Snapshot: Over the causeway to Cramond Island
The children started their one-mile walk to Cramond Island fuelled with enthusiasm. They sauntered along the causeway at low tide, not caring about the seabed on either side; a sense of false security proffered by the concrete pylons to their right. These structures were built as a submarine defence boom during the second world war, and at high tide would be barely visible – immersed in sea water.
Cramond Island, a tidal island a mile out on the Firth of Forth, is not far from our home in central Edinburgh, but we hadn’t been before as we preferred East Lothian beaches for rock-pooling. We had checked with the coastguard though, and the tide would come in at 3pm, which meant we had just over an hour to reach the island, and return.
We were on a rare family outing following the very recent death of my father’s wife. We held high hopes of fair weather, happy children and reunion – it being unusual for my sister’s family, who live in France, my own children and my father all to spend time together. I was surprised to discover that I was the only one who had set foot on the island previously. We walked along amicably, buoyed by the sight of people milling about on the island in front of us, although I did notice that we were the only people walking out, rather than inland.
My father chose to walk hand in hand with my daughter – the little girl in the pink fluffy jumper – who laughed suddenly and called to us all to admire the “white horses” galloping in on the sea. My father, a poet, delighted in her choice of words. My sister and I however exchanged frowns about the speed at which the white horses were accelerating towards us. We checked our watches and considered heading back, but the boys were having none of it and raced off ahead.
By the time we at last stood just metres from the island we were shouting loudly at our sons to come back. They returned jubilant – they had made it to the island while we had all wimped out. By now I was carrying my exhausted little niece and the white horses were lapping at our ankles.
Hurriedly, we set off back along the causeway to dry land. This time we adults were fuelled by nervous energy, the children by knowing that they would be rewarded with an ice-cream from the van at the quay if they set off for the shore quickly and without complaint in their soggy shoes. Sarah Neary
Playlist: I found a home from home in Pamplona
Nightswimming by REM
The photograph on the dashboard taken years ago/ Turned around backwards so the windshield shows/ Every streetlight reveals a picture in reverse
In the mid-1990s I taught English to some workers in Pamplona, Spain. When I first moved there I lodged with a Spanish woman, Paquita, and her teenage daughter, Marisol. It was the perfect introduction to Spanish life: I was immediately welcomed and included in all their family gatherings. They were all sympathetic listeners for my beginner’s Spanish and gave me invaluable insider knowledge about customs, places to visit and the local fiestas.
Often my English classes were scheduled to start before my students’ official working day, so they might begin as early as 7am. In the winter months I’d leave my lodgings in the old part of town, with its historic and imposing buildings, in darkness and walk the couple of miles to the school’s premises on the modern side of town.
As I walked I’d play REM on my Walkman – Nightswimming being one of the most atmospheric among largely upbeat tracks. I remember my breath showing in the freezing, early morning air, keeping my nose warm inside my scarf as I walked, and stopping for my first – and very welcome – cappuccino of day in the café beneath the school.
Nightswimming always reminds me of Paquita and Marisol, and their lovely family, and how they introduced me to that wonderful country. Debbie Jones
We love to eat: Uncle Eifion’s afternoon tea
Ingredients
Loaf of unsliced white bread
Butter
Homemade jam
Large chunk of farmhouse Cheddar
Cream crackers
Homemade cakes
Pot of tea
Uncle Eifion lived alone on the farm he’d been born in; a ramshackle farm in the middle of the Berwyn mountains, north-east Wales, that was falling down around his ears. We adored him, we loved the farm, and one of the highlights of our monthly visit was his afternoon tea.
We’d sit down at around 4pm, after my Mum had polished my uncle’s beloved Welsh dresser and mopped the slate floors, after my sister and I had helped him feed the sheep and collect the eggs, and my Dad had returned from doing chores for my Nain (Welsh for “nan”) who lived nearby.
Uncle Eifion would take his place in the old wooden chair by the blazing open fire and was in charge of slicing the loaf and layering on the butter. We ate the bread with Mum’s homemade jam, and a piece of Cheddar cheese. There would always be at least three different homemade cakes to choose from. One of Uncle Eifion’s favourites was the aniseed-flavoured caraway seed cake; I doubt my mum has made it since he died in 2007.
The tea would end with buttered Cream Crackers and cups of tea, as we sat in front of the fire. There was no central heating (or inside toilet – that’s another story), but we were as toasty as anything, the sky dark outside and the wooden radio tuned to horse racing, football or classical music.
Uncle Eifion always saw us off with a box of his favourite Terry’s All Gold chocolates. We’d wave as he stood with his terrifying sheepdog, Moss, Dad driving up the muddy lane to the mountain pass and then home to the English border town where we lived.
At his funeral, the local minister talked of my uncle’s love of astronomy, and of sitting on his tractor rounding up the sheep, quoting philosophers. He was truly one of a kind. Every time I go home to my parents’ home, it’s still a treat to have “Uncle Eifion’s tea”, and think about those idyllic days. Rhian Evans
