Are you not lonely ? (and my stay in a small bothy at the Isle of Canna)

Loneliness for me is a common feeling while travelling solo, don't think (when you are following my adventures on social media) that I am immune to it. I like the solitude at times, and it builds a stronger relationship with myself, to do this on my own that is, but I often wish I had found my companion. 

I keep turning every rock, stair into wells to see a reflection next to me, stay open minded and socialise at home. I wander to all corners of the world, I am on all the apps- talk to locals. I am not shy. But so far he has not been found. I have (in moments of hilarious lighthearted desperation) even tried to go back in time Outlander style, if he is not in 2024, maybe in 1878. Perhaps a man from the Bridgerton era.

Times are tough, and there are not plenty of available healthy mature fish in the sea, perhaps an old tire, but fish- well most of them have been caught by now, or they were let back into the sea for a reason. The trash never even made it to shore, people do not want to be bother with it. I sometimes wonder which one I am, the fish who just has not been caught, the let back or the tire. Perhaps I am a dolphin that just does not fit into this equation.

Brax (the chocolate poodle) came to give me a kiss goodnight before I hiked to the supposedly haunted cabin, far up on the hillside. 25 minutes and a few scares from gravestones later I am up in the stone house, warming up with a cup of tea.

To clarify my whereabouts, I am at the Isle of Canna (population 40 ?) in the Scottish inner Hebrides, also known as the Small Isles.  I'm here for a few days visit as part of a month long  London, up, and down to Cork excursion. Yesterday, after the 3 hour ferry journey from mainland I took a 5 hour hike around the western peninsula, through the sheep's and up (and down) to King of Norways (Uaigh Righ Lochlainn) grave. A scattered pile of stones by the open Atlantic sea. 

At the cabin I changed my socks and put plastic bags in as liner. I headed to the village pub and got chatting with Craig, and retired furniture builder and sailor/musician from the states. He was here for 2 weeks, and had been many times before, he also told me about to Isle of Mull, a magical place that I should visit- he goes there for months at a time and has been doing so for the past 20 years. We have our pints and are joined by 3 local contract builders who are here to set up the new medical building in the harbour. 

Stuart catches my eye, and he seems very keen to get to know me even though it is a slight challenge for me to understand his questions due to his thick Scottish accent. He is probably married. I might run into him (or the local Isle ranger- my age) again, who knows. The builders let out their mascot (Brax) for an evening run around the bay that lays at our feet (we are sitting outdoors), he is looking for the cafes left over mussels. The men tell me spooky stories about the island (and my cabin in particular.. a little goodnight story) and then apologies as they realize I am staying there alone. We talk about ghostbusters and ectoplasma. Even do the dance with our hands. I hug Brax goodnight, he is a good warm-hearted boy.