Diary

Just back from a few days on the edge of the world.
Actually, it was the Isle of Skye. But it felt like the remotest edge of everything.
To get there, the road became narrower and narrower, right down to a one track lane precariously skirting the edge of the sea.
The house was at the head of a beautiful bay: it was comfortable, well built, well appointed, with solar panels and a wood stuff.
And cut off from the rest of the world. No landline, no mobile reception. No internet, no television.
All you could ask for, really.
Of course we could hardly bear it.
As the poem says:
"Human kind
Cannot bear very much reality".
And it's as if we need to be trained up to bear happiness.

Coming back to discover that all flights in and out of Britain have been grounded.
By a volcano. In Iceland.
The travel industry call it a catastrophe. Which from their point of view it is.
But such an opportunity too for us to gain a better perspective of our place in the world.

Labels: the difficulty of paradise