A Post Card from Coll

Mary Nottidge

Last Saturday, an old friend called me up from her London home. Fed up with the traffic, the crowds and the smog of the Great Metropolis, she had arranged a week's holiday and was looking for suggestions as to how she might spend it. Was this a good time of year to visit Coll, she wondered?

Naturally, I was delighted at the prospect of a visitor and quickly started to extol the virtues of spending a holiday on Coll before she had time for second thoughts. I described with enthusiasm the scenery, the long sandy beaches and was just about to depict what I could see of the view towards Mull from the Roundhouse window (small as it is) when I happened to notice that the telephone wire leading from the house had sagged unusually low over the nearby field leaving a gap of only three feet at the lowest point between the wire and the ground.

Not wanting to be distracted however, I continued on the subject of Coll and described the island's blue skies, windless days, the unpolluted environment and the wonderfully empty roads. Presented with such a vision how could a tired Londoner do anything but accept the offer of a Hebridean holiday? Dismissing any fleeting thoughts of a career in the STB, I prepared to launch into further vivid descriptions of the island's beauty when I saw that a particularly determined Highland cow had caught sight of an appealing patch of grass just beyond the low hanging wire. I could almost see the cow salivating in anticipation of its find but watched in horror as the cow caught one of its horns on the wire which could now be seen to strain, to stretch and then to snap clean away from the wall. The phone went dead and all efforts to pursuade my friend in favour of a visit to Coll were prematurely terminated.

Would she be put off, I wondered? Surely she would be confused by my sudden exit from our conversation and furthermore at her failure to redial my number were she to try again: And I hadn't even mentioned the delights of beach barbeques, summer dances, long hours of daylight, the fishing competition and the Coll Show. Cursing my luck, I scribbled her a post card explaining the reason for the curtailment and, to rest my case, added a few more lines for good measure, Then, glancing at my watch, I seized my coat and wheeled my bike outside, viewing with dismay the damp grey mist which had descended over the island during the night.

I pushed my bike onto the road but groaned as I noticed the sheep had been in amongst the rubbish bags, splitting one open and causing my baked bean tins to roll defiantly down the road with the help and encouragement of a brisk wind. No time to clear up now if I was to catch the boat. The stray rubbish would have to wait.

Cycling into the wind and near horizontal rain made slow going but for fear of missing the post I pressed on. Rather here than London, I thought grimly, remembering my friend's gloomy accounts and already starting to anticipate how much she would enjoy her time on sunny Coll.

Immersed in my thoughts I failed to notice the crumbled road ahead of me and, catapulting through a newly emerging hole, just managed to regain my balance in time to avoid skidding into the ditch at alarming speed. Must concentrate, I thought as the bike rattled painfully over the corrugated surface of the West End road.

Once in the village, I collected my mail, eyeing with envy a post card from Jamaica and with dismay the familiar brown dispatch from Strathclyde Regional Council. So far the day had not gone well.

I dallied over my messages and exchanged greetings and news with others going about their Saturday morning business and gradually began to feel better about the day which had started so badly. Perhaps I should have mentioned the friendly community spirit to my friend. The idea of everyone knowing one another would certainly appeal to her. Yes, that was the nicest thing about Coll I decided; perhaps I would just tack a PS on the end of my card.

Talking of which, there was a friendly face coming my way. I wonder what Martin Lunghi could want with me. He certainly looked very purposeful, something which admittedly struck me as rather unusual at the time. Remembering suddenly, I ate my words and leapt on my bike, pedalling furiously in the direction of the West End. Yet again I had put off writing the article he was after for the Coll Magazine. Avoiding Martin was the only way out, for this time I really had run out of excuses.

As a red-faced cyclist panted rapidly away from the village a post card fluttered from her jacket pocket and came to land peacefully In a puddle.