In the community, Wednesday is an off-schedule day.
It’s a chance for those staying a week to visit Iona and for residents to do more domestic things. For me, it means getting my stuff onto the island. There are some bags and boxes of things in Mum’s attic, and the ever-dependable Yaris drives up the rest of what I possess. It is parked at Knockvologan, a 20-minute hike off the island, over the beach, and up a few fields. There are neap tides, so the beach is walkable pretty much all the time. Wellies are still good as it’s damp peat getting off the beach.
I drive round to Fidden, past the campsite and farm. The lambs have no sense of the green cross code, so I learn quickly to have a foot close to the brake pedal. Stopping opposite the street and next to the small concrete jetty, I wait. I have messaged Magnus,but there has been no reply.
Remembering that some of the plastic from the front passenger side wheel arch is dragging on the ground, I decide to do some repairs, given the toolkit is handy. A small hole drilled, a cable tie inserted and everything seems much less hangy-offy.
Two figures make their way onto the quayside on Erraid and descend into the small wooden boat fitted with an outboard. The water is choppy as the wind is up. The boat makes a wide arc before finishing its 5-minute journey in the calm of the inlet. Anna-Martine drops the fenders and Magnus ties it steady. They were expecting I’d shopped for some essentials but I hadn’t as I thought they were not needed. I promise to buy what I can carry later.
Leaving them to drop my stuff in the boathouse, I drive to Ardanalish Woolen mill, a place I have fantasized about since my first trip 2 months ago. A wide, empty beach looking out to Jura leaves me sitting in the car for a few minutes, soft gazing.There is the sound of mechanical looms at work, like the industrial revolution must have sounded when multiplied exponentially. I head straight for the shop. I explain that I am the newest recruit on Erraid; the woman knows it well and nods as she smiles. Her speech is soft and clear. She is has island calm and is easy to warm to. I tell her I know what I’m here for. The jumpers are uniformly folded and stacked. There are 12 in total. She says, ‘ try as many as you can because they are all slightly different shapes.’ I tell her I can’t be trusted with light colours, so the cream ones are left. I settle on a charcoal one; the neck roll not too tight, the arms plenty long enough for my gibbonish limbs and the torso extending well below the belt line. It is slightly scratchy and still smells strongly of sheep. They leave some lanolin in which means they are partially waterproof. Wearing it feels like I’m being hugged. The money I am paying (comfortably more than I have ever paid for any item of clothing) doesn’t elicit guilt. These people are crafters and care deeply about what they do. They dye their wool with plants found on the island. All the wool is from Mull sheep, the weavers are trained on site and are young people with a love of the process. I will probably be a frequent visitor as this is a popular stop-off for Erraid guests. I guess I could propose a commission deal but really, I’m not that kind of person and they don’t seem like it either but I do think a reciprocal situation will happen quite naturally… somehow.
Taking it for a test run on Ardanalish beach among the granite rocks with hairy fruticose lichen growing on them, I sit on a bare rock and watch the small terrier waves being pestered by the wind.
I feel a gentle glow inside. The breeze is brisk but I am warm at the core. A strange sense of safety lingers up the track to the car.
Back at Finneport I hone in on another target, Creel seafood cart, to pop my scallop cherry. I can’t believe it’s taken 52 years. 4 huge battered balls nestle atop an ample portion of skin-on, thin-cut chips. I’m a huge fan of batter but was left feeling I would have liked to nibble it all off, take them home and pan fry them with some lemon and whatever else you put on scallops so I can taste them in all their undress.
Parking up back at Knockvologan I heft my rucksack with the milk, eggs and butter and start back, passing fat, fluffy white lambs and their oblivious mothers, past industrious oyster catchers, past Judy’s cottage and back to number 7.
Erraid life 