The Western Isles

So this year – as we do most years – we have taken the girls up to an island off the coast of Scotland to unwind and take a deep breath. We took a house for two weeks, intending to share the house on the first week with one family, the second with another. It is at times like this when I am reminded of Mike Tyson’s line that ‘everyone has a plan until you punch them on the nose’. This particular nose-punch happened a month ago when our friend Nicholas who was meant to be bringing his family on the first week, decided that death was preferable to a week with the Buchanans. Pancreatic cancer, as it turns out, is fast acting and rather brutal. So we stayed down South for his funeral. I miss him more than I believed possible.

This second week has had my ‘god’ family here and so far it has been heavenly. It never really gets dark so there is really no set time in which to open a bottle of wine. This universal-drinking time phenomenon is rare and can usually only be seen in airports …  and Swansea.

The beaches are empty and preposterously sandy and clear. On the second day out, a family of oyster-catchers swooped over our heads like a squadron of spitfires around Beachy Head. Every day the girls throw on their bikinis in search of company. They return to the house tanned but disappointed.

But where is the strategic vision? Have the last three days helped me focus on the next three years of Amati? Perhaps a little. I am 48 now and am having to think about the next phase of Sarah and my life. The girls have almost left home which allows us to work harder and travel more, and Amati is well placed for the future. All these things are rattling around my mostly empty head at the moment, but the second I grasp an idea I am distracted by new signs of wild life. An otter, a gannet, or the possibility of a puffin. Heaven, it turns out, is a place in which planning is tougher than it looks.