COLONSAY – Hebridean Island, nestled between Jura and Islay. The birthplace of my Grandfather Sneddon, we spent many happy holidays here until Spencer and Christine's protests that there was “nothing to do” caused our parents to opt for caravan holidays in France instead. Over a succession of miserable, camp-site bound trips it became obvious that all Spencer and Christine really wanted to do was get drunk, smoke cigarettes and canoodle with similarly obnoxious new friends. My dossiers from two of these trips (Brittany, 1982 and the Dordogne, 1985) still survive in the Hamilton Coe archive. The most explosive document (The Gironde, 1984) was seized and destroyed by my brother.

Spencer's dissatisfaction with Colonsay was probably exacerbated by my popularity with the indigenous population. In my experience, people in remote areas have a greater respect for and understanding of natural powers derided or misunderstood by their inland counterparts. “There goes the wonderful boy!” the islanders would shout as the family Coe cycled past. Spencer and Christine subsequently insisted that this was an inept translation from the Gaelic, and that I was being mocked on the necessity of using a customised tricycle on account of the inner ear damage caused by the beating I received from Grandpa Coe. This was not the case. Even today my visits to the island are rewarded by unsolicited gifts of eggs and home baking. When I leave, the islanders still gather at the pier to sing the Song of the Wind and the Waves and dance their poignant Jig of Farewell.

 

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