Tales Of Dogger Island

May 20th (Welcome to Dogger Island!)

May 20th
Today marks the beginning of my journey to Dogger Island, a place I've only read about in old nautical maps and whispered tales. As the ferry cut through the choppy waters of the North Sea, I couldn't help but feel a mix of excitement and trepidation. What awaits me on this remote island, I wonder?

The island emerged from the mist like a ghostly apparition, its rugged coastline and solitary lighthouse beckoning me closer. I couldn't help but marvel at the sheer isolation of this place, far removed from the hustle and bustle of mainland life.

But it's not just the solitude that draws me here. I've been offered a unique opportunity to serve as the assistant keeper at the lighthouse while I work on my novel. The idea of immersing myself in the daily rhythms of life on the island, while also pursuing my passion for writing, fills me with a sense of purpose and excitement.

As the ferry docked in the quaint harbor of Dogger Island, I felt a sense of anticipation wash over me. What secrets does this small town hold? What stories lie waiting to be uncovered? Only time will tell, but I'm ready to embrace the unknown and embark on this new chapter of my life.

With journal in hand and curiosity as my compass, I step onto the shores of Dogger Island, ready to unravel its mysteries, lend a hand at the lighthouse, and perhaps find the inspiration I've been searching for.

When I arrived at the dock, there was a man waiting for me. He cut a striking figure against the backdrop of the sea, his tall, muscular frame exuding an air of strength and resilience. His weather-beaten face spoke of a life spent battling the elements, and the lines etched into his features told stories of storms weathered and seas conquered. His name is Angus MacLeod.

He greeted me with a curt nod, the hint of a smile playing at the corners of his lips as he took in my bewildered expression. Without a word, he shouldered my luggage and gestured for me to follow. As we walked, I couldn't help but notice the respectful nods and murmurs of acknowledgement from passersby, a silent testament to the man's standing within the community.

Despite his imposing appearance, there was a kindness in his eyes that put me at ease. And when he finally spoke, his voice was gruff but gentle, carrying with it the weight of years spent navigating these waters.

"Apologies frea the lack o' transportation'," MacLeod said, his Scottish accent punctuated by the rhythmic puffing of his wooden pipe.

I shrugged, offering a smile to match his easy going demeanor. "I don't mind," I replied. And truly, I didn't. There was something charmingly quaint about the absence of cars on the island. As we walked, I couldn't help but notice the lack of vehicles lining the streets. Save for a couple of pickup trucks with "Rent a Truck'' emblazoned on the doors, the roads were mostly empty. Instead, people went about their business on foot, pedaling bicycles with small trailers attached, or trotting along in horse-drawn buggies.

The scene reminded me of something I'd heard about in America, a town that had famously resisted the transition to automobiles. Michigan, if memory serves me right. It was as if Dogger Island had taken a page from their book, embracing a simpler way of life that felt refreshingly unhurried and in tune with the rhythms of nature. And as we continued our journey towards the lighthouse, I couldn't help but feel a sense of kinship with this island community, bound together by tradition and a shared appreciation for life's simpler pleasures.

We walked along the road from the port and through the fog. It was both mysterious and haunting but also peaceful. MacLeod didn't speak much during' the trip. Once in a while, he pointed something out.

"That there is Old MacDonald's farm. Aye, that MacDonald, frae the sang. No, not the fast food chain. He raises everything frae sheep tae pigs, coos, chickens, an' rabbuts. Ye asked it, he has it. Some o' the best meat the North Sea can offer." I looked off into the distance as the shadow of a farmhouse loomed atop a distant hill. The smell of cow patties filled the air with their earthy aroma. I didn't hate it but I also didn't like it. We continued walking in silence for a while longer.