Isle of Jura over Sound of Islay (near where i watched the otter)

On the 22 November 1963 I had a tattoo seared into my psyche.

As I write this, approaching the 60th anniversary of that day, the scar has not diminished or healed.

I was 17 years old and standing in my parents small second floor flat in a medium sized mid Scottish Town called Bo’ness. The radio was on, some popular song from that era was being played. It was interrupted and we were taken to the newsroom, where a deep, calm male voice with a distinctive English accent, without emotion, said that President John Kennedy had been shot and killed in Dallas, Texas.

I was not American, I had never been to America. So why did the news so affect me? I am, to this day, unsure of the reason for the lasting effect. If I conjecture the following emerges.

I was born in 1946, a bulge baby, as we in the UK called post war births. My dad was a British soldier, a Seaforth Highlander. He was captured at a place called St-Valery-en-Caux on the 12 June 1940 and spent the remainder of the war in captivity. Members of my wider family and their friends had been killed.

We thought we had fought to gain lasting peace. In our relief and perhaps complacency we were fooled into thinking that was correct and that we were heading into better times. Time would disabuse us of that notion.

The President of the United States of America, the country whose influence and power was largely instrumental in turning the tide against Hitler and bringing an end to the conflict that had killed millions of our fellow citizens and imprisoned my dad for nearly five years, had been assassinated in his own country.

It was shocking and brought inquietude and uncertainty to our hearts.

I take you forward in time. I was a middle ranking police officer on 13 March 1996 when a gunman walked into a primary school in my area and shot dead sixteen primary one children and their teacher, as well as injuring another 15 people. Along with another senior officer, we were charged with arranging support for the families of the dead and injured.

What I now write is about my own personal reaction when I heard the news on that day in 1996.

I sat with my head down on my desk and I cried. I felt as though it was my fault. I was a senior police officer with a responsibility to prevent such things. I had failed. As I sat, I calmed down and thought hard;

‘I am a professional, I am trained for this, what am I crying for, it is not my tragedy. Pull yourself together, this is not about you, get a grip of yourself and do your job. These families need you.’

It is now September 11 2001, years on from 1963 and 1996.

My family and I are holidaying on the island of Islay, off the west coast of Scotland in an area known as the Inner Hebrides. Before breakfast that morning I venture along the rocky shore, settle amongst the rocks and watch a dog otter emerge from the water, shake itself dry then, oblivious of me and anything else happening in the world of humans, settle down to crunch its own, fishy breakfast. It is no more than ten yards from me.

I muse, ‘how lucky I am’.

In the afternoon my family and I head for Port Askaig and clamber aboard the ‘Angie’, a small inshore fishing boat. We aren’t alone and are joined by an English High Court Judge, an apple farmer from Somerset and their respective families.

Our trip turns into a wonderful afternoon, an afternoon and a trip that none of us will ever forget.

The ‘Angie’ is skippered by Roger, the boat’s owner. He expertly reverses into the strong running tide of the Sound of Islay, the narrow stretch of water that divides us from the Isle of Jura. He swings the bow round to the north and edges over to the Jura shore. We are underway.

It is a breezy, fresh day and the water slaps against the bow causing us to bounce a smidgeon.

We scud north out of the Sound of Islay, heading for Loch Tarbert, a natural feature that almost cuts Jura into two islands, but not quite. We hug the Jura coast and shortly before swinging into Loch Tarbert we hove to beside a small flat topped outcrop of rock known as ‘Sgeir Traighe’ ( tidal reef ). It is a popular haunt for a whole raft of different seabirds, shag, oyster catcher, cormorant and much more.

Stars of that day however being a few seals and their pups.

‘Angie’, jounces about a bit in the water as she eases nearer the ‘skerry’, being careful not to spook the inhabitants. The birds seem unconcerned, apart from the noisy oystercatchers. We manage a few wonderful moments watching the seal families before they, as if on some silent command, jointly scuttle of into the sea. I do snatch a couple of photographs. See here and at the end of this piece.

Seals, young and old, about to abandon ‘Sgeir Traighe’ on our approach — author’s collection.

Then we are on the move again, cutting through ever choppier seas.

As we turn into the wide mouth of Loch Tarbert, a raft of razor bills and two Great Northern Divers hold their positions, ignoring our presence, allowing us time to gaze, then Roger draws our attention to a Golden Eagle high over the Jura headland.

It is a sea life zoo.

A piece of history for the George Orwell followers; It was on Jura, between 1946 and 1949, that he hid himself away in a remote cottage and completed his novel Nineteen Eighty-Four.

We are soon in the shelter of Loch Tarbert and calmer waters. As we travel deeper into the loch we see some interesting raised pebble beaches. Scotland was once under ice and glaciers. At the end of that ice age, the land recovered from the weight of ice and began to rise in a process geologists refer to as, isostatic rebound. Raised beaches being one of the results.

Browsing amongst Jura’s rocky shoreline we spy red deer and wild goats and high above, another eagle.

At the closed end of the loch, now a narrow channel, that necessitates careful maneuvering. We draw in close to the shore and drop anchor. Time for afternoon tea amidst a spellbinding backcloth of small islands, sand, rocks and blue sky.

As we sipped our tea and munched on our ‘cucumber’ sandwiches, time allows for a closer look at the interesting small green topped islands. The green is clumps of undersize bushes and small trees and other vegetation, restricted in growth naturally by the limited soil on the rocky island and the all too inclement weather. A floating Japanese Garden.

I couldn’t help imagining, in my own warped mind, that it was all the work of a passing army barber. ‘Short back and sides’, as we say in the UK.

Then it is time to weigh anchor and ‘heave ho’. Too soon for me. What a magical corner of Scotland and I would beg to suggest, not oft visited.

‘Angie’ is soon wending her ( boat being female ) way, back through the maze of channels we had used to infiltrated this remote place earlier. Then we are out and back into the open waters of the Sound of Islay.

The stiff breeze we fought on our outward journey is now in our favor, as is the strong tidal flow, and we are soon scudding back to Port Askaig. We pass ‘Sgeir Traighe’ but the incoming tide leaves only the top visible. The Seals have moved on.

We disembark and leave ‘Angie’ tied up at the jetty and head into the bar of the Port Askaig Hotel where a dram of Bunnahabhain single malt whisky and some fine pub grub awaits. I think the time was about 5.30 pm.

The end of a wonderful day.

How wrong could I be?

There are a few people in the bar area, nothing unusual. We order food and drink and as we wait and chat the landlady comes into the bar area from what I assume was the kitchen, she looks shocked, her face ashen.

She speaks to everyone in the bar, updating them of an incident we have no knowledge of. It is not clear what she is describing so when she leaves the room I ask what has happened. People seemed in shock and some were in tears.

We then learn of the terrible events in New York and Washington, events that were still happening as we spoke. Unbelievable events that over the next few years would shape a new world order and have far reaching consequences to communities throughout our small world.

Was that what the perpetrators planned?

Over the intervening years, when I am reminded of the events of that day in September 2001, and of other like events I have knowledge of or have been involved in, my thoughts immediately spring to ‘Sgeir Traighe’ and a seal cow and it’s newly born pup, and I am filled with hope.

Because, for us to survive, we need to have hope and a belief that we can and will do better.

Otherwise, what is it all about?

Where Were You on September 11 2001?

Trauma and Me

Pole Dancing With a Fish