Duncan Harley

I am happy to report that Man March is much improved today. His mistreatment by those savages has left mental scars no doubt but his physical wounds were in fact minor. In fact, other than a fractured septum and some facial scratches he is generally fine and has even managed to exhibit what I can only take to be a smile. I must now attend to his broader education and, having begun to address his linguistic skills via a crash course in English as a foreign language, have also decided to educate him more widely with a view to developing his skills in critical thinking, analysis, clear writing, and some sustained but vital reflection on important philosophical problems, both contemporary and perennial, concerned with ethics, metaphysics, epistemology, language, logic, the natural and core social sciences, politics, aesthetics, and religion to name but a very few. To start with, I have set him a philosophical problem which few, if indeed any, European thinkers have been able...

Following the unfortunate parrot shooting, Man March and I have this day made our way around the headland where the wreck of my ship, or what lies left of it, sits broken upon the reef. The captain’s lifeless body – once strapped firmly to the aft-mast, has long been consigned to the deep and even the soggy remnants of the ship’s dog have been consumed by that unforgiving Pacific Ocean. I think his name was Rufus – the dog, not the captain and certainly not the ocean, but I am not entirely sure. Shipwrecks naturally have a habit of emptying both the mind and - dare I say it, the bladder. But unless you once experience them first hand, most of you my good readers, might doubt this as a fact and attribute my scribbles to some delusion brought on by some pandemic panic or other. Nonetheless, Man March and I today combed the foreshore in the hope of finding more in the way of handy tools and provisions with which to enhance our chances of survival. Perhaps some oranges, even a grapef...

Words and images by Duncan Harley with additional reporting by April McGinty Some 43 years after his death, the studio once inhabited by Aberdeenshire artist James Cairns is at risk of collapse. The largely forgotten painter spent his later life transforming the old coastguard cottage at Buckie into a place of colour, scent and spiritual rebirth. He named the place Parody in the Sands and a local charity – The Cairns Poppies Initiative, has been tasked with preserving his heritage. Born in 1921, James’s artistic career was blighted by his association with both the scions of London gang life and an unfortunate alignment with an emerging National Socialist Party.   Having travelled to Austria in 1938 as part of a Friendship Through Strength international youth initiative funded by the Boy Scout Association of Silesia, he attended several Nazi youth rallies and was present at an early Nuremburg Rally where both Hitler and Goering addressed an admiring crowd. He was later t...

Molly the parrot finally and irretrievably signed her death warrant today with her rendering of yet another unwarranted and unwanted joke and I must warn you that this is quite the most terrible parrot joke I have ever had the displeasure to stumble across on this deserted and god forsaken island. Even my new companion Man March seemed pleased at my action despite the fact that - at least as far as I am aware, he understands little or nothing about either the English language or syntax: ‘Squawk. After more than 40 years of marriage, a woman’s husband suddenly dies. Squawk Squawk For several months she sat alone in her house with the shades pulled and the doors locked. Finally she decided she needed to do something about her situation. The loneliness was killing her. Squawk Squawk. Squawk Squawk. She remembered that her husband had a friend who owned a nice pet store — a pet might be good company. So, Squawk Squawk, she dropped in one afternoon to look over the pet selection. S...

I t is as I suspected. Today is almost certainly not Friday and yesterday was not Thursday. In fact, it was all a lurid dream brought on no doubt by remnants of that fever from which I am now mainly recovered. Or at least I think I am. And now of course, my priorities have changed. I am intent on taking to the sea again and am determined to return to my native Largo come what may. Meantime personal survival must be my focus. Alongside my need for potable water I will need a supply of meat to provide sustenance while I plan my escape from this island. And I now realise that the shooting of the feral goat was at best a jerk reaction and I now regret not having tamed and fattened the angry beast before firing that fatal shot. The corpse was at best thin and stringy. The meat was tough and my scurvy made chewing difficult. In short, the goat was not up to expectations. But since all now done and dusted, I cannot now make amends for my miscalculation other than to vow that next time...

When I awoke today at first light my fever had completely and miraculously vanished and, despite the rigours of the past few days, I felt able to eat and drink a little from my meagre store of salvaged provisions which consist mainly of a damaged water barrel and some soggy ships biscuits. The water however tasted brackish and even the parrot declined to take more than a beak full of wet biscuit. We must find more sustenance and soon! Also, in the cold light of day, I have decided that Gertrude is not a good name for a parrot and will henceforth address her, if indeed she is a she, as Molly. Quite what made me consider calling her Gertrude eludes me now that I am clearer in thought and I can only assume that it was down to my fevered state of mind. Mid-morning, I again scoured the beach for salvage and was pleasantly surprised to stumble upon an intact timber box containing what must surely be the first mates set of engraved pistols. Undamaged and complete with both flints and le...

It is now some three days since our ship ran onto that reef and I have become more accepting of the new situation. Later in the week I intend to visit the wreck in the hope of finding both victuals and perhaps a few more tools with which to secure my continuing survival. In short, I am feeling more positive - if such a thing is possible. And I feel much more hopeful regarding a return to some form of normality. That is, if such a thing is indeed possible given the quite extraordinary events of the past few days. The footprint in the sand continues to trouble me but I have, yet again, concluded that further investigation will have to wait at least until the back-end of the week. The hallucinations, which I thought had ended on day two, continue big-time and alongside shades of the Virgin Mary I am now seeing images of other long dead saints including the mysterious  Black Madonna. I obviously am quiet fevered and imagine that this may be the cause of this insanity. Soaked ...

Today I resisted the urge to return to the shipwreck, which still lies firmly on the reef just some hundred yards offshore. To say that I lacked the energy for the trip would not be completely accurate since in truth, the beach is littered with the washed-up remains of my fellow shipmates and through the lens of my telescope I was able to spot the shattered body of the ship’s captain still lashed to the foremast alongside the limp form of the ships dog. I confess I found this sight to be too much for my already overwhelmed senses and will hold off until the ghastly remains are claimed by the sea before venturing out to salvage what little remains on-board. In any case, there is ample treasure to salvage onshore. A washed-up wooden chest revealed a still dry supply of gun-powder and a tea-chest from the ships hold contained both an ample supply of flour and sufficient yeast to make a sourdough starter. Both items will I think aid my chances of survival. That is of course shoul...

This fending for oneself in a tropical paradise is one thing, but I now need to keep track of time before it runs out or indeed, I go utterly and completely bonkers. For this purpose, I have erected a driftwood timber cross at the north end of the island to record the date of my arrival on this foreign shore. I will, if I am able, cut a single notch each day so as to record the passing of time prior to my rescue from this ghastly place of solitude. Today, in the absence of both bread and meat, I feasted on fermented coconuts. There is an abundance of them on the foreshore. In fact, so many that if one were not careful, they might well prove fatal since if one was to suffer even a glancing blow from a falling fruit, death might well result. Oddly, there is a warning sign advising of the danger. I may have eaten too many of them however since I imagined in my sleep that the Virgin Mary had delivered me from both this place and that my original sins – the gathering of slaves, were...

Eager for slave labour I foolishly embarked on a slave gathering voyage and now find myself shipwrecked and alone on a deserted island off the coast of Trinidad. It seems that I am the sole survivor of the venture and I must now seek both sustenance and shelter in this strange and foreign land. The wreck has so far yielded both gunpowder and food plus some fragments of timber from which I have constructed a rudimentary shelter. There was also a rifle and some barrels of rum. Both of which I shall put to good use. The island is quite lush but deserted and providentially has both water and goats in abundance. Fortunately, my journal floated ashore amongst the wreckage and over the coming days of isolation I am intent on recording my lonely struggle. I may well have been hallucinating, but I swear I saw a parrot amongst the treetops … this must surely be a good omen. Duncan Harley is a writer and blogger living in the Garioch. His books are available from Amazon. Just ...