'Arran's arrogant alps'

The serrated spine of the isle of Arran was blue in the distance distance beyond Rothesay across the Clyde water from the mainland. The top of Goatfell was either wreathed in clouds like a little Olympus, or else sharply silhouetted against the tumultuous sky.

I remember as a boy visiting my grandparents on Rothesay where they'd retired, and Arran, a mountainy island further down the firth, was so alluring seen from the grounds of the castle at the top of the high hill behind the town. Beyond Arran, a Holy Isle, and beyond that, Ailsa Craig, a solitary rock. Every kind of island was right there, and for a boy, even for a young man, so full of romance.

It was the romance of Vikings and sea raiders (nearby Largs the site of a key 13 century with the Vikings, of lairds and castles, of clans and kilts, of the misty isles of the blessed far to the west, of  Stevenson's Master of Ballantrae, of brave Flora McDonald rowing Bonnie Prince Charlie to safety, and more that didn't have a name, but was active in my daydreaming nonetheless.

I have visited Arran and climbed Goatfell, a steep and, if you look down, somewhat daunting scramble. Broderick, where you land, is a typical Scottish village with the pub, the greengrocer, the tea shop, and so on. Charming yes, but not romantic. Yet, when I was off-island looking back, it's aloof remoteness became glamorous again. You, Arran, held my heart.

This time something is different. Standing on my cousin's deck looking down on the Clyde and at Arran in the distance, I waited for the frisson but in vain. The grass in the fields sloping down the the water was brilliant green, the Clyde itself was deep blue,  islands hemmed in the horizon, but mystic feelings, no. Is it me? Have I become disenchanted?  Has my appreciation become merely aesthetic?  Can I too easily imagine people living on all these islands, catching ferry boats to the mainland, hopping on trains to Glasgow? Has enchantement gone?

Yet when I'd gone walking on the moors the day before, a strong pleasure in the place had filled me. Just being out of doors in that bright, windy and lonely place. I was in the midst; it was all around me. T

Maybe for me now, it's like this: "no words, but things,,' and 'not just seen things, but encountered things.' Maybe this is my new form of experiencing presence, less narrative but more intimate.

So, Arran, I think our relationship has changed. What used to intrigue me at a distance, intrigues me up close and on foot. The mystic has maybe turned into mulch making the down-to-earth that much more worthwhile. The way up to the summit up the valley of Lamlash doesn't need the hint of 'far away, long ago' to be a rich experience. And yet. an old Irish song goes:

Arran of the many stags
The sea strikes against her shoulders,
Companies of men can feed there,
Blue spears are reddened among her boulders.
Merry hinds are on her hills,
Juicy berries are there for food,
Refreshing water in her streams,
Nuts in plenty in the wood.

For those seafarers, the island was a refuge, a resource, but for me, it's the seasmen themselves who are the stags, the berries, the fresh water of my imagination.