Goodbye , summertime
Clear, crisp. Tiny rabbits, startled but stationery, dice
with death in my headlights. Silhouetted
hills, dark against a sky of silver tinged with blue, clouds like crayon strokes,
dark grey, dusty pink. The tips of
windmills, languorously turning. The
ferry, like a huge white swan, froths across a sea of ruffled pewter. A squat tug thrusts through a tumbling billow
at its bow. The train sways through
fields mottled with white grasses against the last of the green; sheep huddled
against the unfamiliar chill; Arran’s peaks pink on the horizon, the sharp
triangle of Ailsa Craig black against a stack of soft white cloud.
The summer is leaving. Yesterday brought a last flourish of sunlight
on golden leaves, brambles black and plump on twisting stems that grasp my
trailing clothing as I pass. Summer’s images
flood in – the flap of the tent when we woke to stare across Loch Lomond, its
mountains black, imposing. The scent of
warm oil from Waverley’s shining pistons, as her paddles whirled towards Skye –
we peered out of the hatch and spied dolphins twisting and jumping through the
green waters off Rum. The vegetables in
our garden, growing plump in the black earth, and juicy on a cocktail of
splashing rain and all too fleeting sunshine.
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| Katie, Molly, Abigail |
But most of all, I remember the
wedding. The crystal blue of the sky as
I pull back the curtains in Muthill that morning – the first after days of grey
cloud and spattering rain. The laughter as Bridegroom and diminutive ten year
old Best Man join the family group at the hotel breakfast table; the sunshine
on 200 year-old brown stone houses as I walk up the road, and see the three
tiny bridesmaids, in frothy white dresses pink sashed, hair braided and tossed
with flowers, giggling and wriggling in the sun. The Village Hall is ready – yesterday we all
worked together, hanging bunting to make a coloured, fluttering ceiling, tying
bows of pink, white, blue to edge the golden wood of the walls, fastening
twinkling curtains of coloured foil; laying purple table cloths, bunches of
balloons bobbing on each one.
 |
| Donald and Ryall |
The guests arrive, laughing in
the sun, walking up the path to drink tea in the square towered church. The piper appears, and through the slanting morning
sun he leads us, a gaggle of children and adults, decked bright in summer
colours, towards the ancient ruined church.
Eight hundred years this grey tower has watched the town. Seen bishops come and go; been wreathed in
smoke as Jacobites burned the cottages to settle now long forgotten scores;
watched the rebuilding of these neat stone terraces; observed the reformation come;
mourned the dead of two wars; and watched as its own holy purposes were replaced
by that square tower nearby, as its own walls fell around it. And now it dreams above tourists, who wander
amongst the tumbled grey stones, gazing out at the blue hills beyond, grass
green where priests once processed, flowers bright where the congregation
gathered. But just for today, its
purpose is restored. We’ve created pews
from picnic blankets and folding chairs, an aisle from tubs of brilliant
flowers, grown by family and friends since the first breath of spring came this
year.
Guests laugh in the warm air,
children run and tumble on the sloping mounds.
Donald, the Bridegroom, happy,
smart in matching kilt outfit with Ryall, our little best man, his little face
bright with hope and fun. At last the
pipes throb again in the distance, slowly coming nearer, till the Bride with
her father appears into the sunshine through the grey stone archway. Three bridesmaids follow, coral pink of their
dresses against the white of the four little maids, and Ben, proud in kilt,
carries on a scarlet velvet cushion the two rings they carved and polished
weeks ago in our garden shed in Millport.
Hannah is beautiful, as brides
should be. Her ivory dress is soft, lacy
- gentle as she is; her golden hair caught up, a huge red daisy lightly pressed
into it. She carries an explosion of
laughing sunflowers. Arriving on the
grass before Bill, their familiar and kindly minister, bride and bridegroom
seem to melt together, laughing into each other’s eyes through tears. Vows taken, hymns sung, prayers made which
palpably are heard. God is rejoicing in
this celebration of what He has caused, this joy He has given after so much
pain.
Then Donald with Hannah at his
side, sweeps tiny Rosie into his arms, her white-gold hair glowing in the
sunlight, while Ryall walks ahead clapping, and white doves flutter into the
blue of the sky at their approach.
Hours later, after the whirling
dancing is over, the rich barbecue cleared away, ice cream and cup cakes
devoured, the laughter of playing children quietened, a few of us meet quietly
in Donald and Hannah’s garden. In the
soft gloaming, wine in hand, the hum of conversation and soft rain threading the
air, so this unique day slowly fades into the future.
Sometimes summer lasts forever.
