The Green Flash

The Green Flash

Hello again, dear reader!  Welcome to April and the lovely, comforting pleasures of Springtime – so badly needed at this difficult time of the coronavirus pandemic.  I hope that you are well and safe.


I am especially glad to be able to contact you, after more than a week without Broadband.  Nobody seemed to be able to find what the problem was, despite all the patient, gallant efforts of the friendly EE employees in Plymouth and Darlington to find out why my new router kept on flashing yellow instead of remaining a steady aqua blue!  The problem was finally solved by Lindsay, the local Openreach engineer, when he discovered that I had wonky fibre-optic ports in the green cabinet in nearby East Road.  (Have I got the correct technical terms?!) Anyway, I am so grateful to be able to send you my new blog post: The Green Flash!


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The question which my French friend Suzanne wrote above this photo seems relevant at this unexplored new time of the coronavirus:  'But what can I see on the horizon?'

"Well, nothing!" could be the answer at present!  How strange it is not to be able to guess what lies ahead of us, nor follow our former daily routines, nor plan ahead for social gatherings, nor even know if we will safely survive this pandemic. 

Suzanne had sent me several other photos, taken when she and her husband Raymond Claude spent a few days with me in Prestwick.  She had attached this one to the back of the envelope.  It was taken a few miles south of Prestwick, at the mouth of the River Doon where it meets the Firth of Clyde - a very popular spot for all kinds of birds, including families of swans and cygnets.  As I have my back to the sea, I was probably gazing upstream, in search of the cygnets, the resident heron or the elusive kingfishers ( my favourites.)

The little white streaks behind me are probably wisps of cloud above the south end of the island of Arran. Every summer evening when the sun is setting behind the mountainous north end of the island, people come to the seafront to watch it go down.  They leave only after the very last second, when the final vestige of the bright rays has disappeared, leaving a lovely orange-red glow.

Many years ago, when I was twenty, the tears came into my eyes at the memory of that beautiful scene.  I was standing alone on the shore of a little French fishing village on the Atlantic coast.  It was the first day of my nine-month term as English language assistant at two of the small local schools.  I had been given one of the empty houses used by summer visitors, so had to adjust to living entirely on my own.  As I stared at the empty horizon, knowing that there was no land between this shore and America, I was overcome with homesickness for the Ayrshire coast and the familiar outline of Arran!

But now, back to Suzanne's photograph...  When I tried to remove the sticky sellotape I only succeeded in making my image look very scruffy, with strange white blotches on my right arm and around my left ear.  The short sleeve of my seersucker blouse looks ragged - and as for my right elbow...! It seems to have grown a kind of brush, or, at best, to have a weird reflection!

Fortunately I have in my living room a much more respectable photograph, showing my sister Freda, brother-in-law Brian and myself in our finery! - at dinner during our cruise to the Faroe Islands.  That morning Brian had noticed a book beside one of our fellow passengers: The Green Flash by John Buchan.  When he asked what the title meant, the reader told us that it refers to a natural phenomenon.  Just as the sun is setting below the sea, the very top of its rays turns bright green, and, for only a second, gives a green flash before disappearing completely.  We were intrigued, because we had never seen this happen. I had often watched the sun setting behind Arran - but that was behind the mountains, not below the sea.

There was a porthole beside our table.  That evening Brian noticed that the sun was about to set below the horizon.  "Quick, Kathleen!" he exclaimed, "Come and look!"  I immediately got up and hurried over to stand behind him.  We gazed out over the vast expanse of water.  By this time we were on our way from Shetland to the Faroes.  No land blocked our view of the horizon.  As we watched the sun slowly sink I was suddenly aware, to my amusement, that we had been joined by several curious passengers who didn't seem to know why we were staring at the porthole, but didn't want to miss out on anything of interest! 

 Slowly, slowly the lowest rays moved down below the horizon, then suddenly, with a bright green FLASH! lasting only one second, the sun completely disappeared.  We were all thrilled to have witnessed this remarkable phenomenon, and returned happily to our dinner tables.

Now, years later, in the present strange, unwelcome circumstances, I am 'self-isolating' because of my 'advanced age'.  But a new green flash is bringing me great pleasure.  It comes whenever someone is trying to contact me on my little mobile phone! and  I thank God for all my kind family and friends. 

Deo gratias