The Guinness Can

Mrs Anna Galway

I grew up on the shore of the Western Isles, my three siblings in tow. This particular Sunday was when we were still of an age that our father would take us round the rocks.

I watched dad, his steady stride, hands behind his back, and the hazy smoke puffs that travel with him as the gentle breeze shrivels up his roll-up.

Today we walk out the village way. I find this odd as this is not usually the rock climbing way and not usually dads first choice. I think its aunties ear ache when village whispers report sightings on a Sunday.

Dads sure stride swallows up the ground; his eyes are full with land and sea absorbing anything worthy of his note. He has a blue bag with him. I wonder if its some old bread for last years lambs out here.

We all march on grabbing at our contentment as we walk further out across the cliff tops, further than usual. With his roll up in its ragged clump still in his mouth dad points ahead and tell us we are going to the boulders.

I begin to see new cliff faces staring out at me like strangers. Dad tells us we are nearly there as he points ahead to a lonely shape.

An old, dark boulder sits proud like an old guard. It obscures the view of what first appears as a grassy slope gently rolling behind it down to the gaping mouth of a sheer drop. Jagged rock surfaces jut out from the cliff faces ahead, there like old black fingers. Huge boulders from the hands of giants lie at the bottom of these faces. They seem frightening at first, but they sit silent where they fell an age ago.

This place is awesome, eerie but awesome.

Dad tells us to gather by the boulder. From the blue bag he pulls out an old Guinness can. He has our attention. He tells us to find a big crack, deep and obvious in our guarding giant so he can put his can in. The obvious choice invites us with a crooked grin. Dad sticks the can inside and asks if we can all see it. He motions for us to listen to him now. He crouches down and we all stare at the can, already an air of significance clings to the spot. Dad declares this can as the Macleod family can, put in this boulder to mark the spot where our family came today. Furthermore, it will be seen for many years to come as a reminder to everyone here of this day.

I no longer live on the Island, but my childhood memories are rooted there. When I do get home, I follow the rocks to the boulders. When I see that old Guinness can, my fathers can peering out like an old tooth I feel such joy and I journey again with my sisters and brother following our dad that special day.