Osgood's Dream

[smokingboot]

Every now and then one comes across the lair of a strange and magical gardener. By the Moray Firth, Findhorn was said to be the place; I remember back in the 70s reading in our local library about Findhorn, where huge vegetables were growing and people were talking with angels. I resolved I would go someday, but here is the real tragedy of growing up; by the time you can, you don't want to. You expect the angels to have disappeared and a flourishing New Age community to be offering wondrous activities at wondrous prices; and something in you knows that if you can't find the magic in the sea, the woods and the mountains, you won't find it in a drumming session in the room of a stately home, indeed if you're really unlucky, you may find yourself here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Is3OzG3ZPyE
But assuming good will and a non-negotiable absence of placations to Taranis, I'm no misanthrope, not even specifically an introvert, I enjoy company. Thing is, humans have their own enchantment, and when there are many together, it crowds out everything else.

Osgood Mackenzie became a gardening wizard, and if gods or angels spoke to him, he never mentioned it. He had a passion for rare plants, and after his mother bought him some tracts of land, began to create the garden of his dreams, inspired by the belief that he could turn a barren promontory into a precious place. There's a gulf stream or something that skirts the North Western coast, making it possible if not probable for palms, succulents and all sorts of strange vegetable characters to thrive. Osgood knew nothing of such things, as I understand it. He just kept on planting.





The garden was glorious, but best for us was the trip out onto the sea-loch. Our pilot did something particularly handy; he would stop in certain places to pull up creel, tip the contents out and discuss them. It was like the best sort of rock pool exploration from long ago... Moon jellyfish and various types of crabs and langoustines, all as fascinating as they were when we were five, assuming parents ever let us go wandering. My mother would have fainted at the very idea of me touching a jellyfish. All the captives were alive, and gently released back into the sea, while the pilot sought out the stars of the show; and found them, seated like Brighton dowagers taking tea amid the rocks, harbour seals and grey seals enjoying the day.


My photo doesn't begin to show their insouciance, or their numbers, and I gave up trying as the sea grew choppy and the wind, clearly determined to riff on Osgood's tropical theme, gave us a fine impersonation of a freezing monsoon. The evening began to close in and whatever good the gulf stream might do the plants of Inverewe, it was having no mercy on us.

By the time we were away, the cold had settled in our bones, and we made our way to Gairloch quickly. It was at Gairloch I first wondered if something was off. We had got soaked a couple of times, and especially after the temperature drop at Loch Ewe, I wasn't surprised to feel snuffles. I expected us to get minor colds. We stopped for a sandwich and had tap water, as well as bottles of spring water, and when I tasted the latter, it was like rust. I looked at it in surprise. A lot of these spring water brands boast about their iron content, but this was really peculiar, pronounced to an unpleasant degree. I gave up on it. R noticed nothing different. And there I took one of my favourite photos. I know, I know, the weather was being thoroughly unhelpful! But this is one of the things I like about Scotland, the way that you can sometimes be so surrounded by the silver it feels as though mist and air is beneath you, and you could just walk on it, through it, out into another world.