IN THE EVENING, while the girls cooked dinner, Donovan and the boys went down to the pub. A Scottish fellow had hitched in that day with his guitar, and he and Donovan sang a few old ballads together: then Donovan gave his autograph to a girl who was at the pub with her mother. After a few pints, we returned to the house for a delicious macrobiotic dinner.
Following the meal, cups of tea and some cigarettes, we went to the schoolroom. For several hours we immersed ourselves in loud and joyous music. People from the trailers on the hill drifted in and sat down to listen. At half past twelve. Donovan said it was time to quit because the next day was Sunday. We dritted back to our various beds.
Sunday, was a quiet day for sleeping late. Donovan went about fixing an old banjo someone had given him.
He went for Sunday coffee to one of the trailers which had been a circus wagon. It was a beautiful piece of work, lined with mirrors and cabinets. The girl who lived in the caravan made cups of coffee for all of us.
For hours we just sat and talked, sipping coffee. Once in a while Donovan would try out his banjo. He talked of his plans for the community of the garden, of raising chickens at the schoolhouse .... of bringing up movies to show on Sunday nights.
In the evening we went back to the house, and I said goodbye. I and my blue motorcycle rode off past the heather.
After leaving the Isle of Skye I found it difficult to describe the feeling and spirit of those friends. The world seemed filled with streets of people who never really saw each other or touched each other. There was tension and aggression in people's voices and movements. That most people are movements. That most people are lonely collections of frustrations brought home the beauty of Donovan's community where each person is an individual, and yet shares in another person's experiences where each day is a celebration of life.