Oh to be here.

A fortnight’s holiday in August on the Isle of Skye and a friend in each cottage. London in September but time to run barefoot and play.

A squishy feeling running over the dead mice that auntie’s cats find out in the meadow that runs to the sea. But no matter. What Mama doesn’t know she can’t wail over.

Seals to swim with and secret coves to find. A grown-up or two but mostly not. Busy up at the house with their endless cocktails and games of bridge.

Riding too but something to let them be. Always chasing something and yelling at people on ponies who can’t keep up.

Better to be on the beach with the wild Shetlands that live by the cliff than following someone in a red coat who won’t shut up.

The summer chapel down at the end where Canna, Rùm, Eigg, and Muck dance on the horizon like a mother duck and her ducklings with tinier isles for eggs.

Silver polished and set out. The holy water pitcher taking the longest but the most fun too. The rest like the parish back in London with a silver pitcher that looks like everyone else’s.

But this more fun. Everyone wanting to be an acolyte and help serve. Water that comes out of the cow’s mouth like the blue and white milk cow that was on the table in the day nursery. Put away for the next baby it is but this one is for now.

From India, Grandmama says. Something about a brother who was an aide to the king at the Delhi Durbar and brought it back.

Ten pews and no carpeting but where everyone is, in the chapel on Sundays or lying in the cemetery around it. . . .one’s own spot known but something to think about later . . . much later . . . .time to play forever and a day . . .