We pick up treasures, me and the kids. We stuff them in our pockets (to be found days or seasons later), or carry them in soft palms, flipping them over and over. “Can you carry this for me, mum?” the kids say, and I almost always do (except the biggest rocks), because if it is a treasure to them then it is important.

Treasures are subjective.  My son likes bits-of-crab, bones, specific stones, sea glass.  My daughter squirrels bits of broken shell away like they are precious jewels. I pick up snail shells and colourful twists of beach-rope and worn-smooth pottery and occasional driftwood (if it has paint flecks on it).  The discovery of a treasure is shared with the family: look! Come and see! And we all go to see.

Out the corner of my eye I see my son making his way across the beach to me, hand slightly outstretched, and I know he is bringing me a find to inspect. Finding something that you know will be treasure to another is to present a love token. They bring me snail shells: I feel loved. I find the bits and bobs they like: I love them. We enter into each other’s worlds through our treasures.

Ross does not beach-comb. Ross is a minimalist in a household of magpies. But on our first Christmas as parents, Ross bought me a treasure chest.  It is a blue wooden box on coffee table legs.  The box is divided into rectangular sections of various sizes. It has a glass lid top. The treasure chest smells of wood and wonder.  It is one of the best things I have ever been given. Ross does not collect treasures; but he gave me a place to keep the curiosities I find with our kids.  He loves me! 

In the blue treasure chest we have: two nests, antlers, a jawbone and teeth, tiny bird bones collected on our front doorstep, butterfly wings, acorns, a woodpecker feather, countless stones, and many other things. And it is in the blue treasure chest that I keep my collection of snail shells.  This morning, we took all the snail shells out and lined them up in one long line, in a queue, and counted them.  We have 487.  Infinite combinations of shapes and sizes and colours.  All collected since June 2022 when Murdo was three years old and brought 11 snail shells home from an evening walk in the orchard. I so clearly remember him holding them in his small warm hands, determined that they wouldn’t spill out, hurrying footsteps into the house to show daddy.  His pride in his small treasures was enormous.  My heart was bursting with the sweetness of the evening sunshine and the small boy and the baby asleep on my chest and the perfect spiral of a snail shell. Ever since I have collected snail shells whenever I find one.

Our Tiree treasures have been added to the treasure chest. I sometimes pop a wee note in to explain to our future selves “Bones Murdo found on Tiree, July 2026”.  The treasure chest is a scrapbook we keep. Each item placed is a record of a place we have been and a memory laid down. Evidence that we were here, we were there, we gathered and noticed and wondered at the tiny things in this beautiful world.