Slow Scilly

The nights are drawing in, tonight the sand shone like pure liquid gold, the daylight shimmer dimmed as Autumn creeps slowly upon us snatching the leaves greedily from the trees and putting the curling ferns to sleep.

Everyday is different, the light of the sunrise, the diminishing shadows cast by the sunset. This is an artists paradise, inspiration surrounds you,  the raw beauty of these islands will leave you in awe.

I head off towards the post office, it's ten minutes away but I allow an hour. The farmer is ploughing his field, his red tractor emitting a low rhythmic hum, the curved bay of Lawrence's stretching gently as the receding tide exposes thousands of tiny exquisite shells, the outline of Tresco's exotic trees in the hazy distance. On the top of the freshly turned gritty earth potatoes appear like nuggets of gold. We discuss the variety and the methods of fertilisation of the soil once the harvest is complete. Apparently the seaweed from Great Bay is the best for nourishing the ground.

I trail behind and thrust my hands into the warm sandy soil pulling out potatoes and listening to the family history. 'Do you ever want to leave the island'? I ask, he gives me an odd look so I ask them if they have the Internet. There is a low guffaw and so I guide the subject quickly back to migratory birds and the wide variety that will drop by the islands this month making it a haven for enthusiasts.  I quickly put myself forward for a bird tour realising how ignorant I am and before I know it I am late for the post office.

Once there I comment on the increasing swell and the large waves of the Atlantic pounding the island at one end although there is not a breath of air inland and it is very warm. 'That's a ground sea' the post lady says, seeing my puzzled look she explains 'a prelude to the storm coming in'.

As each day passes I become more enriched.