Wildflowers for the Lighthouse
With stubborn hope and thrift-pink thoughts, Laura
15th April
Dear Cortez,
I’m starting to think that perhaps my letters aren’t reaching you. Or perhaps you’ve moved on, found new connections in your new life, and our correspondence has faded from your mind like a half-remembered dream. I understand if that’s the case. Life moves on, people change, new horizons beckon. But I can’t quite bring myself to stop writing, to let the connection fade entirely. It feels too much like giving up, like letting the sea win.
The puffins are back in full force now, their burrows dotted all over the cliffs. The air is filled with their comical cries, a constant background noise to my days. I’ve grown rather fond of them, silly creatures though they are. They’re a reminder that life goes on, even in the most unlikely of places.
I hope this letter finds you, Cortez. I hope you’re well and thriving in your new home. And I hope, even if it’s just a faint hope, that I’ll hear from you again someday.
With a stubborn heart and a puffin’s perseverance, Laura
---
[Email printout, dated 28th April]
To: elara.hayes@skellaglighthouse.co.uk From: finn.o’sullivan@marinescience.co.nz Subject: Re: Long overdue reply
Dear Laura,
I’m so sorry for the radio silence. Your emails have been piling up in my inbox, but I’ve been absolutely swamped with the move and settling into the new job. It’s been a whirlwind, and I’ve barely had time to think, let alone write proper letters.
New Zealand is incredible – the landscapes, the wildlife, the sheer scale of the place. But it’s also been a huge adjustment, and I’m still finding my feet. I promise I’ll write a proper letter soon, with all the details. But I didn’t want to leave you hanging any longer.
I’ve been thinking of you and Skellag often. Hope all is well there.
More soon, Cortez
12th May
Dear Laura,
I’m sitting here on the deck of my new house, looking out over the Tasman Sea. The sun is just starting to set, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink. The air smells different here – a mix of salt and something earthy, something uniquely New Zealand. It’s not the smell of home, not yet, but it’s starting to feel familiar.
I’ve been wanting to write this letter for a while now, to properly introduce you to my new life here. It’s been a whirlwind few months, full of new experiences and challenges. The work is fascinating – the tidal patterns here are so different from the Irish coast, and there’s so much to learn. But it’s also been exhausting at times, and I’ve missed our correspondence more than I can say.
I’ve been thinking a lot about your letters, about your descriptions of Skellag and the lighthouse. They’ve been a real source of comfort to me, a reminder of the quiet beauty of the familiar. I hope my emails have been reaching you – I know I haven’t been as diligent about writing as I should have been.
I’m sending a small package along with this letter – some seeds of New Zealand flax. It’s a tough, resilient plant that grows all along the coast here. It can withstand the salt spray and the wind, and it clings to the cliffs with a stubborn determination. It reminded me of you, and of the thrift you wrote about in your letter. I thought you might like to plant some on Skellag, a little piece of New Zealand to keep you company.
I don’t know when I’ll be back in Europe, but I hope it won’t be too long. And when I do come back, I’d like to meet you in person, if you’d be willing. I’d like to see Skellag through your eyes, to experience the island and the lighthouse that I’ve come to know so well through your letters.
Until then, I’ll keep writing, and I’ll keep thinking of you, my friend across the sea.
With warm regards and hopes for the future, Cortez
---
20th May
Dear Cortez,
Your letter arrived today, along with the package of flax seeds. I’ve been sitting with them in the palm of my hand, imagining them growing tall and strong on the cliffs of Skellag, a little piece of your new home taking root in my old one. It’s a lovely thought, and a touching gesture. Thank you.
I’m glad to hear that you’re settling in, that the work is fascinating and the landscapes are incredible. I can only imagine how different it must be, how much there must be to discover. I hope you’ll keep sharing it with me, in your letters and your emails. I want to see New Zealand through your eyes, just as you want to see Skellag through mine.
The thought of meeting in person one day – it’s a lovely one. A little daunting, perhaps, after all this time of knowing each other only through words on a page. But lovely all the same. I’d like that, Cortez. I’d like to shake your hand and look into your eyes and say, “So you’re the marine biologist who stole my heart with a pressed sea aster.”
I’m enclosing a pressed sea aster with this letter, a little piece of Skellag to keep you company in New Zealand. I picked it this morning, from the patch that grows just below the lighthouse. It’s a hardy little thing, that sea aster. It clings to the cliffs no matter what the sea throws at it. It reminds me of you, and of me, and of the connection we’ve built across all these miles.
I’m also sending a voice memo I recorded this morning, of the dawn chorus from the lighthouse. It’s a sound I think you’d appreciate – the gulls and the kittiwakes and the puffins, all greeting the sun in their own raucous way. It’s not as dramatic as your storm recording, but it’s a little piece of my world, all the same.
[Transcript of voice memo: 1 minute 22 seconds]
[Sound of seabirds calling and the distant crash of waves]
Laura: Cortez, it’s Laura. I’m standing on the lighthouse gallery, looking out over the sea. The sun is just coming up, painting the water in shades of gold and pink. The birds are going wild – you can probably hear them in the background. It’s a beautiful morning, the kind that makes you glad to be alive.
[Pause]
Laura: I’ve been thinking about your letter, about the flax seeds and the idea of meeting in person one day. It’s a nice thought, isn’t it? Something to look forward to, something to keep us going through the long months of separation.
[Sound of a gull calling loudly]
Laura: That’s Gerald, one of the resident gulls. He’s always the loudest one in the morning chorus. I think he’s showing off for the ladies.
[Pause]
Laura: Anyway, I just wanted to share this moment with you, Cortez. To let you hear the sound of Skellag waking up. I hope it brings a smile to your face, wherever you are.
[Sound of seabirds and waves continues for a few more seconds before the memo ends]
---
28th May
Dear Laura,
Your package arrived today, safe and sound. The sea aster is beautiful – a little piece of Skellag, bright and resilient. I’ve pressed it between the pages of my journal, a reminder of you and the island. And the dawn chorus – it’s wonderful. I’ve listened to it three times already. It’s so different from the morning sounds here, and yet somehow familiar all the same. It’s the sound of the sea, the sound of life persisting in the face of the wild.
Thank you, Laura. For the sea aster, for the dawn chorus, for being my friend across the sea. I’ll treasure them both, and I’ll look forward to the day when I can hear that chorus in person, with you by my side.
Until then, I’ll keep writing, and I’ll keep hoping.
With gratitude and affection, Cortez
---
20th June
Dear Cortez,
I planted the flax seeds today, in a sheltered spot just below the lighthouse. The earth was cool and damp, and the smell of the sea was strong in the air. I’ve marked the spot with a little cairn of stones, so I can watch for the first green shoots to appear. It feels like a promise, somehow. A promise of new growth, of resilience, of connections that persist across the miles.
I hope your sea aster is still safe between the pages of your journal. I like to think of it there, a little splash of purple among all your scientific notes and observations. A reminder that there’s beauty in the world, even in the midst of all the data and the measurements.
The days are long now, the sun lingering in the sky until late in the evening. The sea is a deep, clear blue, and the air is warm and soft. It’s my favorite time of year on Skellag, when the island feels alive and vibrant, full of promise and potential.
I hope this letter finds you well, Cortez. I hope your work is going smoothly, and that New Zealand is starting to feel like home. And I hope you’re still thinking of Skellag, and of me, as I think of you.
With warm regards and high hopes, Laura