Wildflowers for the Lighthouse
14th October
Dear Lighthouse Keeper,
Please forgive this intrusion from a stranger. I found this sea aster growing near the tideline and thought of your light winking across the water. Something about the way it holds the horizon, even in the dim hours, makes me reach for paper.
The sea has been restless lately. Even the gulls seem to argue with the wind. I wonder if you see it too – that particular shade of grey in the waves when a storm is thinking about arriving.
With admiration, F
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18th October
Dear F,
Your letter arrived with the monthly supply boat, tucked between a sack of flour and a crate of tinned peaches. The sea aster was a little crushed but still beautiful. I’ve pressed it between the pages of my tide tables.
You asked about the grey in the waves – yes, I know it well. That’s when I double-check the lamp and secure anything loose in the lighthouse garden. We’re due a proper gale soon. The air tastes of it.
This spit of rock is called Skellag, though few maps bother with the name. The lighthouse has been my responsibility for three years now. It’s a quiet life but never dull. Each day starts with polishing the lens and ends with trimming the wick, with weather and repairs and the sea’s moods in between.
Do you live nearby? Your letter had no postmark, only my name on the envelope.
Curiously, Laura Hayes
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25th October
Dear Laura,
How rare and pleasing it is to write that name. Thank you for taking a stranger’s scribbles in stride. I’m glad the aster survived its journey.
I’m writing this from a cottage on the County Kerry coast. My work often takes me along these cliffs – I study tidal patterns and coastal erosion. It’s solitary work too, though the waves keep up their end of the conversation.
The gale you predicted hit us hard. The sea threw rocks at my windows all night. I kept thinking of your lighthouse beam cutting through that murk. Did you feel it? That moment when the wind pauses to draw breath before howling louder?
Your description of daily rituals made me smile. Mine involve wading through data and trying to keep sand out of my equipment. Less poetic than polishing a lens that guides ships home.
The wildflowers here are different from yours. I’ll send one with my next letter if I find a specimen worthy of the journey.
Yours, with growing interest, Cortez O’Sullivan
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3rd November
Dear Cortez,
Cortez! A name to put to the mysterious F. And a marine biologist no less. Your cottage on the Kerry cliffs sounds like a proper counterpart to my lighthouse – both of us watching the sea’s moods from our respective perches.
That gale was a memorable one. The tower groaned like an old ship, and the spray hit the lantern room windows so hard I thought the glass might give. But there’s always that moment you described, the eerie calm before the next onslaught. I stood on the gallery watching the waves swallow the rocks where the seals usually bask. Everything wild and raw.
Your sea aster sits on my windowsill. Its papery purple is the only flower in this concrete tower, apart from the hardy thrift that grows in the cracks outside. I’d like to see the wildflowers from your coast. The supply boat comes again next week – I’ll look out for your envelope.
Today the sea is flat and shining like polished steel. I saw a pod of dolphins at dawn, heading north. Do they pass your cliffs too? I imagine them tracing the same currents you study.
With shared sea-watching, Laura
Your letter arrived with the monthly supply boat, tucked between a sack of flour and a crate of tinned peaches. The sea aster was a little crushed but still beautiful. I’ve pressed it between the pages of my tide tables.
You asked about the grey in the waves – yes, I know it well. That’s when I double-check the lamp and secure anything loose in the lighthouse garden. We’re due a proper gale soon. The air tastes of it.
This spit of rock is called Skellag, though few maps bother with the name. The lighthouse has been my responsibility for three years now. It’s a quiet life but never dull. Each day starts with polishing the lens and ends with trimming the wick, with weather and repairs and the sea’s moods in between.
Do you live nearby? Your letter had no postmark, only my name on the envelope.
Curiously, Laura Hayes
---
25th October
Dear Laura,
How rare and pleasing it is to write that name. Thank you for taking a stranger’s scribbles in stride. I’m glad the aster survived its journey.
I’m writing this from a cottage on the County Kerry coast. My work often takes me along these cliffs – I study tidal patterns and coastal erosion. It’s solitary work too, though the waves keep up their end of the conversation.
The gale you predicted hit us hard. The sea threw rocks at my windows all night. I kept thinking of your lighthouse beam cutting through that murk. Did you feel it? That moment when the wind pauses to draw breath before howling louder?
Your description of daily rituals made me smile. Mine involve wading through data and trying to keep sand out of my equipment. Less poetic than polishing a lens that guides ships home.
The wildflowers here are different from yours. I’ll send one with my next letter if I find a specimen worthy of the journey.
Yours, with growing interest, Cortez O’Sullivan
---
3rd November
Dear Cortez,
Cortez! A name to put to the mysterious F. And a marine biologist no less. Your cottage on the Kerry cliffs sounds like a proper counterpart to my lighthouse – both of us watching the sea’s moods from our respective perches.
That gale was a memorable one. The tower groaned like an old ship, and the spray hit the lantern room windows so hard I thought the glass might give. But there’s always that moment you described, the eerie calm before the next onslaught. I stood on the gallery watching the waves swallow the rocks where the seals usually bask. Everything wild and raw.
Your sea aster sits on my windowsill. Its papery purple is the only flower in this concrete tower, apart from the hardy thrift that grows in the cracks outside. I’d like to see the wildflowers from your coast. The supply boat comes again next week – I’ll look out for your envelope.
Today the sea is flat and shining like polished steel. I saw a pod of dolphins at dawn, heading north. Do they pass your cliffs too? I imagine them tracing the same currents you study.
With shared sea-watching, Laura
---
10th November
Dear Laura,
They do! The dolphins, I mean. A pod came through yesterday afternoon, very purposeful, heading your general direction. I always wonder where they’re going with such intent. Your letter arrived the same day – good timing on their part, or perhaps they’re in your employ as aquatic postmen.
I’m glad the aster has some company with your thrift. The cliffs here are thick with sea pink at the moment, tough little bursts of colour in the rock crevices. I’ve pressed a few for you, though they’re more modest than the aster.
Your description of the lighthouse during the gale was vivid. I could almost hear the tower groaning. My cottage feels rather flimsy in comparison, though it’s withstood many a winter storm. There’s a particular scent that comes with those gales, isn’t there? Not just salt, but something deeper, like the ocean floor itself is exhaling. It clings to my jacket for days.
The data I’m collecting at the moment is trying to predict how these cliffs will change over the next decade. It’s a strange feeling, charting the slow disappearance of the very ground beneath my feet. Some days it feels like I’m writing an obituary for the coastline. Other days, it’s a privilege to witness its resilience, the way it adapts and endures. I suppose your lighthouse stands as a testament to that same resilience.
Do you ever feel like a guardian of more than just the light? Sometimes, watching the beam sweep across the water, it feels like I’m keeping watch over the sea itself, over all the unseen life teeming beneath the surface.
Yours, in shared guardianship, Cortez
17th November
Dear Cortez,
Aquatic postmen! I rather like that idea. Perhaps the dolphins carry messages in little oilskin pouches, delivering them to lighthouses and cliff-top cottages. I shall keep an eye out for any tell-tale bulges under their fins.
The sea pinks arrived safely, thank you. They’re a lovely splash of colour, like tiny pink stars against the grey stone of my windowsill. I’ve put them next to the sea aster. They make a good pair, your Irish flowers and my Scottish ones.