Charming...

Everyone loves a little ritual. And it’s clear from the left behind leavings of the islanders that Eythin loved a ritual more than most. If, like me, when you come across abandoned homes and ruins, tide devoured hill forts,
the engine house of mines and stone circles - you find yourself scurrying about, checking every nook, or cranny, for anything that shows you long gone homes, then Eythin is a wonderland, my friend.

The harbourside village is awash with shipwrecked houses, a tideline of homes, all empty and ghost ridden. And, like many houses, their crumbling walls reveal treasures for years sealed up – as exciting as any tomb at Luxor. In the cavities of walls lie witch bottles, and mummified cats. The tightly rolled
scrolls of love letters sealed in wax – a badger heart stuck with dress pins.

Climbing under lintels, and dodging the beady gaze of seagulls, I spend my days in wreckage and story telling stones. Digging out the history with a penknife. And, in case you worry, I do not take them home – back
to my room at the house – I don’t make the love locks leave their posts, don’t pull down the charm that keeps a spirit safe from ghosts. I don’t break any bottle sealed with pigskin. In case the witches here aren’t dead but sleeping.

Instead I hold them close in my palm, fingers closed about them – and yes, perhaps, I leech away a little bit of power.

But I’m alone on this island and the dog alone won’t keep me above water. All I take back home
with me are unsaid incantations - and rummaging in undergrowth I find the things
I need, to perform minor acts of heathen headed magic. And speak the words and
salt the locks and wrap a crow skull tight about with wirings.

And hope the rest of them find a boat back soon.

The housekeepers are still not speaking, but somebody still cleans the rooms – and the dog creeps in beside me every night, and stares towards the window, shaking.