I know nothing about Bonnybank Road. I’ve never even been there. I’ve seen the sign but that’s all. I’ve never stopped the car and got out and even when I’ve been in a death march on foot back to the cabin over the so-called “Link” I’ve been stone cold on going down that road and it’s because I don’t’ know what’s down there and I’m scared. I guess that makes me a coward.
I haven’t had the guts to go down that road, to wander off like a lost animal and it just happens to be down Bonnybank Road. Into the mystery. Maybe it’s simply because I know it can’t be too far down there and my adventure will be over in five minutes and then what do I do? I’ll really feel lost.
What that means is I continue intrigued by what I see as the possibilities in Bonnybank Road. It’s a mystery if it’s a mystery to you, right? That doesn’t mean it’s a mystery to everyone. It’s just a mystery to you, specifically you, because you don’t know. And you wonder if you should because it’s good to know things. It’s also good to not know things. That’s all I’m trying to say.
And the fun part is you just haven’t realized what others most likely already have, that there’s no big mystery. What’s to mystery here? It’s just a short little leafy road disappearing down a slope. And there’s stuff down there. There must be. Things just build up in the brain. I’ll get down there some day. I know I will. Maybe I’ve already been down there and forgot. Did you ever think about that!
Bonnybank Road and how it got that name. The bonny, bonny bank. Och, it’s a wee bonny thing that bank, lassies and laddies. A thing of beauty and so it is.
It’s a bank thing. Sliding down the bank. Robbing the bank. The bank, the slope, the downward and ever decreasing elevation of this bonny bank to the what? To the water. The placid, mesmerizing water. What conceivable reason could there be for calling it what it is if it isn’t bonny at all?
It wouldn’t be called “Bonnybank” if it’s no bonny, Jackie. There has to be a reason it’s not called Uglybank Road or something. Calling something bonny when it’s not is like, say, spitting in Sir Walter Scott’s face. And he wouldn’t like that. If he was around. Anymore than anybody else. So let’s get serious.
And then I did that. I put my back into it and, thinking hard although it was painful, as it always is, came up with the mystery memory that yes, yes, yes. I have been down Bonnybank Road. It was in the long ago. It was. I was prompted to remember by an associate here at the site who in her usual clever way disinterred some ancient images I’ve been carrying around up here in my cranium for years. Decades. Right.
These images, these memories, could only be generated by my actually having been, in real time, in the midst of the bonny, bonny reaches of Bonnybank Road. These images, I won’t call them visions, we’ll save those for another column, absolutely could not have been realized anywhere else on this fair isle. Because every place is unique, right?
I can see clearly now. I went down Bonnybank Road and was looking down from the road. The tide was low exposing rocks and mud. There were a couple of boats and boatsheds and boat launching runways looking like they’d been there about a thousand years like evidence of some lost civilization. How could I forget that? What a world.
The vegetation has grown and therefore somewhat changed the appearance of the Bonnybank Road of today and that’s what’s thrown me off for so long because it didn’t look quite the same back then. Those days are over. Today, at last, I’m back in the know and feel pretty good about the situation, not that it’s much of a situation. But you make of things what you can. That’s the road of resourcefulness and I’m happy to be on it.