 
the now that is always present. 

I leave, with gratitude in my heart,
and eight exquisite crow feathers.

That's all for today folks. As always, it would be lovely to hear from you in the comments. By the time this is published, I'll have another 48 hours to enjoy on the Isle, and I'll be making the most of it all. Wild Green Blessings on you!