He lights the end of his briar wood pipe and leans against the dry-stone wall

Good things; these walls, strewn across the island. Built generations ago, before my time, and still shelter us from westerlies that scream up from cliffs below. There used to be more of us here. At least fifty. Now just a handful left; myself included. Most have moved to the mainland, or occupy the cemetery at the southern end.

Tall grass surrounds, curves in rhythm with the wind, moves like a snake through the field.

See all that land, all them fields. Once bountiful, could grow many things, but now it’s barren, resting from years of being worked. Bit like myself. I still have potatoes though; small patch beside the cottage. One of the last remaining plots in these parts. Some chooks for the eggs. It’s enough for me.

I can tell what you’re going to ask. Lighthouse is not operational. Nothing stays the same, even in a place like this. Electricity and automation put end to her. They kept me on for a few years. Handy to have someone who knows these parts in case there’s trouble, needs to be some rescuing.

Small propeller plane flies overhead, circles, dips its wing, and disappears behind clouds.

That would be them tourists again. I’ve never flown. Sometimes hear the big ones above, wonder where they will be going, what the people will do when they get there. Some exotic place, I reckon. Before them, I used to watch the gulls, fighting against wind currents. That flying business looked exhausting. Not for me.

I sometimes went fishing; tough life. Main industry on the island. My brother, cousins were fishermen too. I lost my brother and mother on the same night many years ago.

She was often poorly; think it was from washing clothes down the beach. The salt clung to fabric, was no good; plagued us with rheumatism. This night, she fell particularly ill, so my brother took the boat out to fetch the doctor and priest from the mainland. Capsized. His body washed up two weeks later; bloated he was. I dug a hole for him; buried him near the old fort where he used to have picnics with his beloved, Mary.

Sea breeze whips up, clouds gather, light rain begins to fall. Droplets land on his blue flat cap, shoulders of his jacket with the reinforced elbows. He clutches it around his neck.

I never forgave myself for not going with him, but I was just a wee boy, had to take care of the home. We best head back to the cottage; say we have ten minutes.

His feet crunch the rocky laneway, slight lean on his body, bracing in the wind, hands behind his back, grey hair tussled by gusts. He pauses before entering the white stone cottage with thatched roof. Points to the small vegetable patch.

Used to cart seaweed up from the beaches; good fertiliser for potatoes and crops. Better than what they use today, but lots more work. Everything was more time and effort.

He holds open the blue door to his cottage, smile lines illuminated by fading light.

Same colour as the ocean; shade of blue she gets on those summer days that bring the sunshine. Take a seat, relax. Must be time for a dram.

Small fire burns in the corner. Rain begins lashing the west-facing window, rattles the pane. He walks over, runs a hand along the glass, gazes out to the rough ocean swell.

They say I should move to the mainland; more services for people like me, care facilities. Ugh. Care facilities. This place has care enough for me; has done all my life. Why give up on her now? But for all, eventually, it’s the graveyard or crematorium. I’ve thought about it.

Have you? Reached a conclusion during my walks; the ones I take down to the rocks where mother did the washing, near the fort where young Sean lies.

I would like to be scattered across that ocean; for it has been the one constant in life, more powerful than any of us. Something greater than everything; a God of its own. It would be nice being laid to rest there; to be once more with my brother.

Promise?

The visitor nods, places a hand on his shoulder.

Promise.