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These Fragments I Have Shored Against My Ruins
The afternoon knows what the morning never expected
Difficult memories are like splinters—a bit painful and still working their way to the surface.
It’s been a few years since I visited Oban, this Scottish town of waterfront apartments, Victorian terraces, ocean breezes, scenic harbors, rocky coasts, whiskey distilleries, pubs, and old memories born of my Hawthornden Literary Retreat days.
I was young then, just after my MFA, and the months of retreat at Hawthornden Castle gave me the space and time to think, write, and explore. One weekend, motoring nearly three hours away, I discovered the quaint town of Oban.
It felt good to be back.
The sun slipped past clouds and glinted off the glass exterior of Ee-usk restaurant, where I settled in for a bowl of Cullen Skink, that divine chowder blend of smoked haddock, potatoes, and onions. I paired it with a chilled glass of Blaven ale from the Isle of Skye Brewing Company.
“Excuse me? I apologize, I’m sorry to interrupt, but aren’t you Stephen Murray?”
The woman was impeccably dressed in pleated dark slacks, a tawny cashmere sweater, and Tortoise Cat Eye designer glasses. Likely in her sixth decade, she was slender, elegant, and polite…
