Deep Breaths

I was woken by the rain clattering on my window at 6.30am. The lovely chirping birds in the garden were drowned out by the relentless, wet wind. Having made my coffee I retreated back to bed to read a chapter of The Tax Inspector by Peter Carey. I am delighted with my new habit of doing 10 minutes of yoga and it really benefits me at the other end of the day. Recently, my 52 year old body has been telling me I need to give it a bit of a leg up.

Next, as regular as clockwork now, I don my bathers, fleece, waterproof and crocs and walk down to the pier. Any fleeting doubts, such as ‘it’s a bit rainy out,’ are quickly met with ‘ your getting wet anyway’. A couple of days ago it was so warm I lingered, looking out to Iona and enjoyed the warmth on my face. Today I revert to the more utilitarian regime of arriving at the top of the pier steps, taking off crocs and tops and striding down the stairs until I reach full immersion. It takes about 20 seconds for me to regulate my breathing. The swells mean that I keep very close to the steps just in case I need to grab onto something. I stay in for no more than a minute and dunk my head under otherwise I haven’t been in properly…I’ve decided. Getting out is fine as the air temperature is warmer than the water temperature. I get tops on as quickly as possible and within half a minute I feel the gentle, slightly prickly warmth of my body heat against clothing. I have a towel with me too but I have taken to leaving whatever sea is left on, on. Someone said it’s good for the skin. Anyway, I like licking my lips after an hour or so and still tasting the salt. Coming back into the house, still a bit warm from last nights fire is another great feeling, as is drying off and putting on my thick wool jumper and letting my body temperature rise back up organically.

During the short meeting we have most days where we say what we are going to be doing, it turns out that a large order is due from the wholesaler in Glasgow and the haulage chaps are famously not that keen on hanging around, so we have to be there, on the other side of the bay, with the tractor, to meet them at 11am. The planning reaches the point where it becomes clear that I would be doing something quite far out of my comfort zone. Either driving the boat back over to the island for the first time by myself, or taking the pallets off the haulage van with the fork lift bar attachments on the tractor, which I haven’t done before. I said I’d do the boating so long as someone came with me. However, after having climbed into the boat and sat down, bracing myself against the churning swells I change my mind and go with the tractor instead. It would be a longer process but the chances of an outright disaster occuring were smaller.

Archie and our latest volunteer accompanied me to where the haulage chap was already waiting, clipboard in hand. I unhitched the trailer from the tractor which landed with a thud, not very far from Archie’s head. We all paused for a moment, taking in the moment with quiet gratitude that it was only a near miss. With the forks slotted on to the telescopic arm I advanced the tractor towards the haulage van. I’m quite good under pressure but I was alarmed at the driver standing, almost wedged in by the side of the pallet that was at the back. This seemed like wreckless folly until I remembered that he had no idea that this was my getting-things-out-of-a-van-with-a-tractor debut. One has to get a feel for hydraulic lifting kit. Spend some time with it to see how it behaves. Practice on something inconsequential until you get the hang. I felt myself entering that state I’ve been in a few time before. A sort of benign fatalism: ‘It’s only a van and this is only food and toilet paper’. The driver started with hand signals. I got the forks into the slots of the pallet and reversed. The whole van listed and the hand signals were accompanied by some prompt, clear commands and, with a quarter turn of the steering wheel to the right I created the angle for a clean exit. Relieved that I had accomplished the first step I nudged the arm control to the left and the pallet, with all our butter and plant cream for the coming 6 months plunged dangerously downwards. Loud cries went up from all around and I managed to right the load and grinned through the windscreen at them as if it was nothing more than a little joke of mine.

I got it on to the trailer no problem and then went back for the second pallet. According to Archie I came literally millimeters from boring a new door handle into the haulage van. By this time the driver was all smiles, obviously having completed his own inner process about this not being his van and that the insurance would cover any damage. He had, however, alighted from his vehicle.

After finishing loading up I jumped out of the cab and had a quick chat. ‘A bit twitchy that loader!’ ,was the drivers only comment. I mumbled something about having to get the hydraulic oil changed. By now it was low tide so I could drive the tractor down to the bottom of the estuary, across the remaining rivulet of water and back up to the community. Community gossip that rolls down the years and generations relies on the recounting of glorious failures. Those times when nothing really bad happened but something got damaged in a curious way or someone got abandoned or marooned in an unlikely place. I’m glad to say that this is a subject of a different post. 

I’ll have to go and take some photo’s. Needless to say, I didn’t feel it was the right time to get my phone out and ask the surrounding folk to look like they were having fun.

The trailer but not with the interesting food stuffs