From the pier you are taken to see rocks worn slippery smooth by the sea. Grey movement lifts the veil of distance to show seals basking – not disturbed or even curious about the cutting of the engines, the mobile phones raised, the putt-putt-putt of motor restarting. You are taken to drift a moment offshore, on the edge of the reflection of scots pines in water, to make out a nest in the fork of great limbs. Out of forget-me-not sky the bird itself: a sea eagle, serrated wingspan slicing ever-higher circles above a scatter of small islands piled with green scrub. The jetty is clear of rope and fish-box, offers benches to wait for the boat back. You pay the Office of Public Works, push through the turnstile to skirt azaleas, magnolias, rhododendrons. You wind your way inside to an oblong pool lined with tiles the colour of Ionian, the snug centre of so many boxes. First the sea: a living barrier shields this Edwardian house. At the margins, glossy hedges deaden stray sound from the village on the mainland, amplify peeps and chirrups of finches and blue tits. Further in, well-pointed walls, wrought iron gates open onto colonnades and porticos. The water in the pool is a glass brick. Bees and dragonflies on lavender buzz between ornaments from a tour of Europe or the Far East. Boxes within boxes hide the house from the wild Atlantic, screen the island with palisades of green from the country it will soon be returned to.
From: Vol.09 N.01 – A Poetics of Rights
Rewilding
by
Annette Skade