Dec. 23rd. – Thursday. Home again.

Stranraer ferry terminal from hotel

Bill has booked a room in the North West Castle Hotel, just across from the ferry terminal.  True to its name, it’s a turreted, complex building, originating as a railway hotel.  The room is spacious, on the coffee table the red petals of a Poinsettia plant and a plate of mince pies dusted in icing sugar are Bill’s way of welcoming me back from my traumas in Christmas mode.  The hot bath is also sheer luxury.

Morning dawns and breakfast in a large but mostly empty dining room, stiff white table cloths, silver cutlery and waitress in traditional black dress/white apron.  A young family come in – mum, dad and a little girl of about three, dark hair in a neat bob.  As the years have passed since I married that handsome young man with the black hair and beard, Bill’s hair has become more silvery, the beard whiter, but he’s still handsome. Today he’s dressed in a red shirt.  ‘Look’, whispers the little girl to her dad, awe in her voice - ‘There’s Santa!’  Bill plays along, wishing her a happy Christmas and promising to read her letter carefully.

And so onto the road again.  The snow is less thick here, brilliant in a strong sunlight, frost riming every twig, the cyan sea ruffled. 

We cross on the ferry and are home on our island to find that the pipes are frozen and we have no running water.  The downside of all that beauty.  Christmas preparations then take over, and the living room floor is an explosion of wrapping paper.