MICHAEL FAULKNER

THE BLUE CABIN

Living by the tides on Islandmore

STILL ON THE SOUND

A seasonal look at island life

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BOOKS ON ISLAND LIFE AND STRANGFORD LOUGH

Island life & Strangford Lough

“..In July of this year, to mark my birthday, we set out to achieve the most important return trip of all.

    Since her stroke, my mother has been largely confined to a wheelchair, and speech, for eighty years the conduit for a sociable personality and an active mind, has become a daily frustration. Although she has risen to the challenge of living at home, with (in order of importance) dogs, cats and family around her, she laughed when I first raised the idea of coming to Islandmore, thinking it a challenge too far. The cabin belongs to her, but it had been five years since her last visit and I suppose she had visions of coggly boats, makeshift ramps, slippery jetties – and electric wheelchairs which, to put it mildly, are not light. Even when I presented her with a self-inflating lifejacket for her own birthday, she thought the idea of crossing to the island far-fetched: romantic, even something to wish for in an abstract sort of way – but far-fetched. Still, she gave me to understand that if we were determined to give it a try, she would work with us to make it happen.

For me, it became a mildly obsessive project. I went ahead with preparations, building a raised deck for the boat and sourcing a special threshold ramp, flexible enough to form a workable bridge from the pontoons to the boat. Appropriately enough, since his grandfather had re-assembled the cabin ninety years ago after its short sea crossing from the Isle of Man, I called William McCloy, of McCloy’s Builders’ Merchants in Killyleagh, for exactly the profile of timber which would fill the gaps between the planks of the jetty at the Islandmore end, and prevent the bogey wheels of the wheelchair from slipping through. For the transfer from boat to jetty, I made a simple platform which rendered a 15’ slope horizontal; and then it was just a matter of timing. The tide would have to be more than three-quarters in, at least for the trial run, and the departure from Islandmore would have to be before it was a quarter gone, giving us a window of opportunity of perhaps two and a half hours.

That everything came together for my birthday, I count as a special bonus. I said to mum that morning, ‘Let’s give it a try,’ and she replied with an old-fashioned expression which said, at the very least, ‘Are you sure?’ Nevertheless, she was excited by the prospect, and we discussed the fact that nothing in life is without risk..

We drove to Ringhaddy with hope in our hearts, natural justice on our side, and the self-inflating life jacket on the back seat. Lynn was already on the island and had prepared, as only she can do, the most artful of picnics, complete with birthday cake and candles: if we pulled this off, it was going to be an occasion to mark.

When we arrived at the boat park, I fetched the ramp and the platform from the boat shed and tied up to the sheltered side of the pontoon harbour. With everything in place, mum and I made our way onto the concrete walkway that leads to the pontoons. We smiled and nodded to a number of fellow cruising club members on our way to the boat. All of them had seen the preparations and were fascinated to hear what I was about; and all of them, to varying degrees, were keeping a discreet – that’s to say, a lets-not-make-a-fuss-but-the-club-lifebelt-sems-to-be-where-it-should-be – eye on events. I had no wish to make a drama of it, and as we approached the ramp I leant forward and asked mum if she was ok. She gave a thumbs up and pointed towards the boat, which rocked quietly against the pontoon, its temporary deck and flexible aluminium bridge sliding against one another with a gentle rasping sound – and I thought to myself, not for the first time, that if I have my mother’s courage and spirit at eighty-four I will deserve to have made the journey.

We rolled on, or rather mum rolled on. I kept my feet on the pontoon and when the wheelchair was more or less halfway across the boat, I knelt on one knee and reached forward to apply the brakes. Then I untied at the bow, stepped onto the dead centre of the stern locker, and pulled the ramp after me. For the second time, I asked if mum was alright, but there was no need: perched high above the gunwales, she was, if anything, savouring the moment.

A coolish breeze was coming from the southeast, and I took off my oilskin jacket and put it across her shoulders. The sleeves billowed and lifted like wind socks, sending secret semaphore to the gods; and that’s how we crossed Ringhaddy Sound, ‘Like a stately ship of Tarsus bound for the isles… Sails filled and streamers waving’ – like Delilah, and with equal triumph.

The roll-off went just as smoothly as the roll-on, and the three of us sat on the grass in front of the cabin with mugs of tea and birthday cake, under a hot sun, and celebrated. The dry run successfully completed, we resolved to get the whole family together as soon as possible, and complete the circle. I know that my mother had never thought to set foot on Islandmore again; but the island calls to all of us, and some things, like the heroic 6000-kilometre round trip of Strangford’s brent geese, are as natural as the seasons, and as naturally recur.”