Jonny McCambridge: Chasing rainbows and Rathlin’s Writer’s Chair

‘Ooooh!’ I say, louder than I intended. I look at my son who is rolling his eyes and shaking his head.

‘And you’ll see the seals on the beach.’

‘Ooooh!’ I respond again.

‘And the puffins at the bird sanctuary.’

‘Ooooh!’ I look again at my son, but he is now standing some distance away and seems to be pretending that he belongs to another family.

‘That’ll be £3.80 for the water, mate.’

‘Ooo … what? Ah right, here you go then.’

Soon, we are on the ferry heading towards Rathlin Island, part of our family holiday on the north coast.

It is a sad fact that I can’t step foot on any seafaring vessel without being invaded by the persona of Captain Jack Aubrey from the ‘Master and Commander’ film. While the other passengers huddle from the rain in the shelter, I prowl the deck defiantly with the wind and spray in my face, staring wistfully out at the waves. I look to see if there is a mast I can climb, but it’s not that sort of ship.

My son approaches.

‘Daddy, will you let me know if you see any dolphins?’

‘Ahoy, I’ll take the starboard watch midshipman, you look sharp there at the mizzen!’

He walks away without saying anything.

We reach Rathlin without seeing any dolphins. I’m glad to set foot on the pier as I’m feeling a little seasick.

Next, we encounter one of the island’s less celebrated historical treasures; a genuine working 14th century minibus. The ancient bus rattles and puffs as it crawls around the winding island road. The coastal scenery is stunning.

We disembark and trek the coastal path down to the western lighthouse and the viewing point for the magnificent seabird colony. It is a kaleidoscope of noise, movement and colour with hundreds of birds swooping majestically or perched dramatically on the cliff edges.

A member of staff from the centre gives me a pair of binoculars and points out a nest of baby birds which are learning to fly. I look through the goggles and see my own eyelashes and what seems to be my left thumbnail. I nod appreciatively.

The staff member starts to tell me that names of all the species of birds that are here today.

‘Which ones are the puffins?’ I ask.

‘Oh, they left a few weeks ago. They are all far out at sea now.’

The bus takes us back towards the centre of the island, letting us off at a beach so we can spot the seals.

My wife, son and I stand for some time gazing into the sea. It is my son who says it first.

‘I can’t see any seals.’

‘Hang on,’ I respond. ‘Give it a minute.’

Then I see something. A dark object is bobbing up and down on the tide.

‘Look!’ I say, pointing excitedly. ‘Is that a seal?’

My wife squints her eyes.

‘I think it might be an old Lucozade bottle.’

We walk slowly back towards the port, kicking pebbles along the grey beach. Unexpectedly, we see a large and imposing granite throne on the shore. My first thought is that it must be a leftover relic from the popular HBO series ‘Game of Chairs’.

My son runs to inspect it. He turns excitedly towards me.

‘Daddy, it’s called The Writer’s Chair! You’re a writer, you have to sit on it!’

I smile modestly. It may be the case that some people think of me as a writer of renown, but I couldn’t really comment on that. I sit upon my throne and it becomes me remarkably well. There is a Seamus Heaney quote above my head. I begin to feel the muse flowing through my veins and cannot help but compose a poem.

‘Let’s go on holiday, suggested the writer.

Nothing is more cleansing than the coastal night air.

It will make my temperament substantially brighter.

But a week in the hotel made his wallet much lighter.

When he saw the bill his eyes, they went whiter.

And a fry every morning made his belt much tighter.’

Hmmm, I think to myself. I’ll have to polish it at home.

My son goes to the back of the throne.

‘Look daddy! It has the names of all the writers who have sat on the chair. Do you think your name will be here?’

‘Uh, probably not buddy. I think the engraver might be off sick today.’

Undeterred, he starts to read the names aloud. But my name is not there. He looks confused for a moment, even troubled. Then his face clears.

‘I know what it is daddy! It must just be good writers who get their name on the chair.’

‘Yes,’ I say through gritted teeth. ‘That must be what it is buddy.’

We are back on the ferry. Return journeys are always more subdued. I can’t even raise much gusto with my Captain Jack impression. My promise to my son that he would see dolphins, puffins and seals remains unfulfilled. I wonder what he will remember from the day.

I stand at the railings watching the island become smaller. The clouds have parted, and the sun is making the surface of the tide glisten. But it is also raining, and I am getting soaked once more.

Then I see it. I call excitedly for my wife and son. A small and beautiful rainbow has appeared at the side of the ferry and seems to be chasing us across the surface of the water.

A crowd quickly joins me and soon the phenomenon is being recorded on a dozen phones. I stare at the rainbow, which is perfect in formation. I have never seen one so close before and it feels as if I could reach my hand right into the middle of the spectrum of light and colour. Usually, we never see the end of the rainbow, but this one is dancing on the foam of the sea, right in front of our eyes.

‘That is beautiful … magical,’ my wife says to me.

And it is. It really is.