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When I was young I loved nothing better than to spend the long lazy summer afternoons in my tiny sailing boat which lay moored near the boatyard at the head of the creek.

How exhilarating to sail to the wide open entrance of the estuary, where it meets the mighty rolling ocean. And how soporific to glide slowly back upstream, carried by the returning tide.

For there, in the centre of the channel, it is possible to hear the silent stillness of the whole of creation. The occasional call of the curlew and gull, and the soft rustle of a gentle breeze among the leaves of the creekside trees emphasise the silence. It seems that time is eternally at rest on this magical water.

One hot afternoon in late summer, as the boat glided silently upstream, I was dismayed to see the boat's rudder working it's way loose from it's pin. Securing the boat to a buoy I struggled to lift the rudder back onto the pin. Too late - the wash from a passing launch upset my precarious balance, and the rudder dropped from my hands to disappear to the bottom of the creek.

Peering into the depths I watched it settle among the fronds of weed and glistening pebbles. I reached down for it, but the water was too deep to allow my grasp. Curious fish darted this way and that, and as the boat drifted further with the tide I lost sight of the rudder.

I rowed back to try again, but in vain. So, as the tide rose and the light faded, so I knew that I should have to row back to the boatyard, and return to try again another day. Making a note of the place where the rudder now lay at rest I determined to return at the time of the equinox, to search again when the tide would be at it's lowest.

***

The day of the equinox dawned bright, with a soft low mist and the promise of a warm afternoon. Leaving my sandals in the boathouse I pushed the rowing boat across the tingling shingle and into the water, to row downstream with the tide to the place where I would search.

As the tide fell I rowed to and fro, to and fro...

...all the while peering through the crystal water into the ever-shifting underwater world where fronds of water weed writhed in the eddies created by the pull of the oars. Nameless fish of a thousand silver hues darted, and the pebbled seascape shimmered a watery dance.

Barely a breeze rippled the liquid mirror, and I felt that I were in two worlds... The one below the tide, and the other many miles above, way up in the clouds reflected there.

To and fro I rowed, to and fro...

... breathing deeply - in and out - with every pull of the oars... to and fro, to and fro...

Now and then I glance upward toward the curious silhouette of the Island of Mists, out there in the estuary. For many ages the island has been lost from sight, wreathed by the sea mists that guard it. But today I see it clearly as I continue to row to and fro, to and fro...

There's a place in the west that I'm longing to be
Where the beauties of heaven unfold by the sea
Where the sweet purple heather blooms fragrant and free
On a hillside high upon the lost island

Oh, isle of my childhood
I'm dreaming of thee
Soon I'll capture the magic
That lingers with me
When I'm back once more upon
The lost island

So gentle the sea breeze that ripples the bay
Where the stream joins the ocean and the young children play
On a strand of pure silver I'll welcome each day
And I'll roam forever more the lost island

O jewel of the ocean tide, bathed in the light
Of a midsummer dawning that follows the night
How I long for the seagulls' cries, circling in flight
As they soar above the lost island

... breathing deeply - in and out - breathing with the rhythm, with every pull of the oars... to and fro, to and fro...

At last, too drowsy to row further, I am glad to let my trusty boat drift in toward the island. Perhaps I may see the seals who reign here.

With a scrape and crunch of pebbles the boat glides to a halt in the tiny bay, and I step out into the cool rising tide to wade ashore. Pulling the boat above the high water line I feel the golden sand soft and powdery between my toes, a balmy breeze fresh on my wet skin.

I cross the beach and am drawn to the ancient stone stairway which is hewn from the living rock. My bare feet savour the warmth of the smooth stone as I slowly climb the well-worn steps.

Reaching the top of the steps I follow the pilgrim path, beneath the dappled shade of oak and ash and thorn.

Of all the trees that grow so fair old England to adorn
Greater are none beneath the sun than oak and ash and thorn

Oak of the clay lived many a day e'er ever Aeneas began
Ash of the loam was a lady at home and Brut was an outlaw man
And thorn of the down saw new Troy town from which was London born
Witness hereby the ancient try of oak and ash and thorn

Yew that is old, in churchyard mould he breedeth a mighty bow
Alder for shoes do wise men choose and beech for cups also
But when you have stilled and your bowl it is filled and your shoes are clean outworn
Back you must speed for all that you need to oak and ash and thorn.

Elm she baits mankind and waits till every gust be laid
To drop a limb on the head of him that anyway trusts her shade
But whether a lad be sober or sad or mellow with ale from the horn
He'll take no wrong when he lyeth alone 'neath oak and ash and thorn

So do not tell the priest of our plight for he would call it a sin
For we've been out in the woods all night a-conjuring summer in
And we bring you good news by word of mouth, good news for cattle and corn
Now is the sun come up from the south by oak and ash and thorn...

Of all the trees that grow so fair old England to adorn
Greater are none beneath the sun than oak and ash and thorn

The air is warm and humid, with late hedgerow flowers nodding a lazy greeting as I pass by. I breath deeply, to taste the subtle scents of flowers, grass, earth, sea and sky.

Reaching the Saint's Well I kneel on the broad flat stone, to splash my face and eyes with the limpid healing water of life. I fill the bronze cup from the source, and drink. With a slow deep breath I know myself refreshed in spirit.

Slowly I continue along the way which leads to the Saint's Oratory, where the trees give way to tufts of thrift and soft grasses. With each step that I take a myriad minute seashells crumble to sand, to join their ancestors forever, and the eternal heartbeat of the ebbing and flowing surf rises from far below.

In a sheltered lee of the rugged cliff face, the Saint's Oratory is surrounded by soft tufts of fragrant grass which welcome the pilgrim, inviting me to sit awhile and rest among the ancient stones.

Here I hear the symphony of the surf yet clearer, ebbing and flowing as I breath with the eternal heartbeat - in and out... in and out...

A Seamaid sings on yonder reef, the spellbound seals draw near.
A lilt that lures beyond belief Mortals, enchanted, hear.

Coira noira noira noiro
Coira noira noira neiro
Coira noira noira ni la luran
Coira noira noira neiro
eiro eiro

The wandering ploughman halts his plough, the maid her milking stays
And sheep on hillside, bird on bough pause and listen in amaze.

Sitting silently, watching, waiting, I see a sleek black face break the surface of the water, close to the rocks far below. The deep eyes hold mine as I become aware of a second sleek seal, glistening between the weed-covered rocks...

An earthly nourris sits and sings and aye she sings ba lilly wean.
Little ken I my bairn's father, far less the land that he steps in.

Then ane arose at her bedside, and a grumly guest I'm sure was he,
Saying here am I thy bairn's father, although I be not comely.

I am a man upon the land and I'm a silkie in the sea,
And when I'm far and far from land my home it is in Sule Skerry.

Now he has ta'en a purse o' gold and he has put it on her knee,
Saying give to me my little young son and take thee up thy nourris-fee.

Now it shall pass on a summer's day, when the sun shines hot on every stone
That I will fetch my little young son, and I'll teach him how to swim the foam.

Then you will marry a proud gunner, and a very fine gunner I'm sure he'll be.
And the very first shot that e'er he shoots he'll shoot both my young son and me.

Was it a dream, were all asleep
or did she cease her lay?
For the seals with a splash dive into the Deep
and the world goes on again.

Feeling a cool whisper of air and salt spray brush my cheek I open my eyes, become aware of my hands and limbs - cool from sitting in the stern of the boat as it drifts back to the boatyard.

As the sun sets behind the Island of Mists I return to this other world across the water.

The End

Copyright Jenny Selfe 2001