In this sublime reminiscence of the pleasure of solitude, the wonders of
the sea, and the odd courses life takes, Peter Hill writes, In 1973 I
worked as a lighthouse keeper on three islands off the west coast of
Scotland. Before taking the job I didn't really think through what a
lighthouse keeper actually did. I was attracted by the romantic notion
of sitting on a rock, writing haikus and dashing off the occasional
watercolour. The light itself didn't seem important: it might have been
some weird coastal decoration, like candles on a Christmas tree,
intended to bring cheer to those living in the more remote parts of the
country. Hill learned quickly, though, of the centuries-old mechanics of
the lighthouse, of the life-and-death necessity of its luminescence to
seafarers, and of the great and unlikely friendships formed out of
routine. With his head filled with Hendrix, Kerouac, and the war in
Vietnam, Hill shared cups of tea and close quarters with salty
lighthouse keepers of an entirely different generation. The stories they
told and idiosyncrasies they exhibited came to define a summer Hill has
memorialized with great wit and a disarmingly affectionate style.