Member-only story
Traveling with Morpheus in Celtic Country
As I step through the metal gate from the road to the narrow Scottish beach, the North Atlantic ripples softly against the sand. I grew up in Northern California, where the Pacific habitually slams itself against the shore, where even at low tide a sudden swell could yank you into the sea. This was its eastern sister? The Atlantic has a deadly reputation, too, but I can’t see how.
Damp sand holds firm beneath our feet as my friend Alison and I stroll along the beach. Pale northern sunlight slowly warms us through. The shoreline is studded with large rocks and the occasional boulder. I climb onto one that has a wide, relatively flat top, half-covered with green moss. The moss is soft but dry from its hours in the sun. I lay down on my side, using my bent arm as a pillow, and look out across the water. My eyes drift shut.
I dream I’m a Scottish traveler, a warrior returning home after a skirmish. My tartans are ragged but still keep me warm. My hose and shoes lace up my calves, soles still sturdy after many miles on foot. Another day and I’ll be back in my village, back in my love’s arms. But right now I am so tired. My bones ache and my eyes sting, so I find a flat, mossy boulder in the sun where I can rest a while. I lay down on my side, using my pack as a pillow, and look out across the water. Sometimes I wonder what’s beyond that curved horizon…
