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I could see the beaches, stretching for miles. Rocks, broken down by the almighty sea for millions of years to form the very dunes that were situated before me. Precision crafting used to form the beautiful agricultural landscape that spans the entirety of the island. The tall, emerald-colored grass greeted me as it waved in the strong ocean breeze. The blazing sun, beaming down and reflecting off the majestic, turquoise sea. It blinded me. The unmistakable scent of peat, carried in the wind. In the distance, broad white-colored buildings. The distilleries are situated around the island and contain the beverage that the island is most famous for – whisky. These are the fundamental foundations of the Isle of Islay, my second home.
Islay is a compact island within the Hebrides in West Scotland. I would take a miniature, ramshackle boat, that was used to transport both pedestrians and cargo to the island. As we began driving, I rolled down the window and was welcomed with the invigorating, yet distinct smell of nature, which alleviated the nausea that was constantly building up in me as we drove through the badly conditioned roads that snaked through the island. I remember reading my retro Marvel comics, depicting the life of my favorite superhero, Spiderman, as I sat with my neck craned in the car. The neck-ache slowly dawned over me as I flipped through the pages. Subsequently, we drove through a historic town called Port Charlotte on the west coast of the island. There was a church, obtaining an angular frame, with large stain glass windows, illuminated from the other side, creating a collage of vibrant color. Like that of a kaleidoscope. On my right-hand side, through the tinted glass windows of my family transporter, was a dilapidated lighthouse, huge in size and hexagonal in shape, emitting a strong yellow tinted light which was filtered through the hazy fog coating the bay. As we neared my grandparents house, butterflies would flutter in my stomach as my anticipation would sharply escalate. When the car came to a halt, we would leap out of the car, collect our luggage, and inhale the finest fresh air, peat still lingering within it. My grandparents lived in a small village called Bowmore. It keeps its part in my heart since it reminds me of my younger and more excitable self. My grandparents would greet me, my grandmothers soothing voice brightening my mood as the exhaustion from travelling took its toll on me. It gave me a sense of reassurance and security. My grandmother had a short stance, she had light grey-colored hair, with white streaks running through it. She had incredibly unique, bright blue-colored eyes and wore natural-colored knitted jumpers that she crafted in her spare time. My grandfather was average height, he had thin, white-colored hair, a medium build, and pale, wrinkled skin. He always wore a beige patterned shirt, fastened to the top with a tidy looking bowtie. Complimenting this, he wore deep brown cord trousers, topped off with a leather belt. With the shiniest oxfords, freshly polished, on his feet. The light reflecting off the toe.
My grandparents lived in a miniature cottage, overlooking the rolling sea that escaped into the horizon. The terraced building was cased in white painted sandstone, The interior had a very warm feeling, the toasty fire emitting a warm flame warming up the spring weather. Accompanied by the mahogany wood floor, the sun beaming upon it and projecting onto the olive-green painted wall. The roof was held up by five thick stained beams and acted as the main structural support for the miniature Edwardian cottage. The village was always quiet, there were very few pedestrians, all I could hear was the beautiful sound of birdsong which complimented the connection with nature that I endured.
When I was there, there was no sound, no traffic noise, no commuters making their way to work. Instead, you find yourself in a polar-opposite atmosphere, with an eternity of peace and tranquility, all you can hear is the soft rhythmic sounds of the waves rolling in the horizon. The scorching red sun emitting orange-colored light that blanketed the daytime sky behind it. The undulating water was whipped up to form the frothy wake that flowed towards the bay. The sheer strength of the sea creates the texture of the water, making a unique pattern, like a mosaic.
Looking back, I can almost feel the fresh air, the wind is comforting. I was walking among the numerous grand trees and admired the colored leaves scattered along the gravel footpath. I miss that feeling of calmness and stability of the world around. I wish I could return to the reality of those feelings once more. I will never forget about the happiness of staying in my grandparents’ house. This ultimately made Islay the place it was. I have a natural connection with the place, and it will always be a part of me.
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