Two Tuesday’s ago, I stirred my senseless body into wakefulness before dawn, and stole away from the little wooden cottage, heading up the track-ways towards the heart of the island. Not far on at all I found the forestry shed, a huge green metal barn used for woodworking and storing old tools. Within, amongst the timbers, I found what I had been searching for since the rumours of it’s existence first reach me a few days before; The cloak of Eigg.
The myth of it’s being woven from mackerel nets and whisky bottles had held great promise (and knowing that all myths have a kernel of truth) the actual item was of course a lesser version, though altogether still pretty impressive. It was crocheted wool, that held empty miniatures of Famous Grouse woven into the knit. It was unfortunately also not a cloak, and was bound permanently around an old sheet of drift wood. Unperturbed I nabbed the relic in true India Jones style, humming his theme tune as I made a run for it down to the pier with my bounty and all of my other equipment I had left waiting for me half way down the path. I desperately clutched at the rattling bottles, hoping no-one would wake up and catch me, and ask me to explain!
I had been so inspired by the myth of this cloak, and by the persistence of the phrase “A red can and a dram” which is the obligatory cocktail of every island occasion, that I had created a crown of McEwans cans to finish off the outfit.
At 5.30am on Tuesday morning I set up my camera in the darkness in front of the pier tea rooms, with it’s single waiting room light casting a glow across the gravel. I set up the shot to take-in the great “An Sgurr” mountain behind and donned my canny-crown. I pressed the timer and ran, leaping up onto the table top and posing with the “cloak” attempting to hold it to my back as a cloak is worn, and trying to appear like the “King of Eigg”, wearing the ornaments of what it takes to be him. The early morning light seemed like I was the last man standing after an all night boozer, the contents of which might have composed my crown.
I photographed a dozen poses, until a huge gust of wind took the crown off my head and smashed it to pieces on the gravel. Perhaps An Sgurr was stirring and my gesture was unwelcome? Either way I lifted an empty can in honour to the sleeping pitch-stone giant, popped the cans in the recycling, and silently hiked back up to the forestry shed to return the whiskey relic before 6am.
