Near the Northern Isle of the Saint and the Illuminated manuscript. Confounded Letter 14

I was told I like blondes but I've never been with one. But you were. Sitting, striking the arm of my armchair reading by the light of my very old lamplight and listening to the wind as it cried across the Viking Dun above the beach of the dead whales. Wondering about these islands that I've come to in latter times. The small one is Inch with my name. You were like the islands, blonde when I first knew you but not later. Perhaps you were elder races later, remember the red heron?

The red hill fox Tod comes down from beyond the wrecks this time in the evening and the grey ghost lady watches through reflections in the screen of this machine. Now there are enough clues to find this imrich should you wish to. The rabbits scream their death scream and good riddance to the too healthy heathen invaders. After visiting who would have thought of living here, except the rabbits. Cull when it is dark and when it is light it is always light.

The ancient still was still up in the rocks away from the revenue and the song of the isles. Not used now because the church car parks are much more full and skua sift amongst the town rubbish. The beach of Whiskey galore.

A Basking shark took the skin from my legs as the old man drank his poteen kept under the box in the stern of that other country. The blood seeped in pin pricks turning blue in the Erin green cold over the deeps. Towels for blood that was monks monthly girlish, they said and I did not believe them.

It has a collective strength to all but these but only if you do not take them too seriously. I've never been able to complete S because he is boring, or J's Memory, Dreaming and Reflecting on it even though he is an archetypal hero. Although I have tried since I've been here and been there.

I walked down a jetty on the west coast of another country a lot like this and found Wittgenstein's house living there and of all the surprises that was one that lived a loved along the riverun from swerve of bend to curve of shore. Nearby the whales made sausages for the Congo. Blood on the water of the Minch.

Distant times and relative pleasant times watching the seal life. Being able to identify most and record the drawings that I still have. Stinking in the Gannets. Screaming with the ghost shearwater that frightened others who did not know. It was like a murder. Standing on the cliff watching the breakers and smoking a young boy perched in the rock chimney hundreds above the waves. Life was light and thinking was straight. The spiral was a symbol of humour and joy and you put leaves on it to show it growing. There was a spiral carved in a cave and hidden. We watched it and followed the lines with our pencils. It is still hidden and we were still following.