The In-Between Places of the World

 

Letters from the Falkland Islands

I didn’t sleep well last night. It was probably the wind and rain, or something like that. There doesn’t have to be a reason for it, I suppose. As I didn’t have much else to do, I ended up taking a long morning nap. I dreamt vividly; I dreamt of home, of the river Esk, and of a series of wonderfully rare post boxes. These post boxes were always found in pairs, and usually located in the stonework of bridges. One was no longer operational, and you could see why – there was another even older post box awkwardly stored inside. Another of the boxes, which I delighted in photographing, had a heart-shaped collection plate just to the left of centre. I was with my mum, and we were supposed to be going somewhere. But as usual, it seemed that I had become distracted by water and post boxes. It’s funny how dreams can be so incredibly true to life.

I woke fuzzy headed but was glad of what I had seen beyond closed eyes. I think I’ve done pretty well to get to day eight before resorting to writing about my dreams. It’s also the first day where I’ve started to feel the effects of quarantine. I wouldn’t describe it as boredom, but perhaps a slight dulling of the mind. There’s definitely an element of feeling like we are in limbo – it’s not where we’ve come from and it’s not where we are going. It’s hard to see it sometimes as anything other than one of the in-between places of the world. It’s not really that, though. After all, there’s not a single second excluded from this life. It’s just how we come to feel about it, from time to time. Thankfully, there is a surprising amount of structure to each day here. It mainly revolves around mealtimes, and the twice daily opportunity to go outside. I’m leaning heavily on that structure, and on making myself do certain things because I know it might help. I didn’t feel like writing today, but here we are anyway. And there are other elements to look forward to; a good friend is sending me a photo advent calendar from home each day. The photos are usually of their dog, Moss. But occasionally there’s a real unexpected gem thrown in, as well. A few days ago, she sent me a photo of the boiler at the hostel where they work. It still makes me smile. I’m fully expecting to receive a selfie on Christmas Day; this friend has quite reasonably come to conclude that the only explanation for her greatness is that she is, in fact, God’s only child and the Second Coming. I’ve also got a bunch of cards and letters that I have brought with me – some with instructions to open at certain times. I’ve put them up around the hotel room, including a miniature Christmas tree from Jen. All these things, all the messages from home, make such a massive difference. For what is this, what is this life, if it is not shared?  

 

‘It’s hard to imagine the world you left behind carrying on; it’s strange to suddenly not feel a part of it. But I needed to imagine it, and what’s more I needed it to still feel real to me. I wanted to absorb the new world that I was living in, but not to become utterly absorbed by it. It wouldn’t do to lose yourself somewhere so transient.’