I love the sound of the fog horn. It is now our turn to regularly blast out with a long low boom. I recognise the tenor I heard this morning and now know from whence it came. I try to track back, to recall at which point in my childhood the fog horn became my friend. I know that it was my friend, holds familiarity but can't quite place when and where, or why.
We did not live near the sea nor holiday there, other than one occasion I recall at Heacham and another in Wales. Occasionally I would go fishing with my father and older brother but seldom, I liked the romanticism of sitting on the beach all night with tilly lights but found it cold and boring, but did they fish in the fog? I doubt it.
I am being watched, I know he is watching me but I do not care. Nearing the end of a two hour ferry ride I have just bought my third small bottle of beer. I could do with a nights free drinking, have not had one since I have been away. An evening of letting go, just being. My time has been full of being careful, of other people and moving on, of finding my feet yet i find myself still moving on. Tonight, i would like to be an unknown, without expectations. I have no special hopes for my time here in Sudoroy, if there is a pub, I just may seek it out. My book suggests otherwise. It lists supermarket, hotel, library, bank and shopping complex and ATM machine but no bar. I will try thr hotel.
Low cloud hides the base of the land but a clearing in the cloud shows a finger, a stack, a rocky end of land visible only from half way up above the ocean. We pass the stack brfore i catch it but catch the low lying cloud.
