In my dream, the tree ascends proudly from the earth. Well rooted, its stolid trunk leads to gracious boughs, then to delicate branches adorned with fluttering ribbons and rags. The clootie tree. A cup cake of a tree, sprinkled with hundreds-and-thousands. I have visited it so many times in my mind; I can feel the fresh Highland breeze, purifying, forgiving. A new baby smell. I hear the tree sigh, whispering age-old country wisdom.
‘We’re on the A832, yes? Then it shouldn’t be far.’
‘I don’t really see, Annie, what the point of all this is. It’s just a silly ritual. Folklore. To be honest, it gives me the creeps.’
I watch Dave flick on the wipers, and peer out through the misty windscreen. He does not turn to see what effect his words have on me. I remain silent, caressing the ribbon in my pocket. It's as silky soft as a newborn’s skin.
This was not how it was supposed to be. I’d had it all planned. The physical presence of the tree, its history, and its significance –all these were to play their part, allowing us to finally speak, really speak. To face what we could not back home.
But the tree, when we reach it, refuses its role. The fissures and cracks of its bark do not signify wisdom, but decay. The wind drives icy rain straight into my face. Sodden, decomposing rags hang heavy; the branches sag under their weight. A carrier bag has blown up and wrapped itself around a bough. Some joker has stuck an empty Stella can on a branch end: strange fruit of a god-forsaken tree.
The ribbon remains in my pocket. My words remain unsaid. The rain continues to fall on the desolate landscape as we climb back into the car. Dave fires up the engine and I’m gone, again.
------------------------------------------
This was my piece for tutorial 1 (unassesed). I received some great feedback from my tutor and a couple of other students - must try and make time to revise this. Need to pay particular attention to making the language fresh and not using cliches.