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“Stranger, why do you not speak?
Speak — that I may see thee.”
— Walter Savage Lander

The Island of Arran from the North Ayrshire Coast

Speak — That I May See Thee

Like many early mornings, the coast summoned me. Five degrees below zero, the air thin and bracing, the beach washed gold by a reluctant winter sun. I stood at the shore and looked across to The Island of Arran on Scotland’s west coast, its mountain crowned with snow, steady and austere. Something about that view loosens memory. Faces return. Voices follow.

On that mountain, some years ago, I climbed beside a family from Israel. They were making for the summit to camp beneath the wide, indifferent sky. We fell into step together. It did not begin with theology or history, only with courtesy. A shared breath. A careful footing. Yet as the path steepened, so did our conversation. I had read the Bible most of my life and often wondered what a modern family from Israel would be like in the plainness of daily life. I found no abstraction that day. I found a kind, considerate and generous family; that is if generosity of time is a gift and I am sure it is. They made space for this stranger. They asked about Scotland and about the rhythm of my days which I reciprocated. I listened. I answered. We parted close to the top as I returned for the Ferry home. I returned with smiles warmed by more than the climb. That is how life ought to be.

Another ascent brought a Norwegian family into my story. I had once lived briefly in Stavanger, and hearing their accent felt like opening an old letter. Familiar cadences. Quiet warmth. We spoke of fjords and long winters, of the sea’s mood and the discipline of light in northern lands. In their company, nostalgia became a companion rather than a burden. Yet even as I admired their homeland, my heart settled again on Scotland’s west coast, the place where I am most at ease and most awed. Home sharpens when contrasted with another’s home. Conversation does that. It teaches us what we love without diminishing what others cherish.

Still, we do not need summits to meet good people. This morning by the shore, as Arran held its silent vigil, I found myself speaking with a family from Birmingham. A mother, a father, two daughters bright with curiosity and a father returning to his homeland on this west coast for a time. We spoke of the view, of reading, of their daughter who loved to read and write creatively. There was nothing monumental in my exchange with this family, no shared pilgrimage, yet it was rich. I walked away wishing I had known them longer. I wished not to intrude upon their time spent as a family. Some meetings are gifts precisely because they are brief.

But what draws people to the sea in winter. It depends who we are I suppose. I was brought up in the Maritime city of Glasgow where I always looked out to faraway lands. That’s why I was gifted a Grundig Satellite World band Radio in the seventies. A gift that helped me explore the world albeit unilaterally.  I guess Robert Louis Stevenson was drawn to the coast due to his father’s business of designing light houses which marked the writer’s career and destiny in many ways. But I digressed.

There is a peculiar virtue in these encounters, any encounter. A stranger speaks, and suddenly you see them. Not as a headline or a stereotype. Not as a theory. You see patience in the way someone ties a bootlace or offers their last caramel wafer or get all passionate when you ask them their favourite book. Words open the door, but presence lets you step inside.

When we remain silent, we remain unseen. Suspicion fills the space where speech might have been. Yet when we risk a greeting, when we ask and answer with simple honesty, something shifts. We discover that beneath accents, flags, and histories, there is a shared longing to be understood and welcomed. It does not require grand speeches. Often it begins with a remark about the weather, the climb, the cold. Now, my wife and I keep in touch with these chance encounters we have met in life's highway.

So, if you will indulge me, I shall lift the book resting at my side. In its pages I have come to know many people whose conversations have shaped centuries. There is one meeting in particular, unplanned it seemed, that changed grief into recognition and despair into burning hope. Two travellers on a road, joined by a stranger who listened before He spoke. You can read along with me if you wish,

Luke 24:13-35 VOICE - Picture this: That same day, two other - Bible Gateway

"For my part I know nothing with any certainty, but the sight of the stars makes me dream."

Vincent Van Gogh

Image generated with the assistance of Microsoft Copilot

I suppose it must have been the late summer of 1962; Telstar by the Tornadoes had been playing on the radio. I had been spending my entire summer on the idyllic Island of Bute on Scotland’s west coast. We had a cabin sandwiched between Canada Hill and Bogany Farm.

 It had no running water or electricity. My job was to go and fill up the water containers from the communal well. Cows would cautiously approach and stare curiously whilst the smaller ones would shuffle through for front-row viewing.

At dusk, we would light paraffin lamps to illuminate the nights. My father would read children’s books. We were all ears as he read Heidi, Tales From 1001 Nights and Chinese Folk Tales. We ate freshly made pancakes with homemade jam and washed down with small glasses of sweet stout.

The lamp caused a sibilant sound as it burned up kerosene. It flickered and fostered sleepiness. It finally slumbered for the evening, and we would retire.

I lay there in my bed watching the stars cascading through the window; every one of them. And I wondered if the Chinese farmer boys, or the Bedouin shepherd boys or the milk maids in the Swiss mountains were seeing and feeling the sense of awe that I felt in my heart as the universe entered in.