The Isle of Skye is, actually, not an island after all. They built an ugly concrete bridge to connect the mainland to the tiny speck of pristine beauty, and the residents had the prestige of living on a wee little isle taken away from them in one fell swoop before they could even scratch their heads and ask what, exactly, tourists were.
I was staying in Broadford for two nights, and walked through the town in about two minutes. Right, I thought, now what am I going to do?
Because it was cold and raining, and because my hostel had amazing views over the bay onto the mountains, I decided to join the throng of guests in the warm living room, all immersed in Harry Potter, to finish the book off for myself.
It was interesteing that something as simple as a good story had excited the world. After all, there are good stories everywhere, millions of them, and I wondered whether it was MTV’s E News telling the public they ‘had to know what happened to Harry’, that made them pick up a book, or whether the world was sick of reality shows and too-close-to-home war epics that created the need for a little magic in their lives.
Regardless, from the raptured attention the Inverness tour guide had when he re-told ancient tales that had been passed down from generation to generation over hundreds of years, it was clear that the art of, and wisdom in, telling a good story is one that is dissappearing fast. I only hope that there won’t be day where the last thing all children do before they fall asleep is turn off the XBox – that they will fall into dreams to the ending of a good story, that they themselves may pass down from generation to generation, to put a little magic in someone else’s life.
-Sarah
Sarah