As the orange rays of dawn caresses my granite surface, I wonder how many times this has happened since 1830. I am Tarbat Ness, a Scottish lighthouse. My duty is to guide the ships in Moray Firth and the North Sea beyond. As my light clicks off, I drift into the quiet of the sun filled day. I think of many of those events which have occurred since I was built. It is impossible for me to remember all the wild and ugly storms which have abused my exterior. Sensational things come easily to mind like in 1915 when two dark red bands were painted around my tall white tower making me not only one of the tallest lighthouses in the system but very unique. The single most horrifying incident was the earth quake which vibrated my entire frame and clattered my windows.

One day some workman came and began disconnecting my system. While a "temporary" light guided the ships, they spent a long time destroying my engine room and ripping out my wiring. They replaced my powerful generators with batteries. In place of the long pulley which hangs down the center of my spiral staircase, something located far from here started notifying the light when to shine through my brilliant sealed beam lamp. The day they left one of the workers proudly announced "Well, another one is automated."

I think I could have endured these physical changes. Then my three keepers and their families left. A truck came and took all their things from the houses surrounding my base. The next day in the midst of a terrible storm I saw all of the families lingering half way down the path to the car park staring back at me. They remained there for a long time in silence enduring cold drenching rain. Turning slowly they shuffled down the lane to their cars and left. Every day I wait for them to return.

I took so much for granted. So many valuable segments of my day left with those families. The echo of the keeper's steps as they climbed to the top of the tower to adjust the light. The children as they shouted and played in the yard far below. Their beautiful red and yellow kite which soared many times to touch the windows surrounding my lens. The keeper's wife pinning brightly colored clothes on the line and the flapping in the wind as they dried. The big yellow dog, Stephenson, who barked constantly as he ran in crazy circles, even though he made muddy paw prints on the pristine base of my tower.

Every day my light comes on at dusk and shuts off at dawn. The nights are bearable because I am employed in warning the ships in the dark dangerous sea. With the dawn I settle into another day of yearning to see a keeper's familiar car come bouncing up the road. I fill the waiting hours watching the farmers in the distant fields bale barley straw. As some gulls circle my top I remember fondly the dog chasing his tail. I dream of seeing the families and even that bothersome dog run up the lane. They have been gone so long now I am afraid they will never return. I await some thing or someone to come and fill the emptiness.

Recently a man came and put a sign on the gate. A few days later a strange car came up the road and stopped. A family which included a big black dog, not resembling Stevenson at all, got out. Grabbing bags from the trunk, they walked quickly up the lane and into one of the houses. Could this be the new keeper? A short time later another car arrived and two women with some boxes hastened into another house.

Maybe they sent two sets of keepers? When a van arrived with many children and a lady, who moved into the third house, I was perplexed. For seven days the yard was once again bustling with people and laughter. Echoing up from below I hear, "Tarbet Ness is the best holiday I have ever had." Bewildered, in addition to being a lighthouse, I have become a "holiday", whatever that is? I don't object, what matters is I am no longer alone.