The Hills of Galloway

If you sail west across the Irish Sea to the hills of Galloway, you will see me standing there, gazing off into the distant, blurry horizon. I stand still, like a mossy statue in an old graveyard. The cold wind blows on my neck, and I must push up my collar to protect my fragile skin from the bitterness in the air. It is cold and damp. The frost blankets the ground. This is sacred ground.

Each day I wake up, force myself out from under the layered quilts, stoke up the night fire with a few pieces of kindling and wood, and put the kettle on. Dark coffee warms my frozen body as I stare out the window towards the cliffs I will visit soon. Throwing a bone to my faithful pup, I pull my boots up high, throw my coat over my shoulders, and venture out into the frigid air.

It is calm and quiet. It has been this way for some time now. I close my eyes and take a long deep breath in, feeling the sting of the cold in my nostrils and down into my body. The cold helps one feel alive. It snaps the senses from their slumber and widens the eyes. I see the grey sky, the glittering ground, and begin to walk briskly to warm myself.

Arriving at the cliffs overlooking the Galloway bays, I begin to remember.

She was a small, fiery girl from Ireland. She arrived on boat on a warm, Spring day at the Gathering Fair, a time when we Scottish lads come together and talk of sheep, tilled fields, old sheds needing repair, and the fine taste of good beer and scotch. Heads turned, some in wonder, some in distaste, and others in sudden rapture, like me. She was beautiful, enchanting, foreign, and vibrant. I wanted to change her last name, dance with her, know her history, and her favorite food. I wanted to spend the remainder of my days staring into her jeweled eyes and fall in love.

The buds of our affair were sweet and gentle. She was the queen of the town. Old folks, though stuck in their traditions and ideas, still found some meager respect for her. She knew how to tend to the sheep, to keep a house, and listen to the talk of the neighbors and at the town gatherings. She was quick in mind, agile in spirit, and graceful in body. She was Aphrodite and carried her name well.

It began to happen in the Fall, when the crops were hauled in from the fields, the hay stacked for the winter by barrel-chested young lads, and firewood piled high in front of houses. She would sit at the window for hours to gaze out into the sea while the sheep milled about without a shepherd to keep them still. I commenced to be irritated. There were many things to do before the cold northern winds rushed down upon us, to freeze us in our homes and keep us prisoner. Yet, she gazed out more and more with each passing day, and her eyes began to dim like the setting Fall sun. My frustration increased, and at nights I would berate her, and demand that she did what she was told or we would freeze from no wood, the sheep would wander off, and the pantry would lie bare. As much as I tried, pleaded, and begged, she would not comply; instead, she stared out the window to the bay, and beyond.

I set her free.

I could not bear her loss of appetite, her sorry state, and sad sighs. I bade her go back to Ireland, the land where she came from. She flew from the house strait to the bay, jumped with ecstasy into the first departing boat, and has not been seen since. A fire burned out. A spirit bled dry. A mind gone dull. These are things I did to such a fiery, young girl that I once knew.

As I stand here on the cliffs, I curse myself for my mistakes. I scoff at myself for all the misery I caused to such a fragile heart. How could I assume that I was powerful enough to enslave such a precious creature, to entrap her for my selfish ways and lustful heart? I would scream to the cloud-filled sky that I would rip every sail from every boat, find a road that leads me upland and hide away in the hills, never to show my ugly face again.

And yet, at times, I would gaze out into the sea. If I kept my eyes on the ocean, maybe I would find love again and be a better man: respected, loved, compassionate, and cast my youth aside for a quiet, peaceful, and warm home. How I wish I was a stronger lad, to sail out into the sea and find her, profess my love, and promise to never cage a soul so beautiful and free; but my heart is like a heavy stone, holding me to the cliffs that look over the bay and into the sea.

I stay here in the hills of Galloway, looking out into the distant horizon to spot the sails of the ship that carries my Aphrodite – my love and my curse – back to me.

If you cross the seas to Galloway

You’ll find a town that sleeps all day

Wander up the path, into the hills

And you’ll find me, waiting still…