To sleep perchance. Dream on. Like the vast majority of decent ratepayers, I rarely get a good night’s kip.
Even after my prostate got repaired, I still wake constantly through the night and, while I don’t have to waddle any more to the ablutions block, it’s no less discomfiting as I entreat Somnus to get his act together and stop waking on the job.
So, what joy, for once, to sleep right through and feel refreshed. The unexpected happenstance may have been occasioned by it being my first night back on Skye.
But I’m not sure even that’s a given. Consider the day that preceded my arrival on the island. As usual, when departing, there was a crisis. My portable telephone had gone walkies. I’d put it out the night before along with other essential items needed for the trip. And now, naturellement, it had simply disappeared.
I say “essential” in the knowledge that there’s no portable telephone service on Skye. However, what if my motor vehicle broke down on the way there? Also, as soon as I leave the island, I need to check the device for messages. Last time I was here, I found an urgent message from a newspaper. It was four days old. Yay.
So, with the phone having disappeared, I got into the usual state of discombobulation – a strong word but merited – that heralds one’s departure from home. Then, I took the wrong road, a fact I first became aware of when I found myself on the Forth Road Bridge. That added half an hour to the journey which, with a stop in Fort William, took about six hours.
The point being that, apart from plootering briefly aboot the aforementioned toon, I was sedentary most of the day. I’d fed the birds in the garden before departure and, on arrival on Skye, while I didn’t mind the wind and rain (love it, me), the tide was right in nearly up to the front gate, so I only got five minutes on the shore.
Not much exercise all day, therefore. I drove up to Broadford to rekindle my love. Ever since my last visit, I had been unable to get a fish supper from the local chippie out of my mind. Huge succulent fish, lovely chips. This time, it was just as good as before. I wept tears of joy for roughly 22 minutes.
Back at The Cabin, I had a glass of whisky, fed the pine marten cereal and peanut butter (love watching him appear out of the darkness), watched Match of the Day, tucked up the cuddly toy otter, listened to an audio reading of The Lord of the Rings (as I always do), and enjoyed the shut-eye of the just.
Who knows which of the foregoing factors propelled me blissfully towards Snoozeburgh, capital of the Land of Nod?
Maybe I need merely a whiff of sea air. Maybe it’s not having any neighbours. Oh, the quiet. Just the waves and wind. I am tempted to say that it must have been the complete lack of exercise followed by a massive fish supper.
That would be irresponsible. Maybe it was just one of those things. Whatever the case, I’m full of ideas now, without the usual fug in the brain. Watch out, world.
