Touring along the A1.
It was 2029 on the radio.
Our memories were as long as our hair had been. Patchouli whispered to our tie-dyed thoughts and we smiled as the miles fell away.
The car, a bright red Traveller, was old like us but well maintained. Oil topped up. Water filled. No-one really saw us I don't think.
The roads zoomed past like our lives unspooling. Soon we were in Scotland.
Findhorn was not too far away.
Driving driving. North.
We spoke of youthful dreams. Of communal hopes. Of koinonian peace. Of the beautiful Seventies, when we were young and in love and beautiful too.
The lobster fishing villages crawled by, the little trawlers bobbing on the blue, the east coast zagging like an arrow pointing to ...
We arrived at the Bay, a silver pool salt-kissing the roots of handsome pines. Seagulls shrieked a welcome as we glided by. It looked like Canada we said even though we'd never been.
We sauntered hand in hand around the town, past holidaymakers who didn't notice and meandered out to the commune, copies of Undercurrents blowing past us dated '79, "new members welcomed" it read underlined.
I turned to my lovely Wife and said "We're here baby, we've arrived at last!"
"Yes. Can you believe it my love. Findhorn. After all." she whispered back.
Each picking up a large shell we listened to the sound of the seven seas. It spoke of homecomings, of eternal love and unending sweeps of time and space.
We lay on the beach clutching those shells to our ears, microphones for things beyond our lives in Heaven. We tried to reach....
"Will we ever come back?"
"I hope so dear."
No-one saw us lying there on the shingle that night. We were driftwood snagged in the eddies. We vanished along with the day's castles like skinks of light.
Far away in Yorkshire our children lit two candles on our graves.
They illuminated the words they'd carefully chosen ten years before when we'd crashed in Scotland to the day.
"Mum and Dad, our beloved, hand in hand in far-off Heaven.
May you get to find your Findhorn along the way"