The Woman on the Stairs

How wonderful it has been to spend nearly three months on my favourite, very small, island.

Coming back to the mainland has been an interesting transition.  City life is sirens and traffic and bar code bleeps.

It's noisy and crowded and jarring.

My hotel, although comfortable, is without soul.  There are quietly carpeted corridors going on for miles.

I passed a woman on the stairs.  She was wearing jewellery - I noticed her sparkling.

I hoped she didn't notice the dried cowpat on my walking boots.

I tipped some white sand out of my rucksack into the bin in my en suite bathroom.  It looked better on the beach.

Little grains of pure Iona sand, out of place in this anonymous place.

I listen to cars and buses in the street below my window, and remember hearing the waves of the ocean on stormy nights from my little shared bedroom.

The television is bright and busy and peculiar.  I turn it off, it doesn't seem to make sense any more.

I smell the pollution in the air, and remember the delicious, salty breeze of the sea.

As I walk around the city, I find I'm humming the chorus to Leonard Cohen's 'Hallelujah'.  I imagine the friends I made singing the harmonies.  It doesn't sound so good as a solo.

I have experienced something enchanting.

I have been sparkling on the inside.

I don't need the jewels.