Erraid life

Category: Uncategorized

  • A night out

    Every year a group of teachers from the mainland come to Mull and give workshops to the kids. Subjects include traditional music and dance. We had heard that some of them would be at the Bunessan Inn this evening, so we thought we’d pop along. It has been noted that we are long overdue a community outing, and that this would be a perfect opportunity to eat some deep-fried food and build connections with the wider community.

    Of course, as regular readers will know by now, popping down to the pub involves checking the WillyWeather app to see how high the tide is, so we can actually get off the island and back on again at roughly the times we want. The last two outings have ended with boots, socks and trousers off, wading through thigh-high, punishingly cold sea to get back home. Tonight looks more benign, save for the gale-force easterly wind.

    Two of my Christmas presents make life easier when making the trip from the street, across the narrows and up to the minibus at Knockvologan. First, the head torch (thanks, daughters!) turns pitch black into what looks like a slightly overcast day. Others cower back into the darkness when I turn to talk to them, such is the power I now possess. Not great for conversation, but excellent for avoiding the boot-devouring bogs that punctuate our route. Second, my new waterproof coat (thanks, Mum!). This bright, 1980s, orange-squash-coloured item (a colour described by a close neighbour as horrific) is totally waterproof. Not a light-shower-in-the-Cotswolds waterproof, but a barrage-of-seawater-on-a-commercial-fishing-vessel waterproof: nothing gets through. It is also completely windproof, which is more pertinent tonight.

    We reach the minibus and there is real concern that the hinges of the doors might rupture, so we hold them steady as we climb in. There is a collective sigh now that we are out of the wind, and we change from our wellies into our civilian trainers and shoes. Bunessan is about twenty minutes away and, unusually, we don’t have a list of things to do on the way, so we just drive straight there. As always, I am the designated driver, as no one else can drive or get insurance for the bus. Slightly frustrating at times, but cheaper.

    The Bunessan Inn is, apparently, 300 years old and was frequented by Dr Johnson and James Boswell when they were trying to track down some decent whisky. The website says they failed in their endeavour, as all the good stuff had been drunk two days earlier at the funeral of a popular local chap. That’s the story the Bunessan folk tell, and they are sticking to it.

    It has a more modern feel on entering. There is an open fire in the smaller bar, but when you walk through the portal you are transported into the 21st century — or at least the late 20th. The dining area might feel familiar to those who visit relatives in retirement homes. However, to the rear, the modest bar area is dominated by two oversized Tennents taps, and beyond that is the pool table and darts board that provide some of the only live sport south of the Mull Rugby Club in Craignure. After being served a pint — and, not to labour the point, but for general H&S information, my only pint — we are shown to our table. We talk about holding hands and blessing the meal but decide that, despite it being common practice on Erraid, and having watched The Wicker Man last week, we will simply raise a glass to being around a different table together.

    The battered haddock is the size of my forearm with my hand extended. The chips are chunky, though not especially crispy. It’s clear that the normal clientele may chat and pick around certain garnishes and relishes, but we fall to with little talk and great focus. When we have finished, the middle-aged waitress says something I haven’t heard since my teenage years around the table at Nana’s house: “It’s so lovely to see nice clean plates.” Indeed, everyone has eaten every last morsel. The token side salads are gone and even the sauce bowls look as though they have been licked clean. The sticky toffee pudding for afters (a “nice clean plate” being a prerequisite for pudding at Nana’s) is dispatched in similar fashion.

    The music starts with an accordion and grows into a modest gig with a keyboard, a couple of fiddles and a snare drum. These look and sound like locals, not the polished professionals from the mainland. Once someone remarks that all the tunes sound like the theme to Captain Pugwash, I can’t hear anything else. Archie tells me there are bagpipes on the floor next to one of the players, which I can’t see due to the large pillar obscuring my view. Ten minutes later, halfway through an anecdote about an Australian cane toad, there is a sharp pain in my left ear, like the start of a migraine. My suspicions are confirmed: the bagpipe is an outdoor instrument.

    It’s great to realise that we are slowly building up a group of friends who live and work on the Ross of Mull. Some we know through work they have done on Erraid, others through community events. I’ve never been one for networking, but I understand that here it is how things get done and how people connect socially.

    There is a graph somewhere that depicts how much time it takes a certain number of people to leave a pub while having to say goodbye to a certain number of other people, possibly taking into account alcohol consumed. Being the driver, I have leverage here and, after five minutes of milling around waiting, I stride purposefully towards the exit. The message is clear. I swing out of the car park and someone mentions that Archie is still inside. I do the old pulling-off trick when he approaches, which amuses the slightly intoxicated passengers.

    Back at Knockvologan, the wind has dropped and it is a pleasant walk back onto the island, with minimal wading. We are all back in our snug little cottages by eleven, which is a late one for us.

  • Rubbish

    Getting rubbish off the island, especially when doing renovations, is a time‑consuming business. There are decades’ worth of things that ‘could come in handy’ on Erraid. The purge we are undertaking is for those things that obviously haven’t come in handy for at least 20 years: old fishing tackle, knackered creels, rope, ripped life jackets, rugs, underlay and bathroom tiles. To get rid of it all, we have to wait for a low spring tide, load everything onto a tractor, and drive it across to the other side of the estuary, where the minibus waits to be stuffed to the gills. Last time we needed a lot of stuff taken to the tip, we paid someone to do it. Today, we are experimenting with the economy of doing it ourselves.

    It’s 8.30am. We boat over to the bus. The sea is choppy and we risk enduring the whole trip with wet trousers. We shuffle to the back of the boat, which gives us just enough lift at the front to ride the waves.

    It’s a one hour and fifty minute trip up to the Tobermory recycling centre. Armed with Archie, Marianne and a Bluetooth speaker, I set off, stopping at Miek and Rutger’s place so they can load a sink and toilet into the back and save themselves a trip. Inside, the minibus smells of foetid undergrowth where aerobic respiration has clearly faltered, so despite the biting cold, the windows are open. I remember that, despite my best efforts, the two outer rear tyres are looking flattish, so we stop at Robin’s garage to see if he can put some air in them and to fill up with fuel. As an old local once said to me, you should treat a half‑full tank as empty around here.

    Robin has a compressor, but only a front‑on nozzle attachment. I need a 90‑degree nozzle, so Archie is tasked with putting five minutes’ work in with the foot pump. Neither of us is convinced it’s making any difference. Robin then uses a customer’s car to power our very short‑cabled mini‑compressor, but stops after a few minutes as he doesn’t want to blow a fuse on a car that’s there for something entirely unrelated. We nod and see his point. I’m sanguine about completing our task anyway, as there are dual tyres on the back. I still stop at the garage in Craignure to see if they can take a look. They tell me to come back in the afternoon, once we’re done up north.

    The Mull Chocolate Shop is open—a rare treat. I’ve been wanting one of their millionaire shortbreads for four months and six days, but they are always shut. Too often with such confections, the caramel is right and the chocolate has a satisfying bite, but it all sits on a terrible bed of floury, dry shortbread that collapses onto the floor after the first nibble. Not this stuff. It has a real snap to it, is slightly bronzed, and you can feel the butter that holds it all together gently melting as it goes down.

    We pop into the Craignure charity shop, which always has cheerful older staff waiting with a smile. They are stocked mostly by people dropping off things they no longer need at the end of their holiday, just before getting on the Oban ferry, which you can see pulling in through the glass front door. The good thing about this shop is that they don’t look things up online to see if they’re ‘designer’. Nor do they check labels to see what material an item is made from. This means that a jumper—any jumper—is five quid. A T‑shirt is three, and books are one. This reintroduces the possibility of finding a genuine bargain, a pleasure sadly gone from the charity shops of the Cotswolds, where everything is picked over before display and priced so that, if you do find something decent, it is deflatingly expensive.

    The latest hits

    Our next stop is the commercial timber pier at Fishnish. I’ve been tipped off that a client has failed to collect a stack of logs and that they might be available. The chap I spoke to said they’ve been sitting there a while, so I want to check whether I’m about to buy 100 tonnes of rotten wood or beautifully seasoned fuel. There’s nobody around to ask which particular stack it is, so I wander about under the large cranes and make an educated guess based on colour. Timber, like most things, has doubled in price over the last few years, but it’s still much cheaper than relying solely on mains electricity. We use a mixture of both.

    We finally make it to the tip. We have all sorts of stuff and want to put the right things in the right skips. I tap on the window of the office cabin and disturb what appears to be the only member of staff. With his cerebral palsy slur and strong accent, he’s very difficult to understand. ‘So it all goes in that one?’ I ask, with some surprise. ‘Aye,’ he replies, already on his way back to his station. We try to be more discerning anyway, separating wood and metal.

    A chap pulls up in an estate car and two energetic Labradors bolt out. The somewhat obvious, but nonetheless enjoyable, conversation ensues about whether he’s come to leave the dogs at the tip. ‘It won’t be long if they keep eating the lounge and shitting on the shag‑pile rugs!’

    Fortunately, the reward for doing the tip run is the Mull Cheese Farm, a quarter of a mile down the road. Unfortunately, like many things on the island, most of it is mothballed for the winter and only a small selection is available in the already modest shop. Still, it’s a beautiful place, and one we’ll return to when the tourist season is in full swing.

    Tobermory offers a similar experience. Most shops are shut. The obligatory beach sauna stands frigid at the back of the car park. The gaily coloured frontages of the high street don’t quite compensate for the fact that we can’t get a bag of chips for lunch. The pub is open, however, and the Slovenian barman pours pints and takes food orders while a scattering of patrons either sit pensively toying with beer mats or passively engage with a tennis tournament from a former Soviet republic playing on the large TV screen.

    We pop into Browns, which is a real treat. Remember those hardware stores that used to sell everything, before being taken over by such hideous things as Wilko and Home Bargains? Browns sells, in no particular order, hard liquor, ballcocks, tea strainers, referees’ whistles, dog jackets, laminators, binoculars, snooker cue chalk and ham. Sadly, it doesn’t stock fuel‑hose connectors for small outboard motors, which is what I went in for.

    The return journey is punctuated by a one‑and‑a‑half‑hour stop in Craignure to get the tyres fixed. It’s hard to fill this kind of time, as everything apart from the Spar is shut. We do several circuits of the aisles and buy unnecessary food items purely to pass the time.

    Back on the road, we do a quick calculation and realise we’ll get back to Knockvologan at exactly high tide. Having parked up and done up every available button on our coats against the wind, we guide ourselves by the dim light of our phone torches down to the narrows. We take off our boots, socks and trousers and wade into the dark sea. It reaches halfway up my underwear before I make land on the other side. No worries, though. Within twenty minutes we’re home, lighting fires and getting dry and warm again.

    • What’s it all about?

      Living in community is a funny thing. We’ve done it, in various ways, for thousands of years. Nearly all of pre-industrial life was spent in small towns or villages where everyone knew each other. Having a shared purpose was a given — getting the harvest in, building barns and houses, raising plants and kids. It was all an effort that went well beyond the scope of the nuclear family.

      On Erraid it has been no different. The houses we live in were built for lighthouse keepers and their families. A single street of seven houses, plus community rooms, makes it easy to see and meet everyone as they go about their daily chores: collecting peat, gathering seaweed for the garden, tending plants, children, and livestock.

      Before the street, there were crofters eking out a living from the sodden earth and rich sea. Long before that, people lived in wattle and daub huts — those who, for whatever reason, had chosen to make this gnarly and beautiful island their home. Some may have been pushed to the edges of their known world by ruthless landlords or invaders. However they arrived, the sharp bite of island life — and what it entails — would have been felt.

      It has always been a logistical challenge to live here. The enduring question is: how much food can we produce on the island? The limitations of access haven’t changed in modern times. The tides are still the same, and they dictate when we can drive the tractor over to the mainland to deposit rubbish and pick up supplies.

      A few months back, when the tractor stalled in the middle of the estuary on an incoming tide, if it had been a horse, a few slaps on the backside might have sufficed.

      As if to illustrate the point further, the tractor packed up again yesterday — and this time it’s nothing we can fix. The “just contact your nearest dealer” option doesn’t really fly around here. It’s far better to have built up a local network of people who can do the things we can’t.

      In practical terms, this means we’re now wheelbarrowing loads of logs up to the houses and kitchen. If this becomes a long-term issue, we’ll use all the wood we’ve cut on the island with no way of getting more from the other side of the estuary, where logs are usually delivered. We also can’t collect seaweed for the garden, or remove rubbish and recycling. The need for inter-sufficiency, rather than self-sufficiency, is paramount. We’re going to need help — one way or another.

      Coming back to the broader question of why we’ve all found ourselves here: what is our direction of travel, individually?

      Like those who came before us, are we moving away from something — or someone? Trying to put physical or psychological distance between ourselves and parts of our old lives? Or are we moving towards something, drawn by novelty and perceived possibility? Has the island offered us a new blueprint to play with in its wild surrounds?

      These questions matter because our fears, judgements, and projections inevitably arrive with us. When the only human habitation is a small row of cottages, there aren’t many places to hide them. We see this with guests who imagine their troubles will have stayed behind in the house they left. What many discover instead is that their troubles have not only travelled with them — they stopped for a double espresso on the way and arrived ready to party.

      The island shows you exactly where you are: with yourself, and therefore with others. It’s confrontational, and it demands accountability. There is a special time when this is magnified five-fold — when everyone is knackered.

      The five of us have been plate-spinning since August. A few plates have dropped from their poles and smashed on the rocks, but most we’ve managed to keep going. Then, a few weeks ago, guest season ended. For the first time, we could take the plates down and really look at their designs.

      All the team-building work we’d planned to do back in July — when we first met each other — but didn’t, came hurtling towards us and slapped us around the face like a giant mackerel. Simmering resentments surfaced. Questions emerged: who was doing how much work? Why do some people socialise in the evenings (good) and others don’t (bad)? Are people here long-term or short-term? Why does one person seem to ignore another in group discussions?

      No outright accusations — just questions. When a fuel tank is almost empty, it drags gritty petrol into the engine in an effort to keep going.

      We were all a bit on edge when Fabio arrived. His visit had been arranged for us, not by us, and we were sceptical about the kind of help he was offering. We thought we needed fairly direct conflict resolution; his focus seemed to be more on operational systems.

      But the sign of a good facilitator is economy — and Fabio had it by the truckload. After a brief introduction, he invited us to talk about why we were here and what we wanted to achieve. It was like magic. With a few tricks, a lot of Post-it notes, and some semantic sleight of hand, he had us eagerly discussing shared dreams and challenges. And just like that, the rancour and tetchiness of the previous weeks evaporated within twenty minutes.

      After three days, Fabio went on his way (despite our threats of kidnap). We did some great work on mission and vision statements, though I remain scarred by two decades of INSET days in schools. I’ve opened too many cupboards looking for a stapler, only to be knocked flat by dusty piles of Post-its and flip-chart paper covered in mission statements written in red pen, surrounded by hearts and stars that never saw daylight again.

      What we’ve taken on is big, and still largely undefined. We all need to go away and have a quiet conversation with ourselves and ask: are you up for it? And in answering that question, it’s worth remembering that we may have considerably more choice than mos who came before us.

    • A quiet stop over

      A lovely Cotswold scene

      I had such a good time over the Christmas holidays. Three weeks of merry-making with friends and family left me revitalised and reminded me how lucky I am to be able to return to such riches.

      Among the old friends that came to visit was my continuing inability to moderate food and drink intake. Now, I’m not about to dive into the still-warm soup of January contrition. I was, however, looking forward to taking leave of such temptations and returning to the simple pleasures of island life on Erraid… with a night’s stopover in Glasgow.

      The idea was simple: find the Airbnb, have a shower, and collapse into what would hopefully be a comfy bed, maybe even with a TV.

      It was 5 pm and dark when I turned off the M8 into the city. Maps was behaving well and my eyes were smarting from seven hours behind the wheel. Turning into the road of my accommodation, it struck me as odd that, considering there were only eight houses to be seen among the medium-sized industrial units, I was looking for number 92.

      Doubling back, I drove more slowly up the poorly lit street, eventually identifying number 92 as one half of a large Georgian semi. Its looks belied its immediate environment. A wooden swing seat stood in front of the freshly painted white exterior, which almost glowed when the sensor light tripped. As if looking at a parasitic Siamese twin, I then noticed that the other half of the building had no upstairs windows, chipboard downstairs, and a metal grate for a front door.

      I also observed that, for a largely industrial street, there were few parking spots available. Finding one a few minutes’ walk from the Airbnb, I left my rucksack in the care of the rear-tinted windows of my car and sashayed back along the already freezing pavement.

      A large wooden Buddha smiled at me as I walked in, and the smell of curry leaves and coconut wafted from somewhere towards the rear. My room was huge, with a nice firm bed, fridge, kettle, and separate seating area—not bad for £36.

      Before collapsing onto the longed-for bed, I drew back the curtains to close the window, which was slightly ajar. It was then that I saw it. One street away, looming high and floodlit in the damp, frozen early evening, was Ibrox Stadium, home of Glasgow Rangers Football Club.

      Funny things happen to me when I am close to large stadiums. I get very excited and start to imagine what it must be like to be inside, with a full crowd cheering and singing away. Adrenaline starts to flow. But this was a Tuesday night—an unlikely evening for a match. Or so I thought.

      A man and his son sporting football scarves walked briskly along the street. Already feeling a weird sense of inevitability, I lowered myself into one of the faux-leather chairs provided and looked up the BBC Sport football fixtures page: Rangers v Aberdeen, 8 pm.

      What could be the harm in having half an hour’s rest and then wandering down just to soak up the atmosphere? I didn’t even manage that. More excited than I realised, I found myself putting my boots back on straight away and heading out the door.

      A police motorcyclist cruised past as I turned the corner. Already, at 5.30 pm, hundreds of supporters were standing in the chilly street chatting away. I made my way to where the buildings opened out, and there was the stadium, with its illuminated insignia and lovely old red-brick main stand.

      Before I knew what I was doing, I sidled over to an aged steward and asked if, in general terms—and for no specific purpose—Rangers sold tickets at the stadium on match days. (Not something you can do at Torino FC, as I found out a year or two ago.) The steward answered in the affirmative, and I was heading in the direction specified when I was stopped by two chaps who asked if I could take their photo.

      They were from Austria and were on a football holiday, starting with Rangers and finishing in Newcastle the following evening. Of course, they had a spare ticket.

      Such serendipitous occasions need to be celebrated, so we made our way to the Louden Bar—a bar which, for good reason, had no windows. On entering, it felt like being inside a massive Rangers shirt in a few different ways. Benny, Paul, and I chatted over popular ’80s hits and continued our conversation by shouting when various unionist anthems came on at double volume.

      The lively Louden bar

      It was one of those moments where one has to decide whether to silently mouth something that looks like the lyrics or to just carry on talking and hope that one’s continued presence is not contingent on knowing the chorus.

      After a couple of pints and handshakes all round, Benny and Paul went to soak up the pre-match atmosphere inside the ground.

      I decided to see what knowledge I could glean from the locals about the very mixed fortunes of their beloved club in recent years, which included going out of business entirely in 2012 and having to start again at the bottom of the Scottish league system.

      After an amiable but short exchange with an elderly season-ticket holder, I put my pint down on a table at the edge of the room and was greeted by a chirpy, slight, grinning woman.

      “A-right?”

      Jeanette introduced me to Davey, her stocky husband wearing a short-sleeved Rangers shirt, and Alan, their friend of over 400 matches. As soon as I confessed that I’d never been to Ibrox before, Alan immediately went to the bar and came back with another vodka Irn-Bru for Jeanette and a Tennent’s for Davey and me.

      This carried on for a while. Friends came to say hi. I was introduced to all of them. Two bought me pints, and all of them wished me a great evening and hoped that I would come back. I got the sense they really meant it.

      About twenty minutes before kick-off, we parted. I was told in no uncertain terms that I was to call them if I was ever up that way again.

      Moving towards the main stand in the throng, I was reminded that Ibrox is an alcohol-free stadium. They have got around this by building the biggest bar I’ve ever seen right next to the ground—essentially, a beer stadium.

      The game itself was a tepid affair, which Rangers won 2–0. I was disappointed to discover they had sold out of macaroni pies at half-time.

      My energy crashing fast, I left a couple of minutes before the final whistle. I managed to circumnavigate the stadium completely before finding my road and was very happy after that to capitulate into bed.

      At 1:13 am I was woken by a very loud, very close noise I couldn’t place. I lay there, too tired to get up and have a look, and instead tried to imagine what it could be.

      Was someone attempting to machine-gun the alphabet into a piece of corrugated iron? Perhaps a flange of baboons were fighting over one of those bass drums you get in marching bands. Or could it be that there were, after all, occasional residents in the dilapidated shell next door?

      Seeming to answer this question, the next time I woke was to the sound of someone being horribly, horribly ill on the street below my window at 6.30 am.

      I took this as my alarm call, had a quick shower, packed, skated over the ice past the IRA graffiti, found the nearest place serving coffee, and headed for Oban, for Erraid, and for a wee bit of calm.

    • Deluge

      ‘Water, water everywhere,
      And all the boards did shrink,
      Water, water everywhere,
      Nor any drop to drink.’
      — The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, Coleridge

      There are new streams on either side of the road from Fionnphort to Knockvologan. They were not there yesterday and have sprung into life in mere hours. The tarred surface seems now more causeway than road. Ponds sit afresh on the fields by the sea. Even the sandy soil cannot drain away this much water. The grey geese are enjoying this new wonderland, sitting proudly afloat as if to confirm their decision to forgo their migration, full of risk and energy.

      Dark skies over Fionnphort

      Since the early morning there has been driving drizzle from the east that has saturated Mull and Erraid. The sky is a single sheet of grey that squeezes the tiny fleas of moisture, sending them jumping and skittering amongst each other until they finally settle on the ground — in the fleeces of sheep, on the flight feathers of angry storks, on the roofs of the scattered dwellings that ring the bay, and on the hoods and trousers of those who must be out. From all these places and more they gather strength and force, joining with countless others to charge down the hillsides, finding crevices from previous storms and forging new channels and thoroughfares — the quicker to make it to sea level. Pipes that run under the roads are nearly at capacity.

      It hasn’t felt like a downpour of any great magnitude, but the sheer thickness and persistence of the squally, misty rain has penetrated deep into the ground and worked its way up through the peaty marshes, unable to reach the sea quickly enough. The thick gravel on the surface leading up to Fidden Farm has been parted in several neat channels and now runs clear into the middle of the road. The hard standing where our wheelie bins sit is submerged, and the hut that serves as our post box is perilously close to being overrun.

      We’ve walked up to where the car is parked by Glen and Rachel’s place and are soaked through — or rather, I am. My standard-issue Cotswold outdoor attire is no match for this weather. The brook where the watercress grows is surging so much that much of it has been dislodged. As we walk up the field before the single-track road, four sheep are stood in front of a rocky outcrop looking dejected — like an unsigned goth band on a photoshoot for their first single. I change from my wellies into my hiking boots to drive and, while my trousers cling damply to my legs, I’m happy to be inside.

      I am taking the car for its MOT. There is a worrying clanking coming from underneath, and the salty spray from the ocean is playing havoc with the metal. I drive an hour to Craignure and leave it with a young mechanic who appears to be an elective mute. By way of nods and raised eyebrows, I trust that the message about letting me know how much it’s going to cost before doing anything has landed.

      In the sun, Craignure is not the kind of place that holds much attraction for those looking to linger and relax. In driving rain, there is instead an urgency to leave — to return to where I started an hour and a half ago.

      It is an unexpected pleasure to sit in a coach for the return journey. I can enjoy the remarkable scenery without fear of driving off the single-track road. Shortly after leaving the village we enter the valley that stretches for twenty miles. I am free now to gaze at the cascades that run off the high hills in silver ribbons — the seemingly vertical plunge of stormwater from the peaks of Ben More that eventually comes to rest in the three lochs, or in Loch Beg. Further on, heading through the valley towards the Ross, and looking over to the right — with Lunga and Staffa a way off — the sheer cliffs of the Berg are so steep that the water flows straight into thin air for a while before being blown back onto the rock face.

      All the while the road is filling up, and I’m glad that I’m on the coach, with its big wheels and high chassis. What is less appealing is the prospect of having to hike from Fionnphort to Knockvologan. However, after stopping off at the ferry café for a leisurely lunch of a toasted cheese and ham sandwich, a slab of chocolate tiffin and a latte, I feel I’m ready for anything.

      Back home, I slew off my clothes and get comfy dry, confident that the trials of this wettest of days hold no other watery surprises. Opening the shutters that I’d forgotten about earlier in my haste to get going I do a double take. Instead of the patio that leads onto the lawn the ducks are enjoying a their new pond.

    • The Sea, The Sea

      We go to sea in a small boat powered by an outboard motor. She’s strictly functional—two boxed metal seats and a closed bow, where a brave soul can perch if they don’t mind getting soaked. She has anchor points with sturdy ropes, like the kind used on ratchet straps, for lifting her out of the water and onto her trailer.

      Oranja, our winter boat, is made of aluminium. She’s a little more skittish on the water than her summer cousin, Reliance, who’s built from reinforced fibreglass. It’s unusually calm for mid-October, so we’ve taken the chance to set the creels for the final time this season. We take a wide arc around the west side of Erraid, into the Iona Sound. The creels are sited where the water is deep but close to land, so care is needed—swiftness and accuracy with the buoy hook are essential. Once the rope is gathered, the hook goes back into the boat and the arduous task of pulling the creel from the seabed begins. It takes about 30 seconds, and the hardest part is hefting the creel over the edge and into the boat.

      This time, there’s a surprise waiting for us—a very angry moray eel thrashing about. These creatures can easily bite through a hedging glove and do not let go once they have a good hold. It’s always a bit nervy opening a creel when there are crabs inside, but this is several levels higher on the nervy chart. I tilt it back over the side as far as I dare, unhook the catch, and shake vigorously. Luckily, it slides back into the depths straight away, though the whites of its eyes stay with us for a while longer.

      After three more creels, we have a good number of velvet crabs—excellent for making bisque. All the lobsters are too small and go back, though we keep one large brown crab. Out of six creels, we can only find four. They don’t just disappear; someone must have removed them. There’s a local fisherman with a reputation for this sort of thing. He’s taken umbrage at the hobbyist, amateur fishing we’re doing, as it seems to interfere with his professional enterprise. When one Erradian accidentally began pulling up one of his creels, the man happened to be nearby and threatened to kill the poor soul who’d made the mistake.

      We venture out into more open water. Two other small vessels are checking creels, one belonging to our tetchy neighbour. We give him a wide berth and turn to head back when we notice an unusual disturbance ahead. Binoculars in hand, I train them on the area and spot a school of about fifteen dolphins. We head straight for them, and after a moment—probably hearing the motor—they head straight for us. Common dolphins, with short beaks and dark blue backs fading to pale white tummies, they swim alongside us, crisscrossing in front of our bow. When they breach, the older ones have nicks in their dorsal fins, while the youngsters are unblemished. They swim so close we can hear them talking to each other in clicks and squeaks. We play together for perhaps fifteen minutes before they head off to investigate a larger boat that likely has by-catch overboard.

      Once we’re sure the dolphins have truly left the area, we settle in for a bit of mackerel fishing in hopes of a tasty dinner. It’s the definition of hit-and-miss. Sometimes there’s nothing at all, but this time, within seconds of the line going in, there’s a tug and three wriggling captives are landed. Their shimmering blue-green markings catch the late afternoon sun. We try a couple of different spots and stop when we have ten—enough to share with the rest of the community, to eat fresh or perhaps to smoke.

      I’m still new to boating on the high seas and get a tremendous thrill out of it. I’ve always had good sea legs, and I’m beginning to learn the coastlines, the dangerous rocks, and the navigation points that guide you safely around the island. I like being back on land again too! I realise I use a lot of adrenaline at sea—it’s still a foreign, almost alien environment to me.

      After Oranja is hoisted high in the air by the marine crane on the pier and settled back into her trailer, we hang up our lifejackets in the boathouse and wander, ever so slightly wobbly, back up to the street. A conversation awaits about what to do with the fresh catch.

      The next day finds me, towel in hand, greeting the chickens on the way to my morning swim. Oranja rests quietly, and the crane—itself like a giant seabird—is at peace. I no longer hesitate; it takes an act of will to get in, but it always sets me up for the day. Today, though, I dally. As I begin to descend the metal steps, I notice a face looking back at me from just beyond where the stairs end: a large-nostrilled fellow with big black eyes and a surprised expression. Whiskers fan out to either side, framing a mouth that seems to ask, Are you sure this is a good idea? Mighty chilly, you know!

      Grey seals are having pups now, and some come right into the bay, rolling and chasing each other. I’m sure it wouldn’t have minded me—might even have enjoyed my company—but it was I who shied away, not quite at ease with the idea of swimming alongside such a large beast. I waited a few minutes until it had rejoined its friends on the rocks near Iona before taking my frigid plunge.

      Perhaps tomorrow, the seal and I will share the water—though I doubt it will be impressed by my stroke.

    • Amy

      She arrived on Friday afternoon, whipping the normally dainty waves of the inlet into feisty froth. By 9 p.m. the wind had reached 95 mph, and the power was gone. All Saturday she tore at the gardens and rattled the more fragile gates clean off their hinges. Gaps under doors and in the frames of windows she ruthlessly exploited. Curtains were pulled, and chunky sock-filled snakes were thrown down to mitigate—but they were no match. Water seeped, then dripped freely from behind the chimney of Number 3. The flames in the fireplace danced violently as draughts found every cranny.

      We all crowded into Number 6 and placed lit candles around the room. It looked lovely, and we started chatting away excitedly, as though the pace of the wind had quickened our wits at the end of the day. To be sure, there were nerves too—from those who hadn’t seen the like before. This included me. We went to fetch the generator and watched the fuchsia bushes bent double at sixty degrees. The sunflowers in the kitchen garden had already fallen, as if kicked by a thoughtless lout. Coats slapped our thighs, stinging, and untied hood drawstrings flicked our eyes. No rain at that time, and mild.

      Alas, the cord on the generator dislodged, and with it our hopes of light, hot water, or sanitation. This, we learned smartly, was our introduction to the single-point-failure system we lived with. As the wood stoves heated our water, the water needed to move—otherwise it boiled in the pipes, and without the pump…

      Daylight on Saturday brought sights that could have been much worse, had it not been for the granite walls of the gardens and houses. Two of Judy’s trees at the croft were down, and her son Tom was reportedly spread-eagled on the roof of his house in the middle of the storm, trying to save his new solar panels from flying away. The purple kale and broccoli were flattened, but the polytunnels had come through unscathed. Amy hadn’t finished, though, and all through the day the winds were such that you had to really want or need to be out. Outdoor errands were brief scuttles to the communal kitchen, which became our natural meeting place as it had the only gas cooker on the island. Without any organisation, we coalesced for breakfast; porridge and coffee were made and shared as we reflected that the chances of receiving new guests were nil. Schedules went out of the still-shaking windows.

      We managed to get the generator going, and a timetable was drawn up so it could keep the freezers at temperature and, at other times, pump water for taps and loos. The compost toilets were very handy facilities, and you may never have a fresher comfort break.

      By Monday, Amy was legend, and the two guests who hadn’t cancelled were picked up and settled in. Power returned on Tuesday around 2 a.m. We were all in agreement that it had been a wonderful experience. The intimate softness of candlelight carried us into the evening with calm and sympathy for the dark outside; conversation became more introspective. There was no internet. I found myself habitually checking my phone in a pointless attempt to gain the dopamine hit I craved, before relaxing into a couple of hours with a head torch and The Steep Approach to Garbadale by Iain Banks (the first of his I’d read since being thrilled and terrified by The Wasp Factory in my early twenties).

      When the green light on the router finally came on, I was excited for all the things I’d missed. Had Nottingham Forest sacked another manager? Had people posted photos of things falling down? Granted, a few admin-type things had lapsed and needed attention, but that was all doable.

      Tuesday seemed like a good day to get things back to normal, so I pulled on my swimmers and headed down to the pier for a dip in the brown, soupy sea. I was halted by a power line lying idly on the ground, still connected on its unbroken end to the pylon. The electric company, deciding this was a decent emergency, had it back up within two hours—an amazing feat round our way.

    • A Day in the Life

      I set an alarm for 6:30, make a cup of tea, and read a chapter and lesson of A Course in Miracles. Then I put on my swimmers and fleece—sometimes a waterproof too if it’s cold or wet—and head down to the pier. The chickens are usually still in, but I hear them stirring, muttering to each other. Occasionally, the cockerel proclaims the day.


      Without delay I slip off my Crocs, unzip my tops, and tie them around the rusty rail so the wind doesn’t take them. I do the same with my towel before walking with purpose and poise down the grated metal steps that end in the water. I walk until the weight of the water unbalances me and I have to give way, feeling the shock of briny cold on my upper body most of all.

      If it’s calm, I breaststroke to the buoy and front crawl back—just 100 meters or so. If it’s choppy, I stay within 10 meters of the steps and simply enjoy the elements that bring about the swells and the fast-moving cumulonimbus clouds. Last week I swam out when the wind was whipping the water into small white peaks. As I turned around the buoy, the waves lashed my face and threw me completely. I suddenly felt short of breath, and the way back looked long. Regulating my breath and switching to breaststroke, I made it back—relieved and a little shaken. Lesson learned.

      Received wisdom says you can stay in the water for as many minutes as the degrees of the water. It’s around 12 degrees at the moment, but I wouldn’t fancy spending that long in without a wetsuit. Which reminds me—I found one in a cupboard somewhere on the island. Maybe I should give it a go!

      I’ve turned to porridge for breakfast, rather than its summery cousin, deluxe muesli. I stir in a spoonful of peanut butter and another of jam, shoveling it in while pretending to do admin but really checking the football, mostly. By now it’s 8:30-ish and I’m beginning to feel like contributing to the community, so I might do 30 minutes of log-splitting or mowing before leading the morning meditation at 9.

      Meditation is a short, 15-minute affair with a brief lead-in. After setting the mood and making sure everyone is comfortable, I encourage them to become present and breathe regularly and fully. I read a passage from a book by Eileen Caddy, founder of the Findhorn Institute. It’s a tradition carried over from the last iteration of the Erraid community, though it probably won’t last much longer. I like it, but most of the other residents don’t.

      After meditation we share our plans for the day, and the guests choose what they’d like to help with. There’s always log-splitting. There’s always gardening. Sometimes cooking. Occasionally, John the crofter’s sheep need rounding up. We’ve had to be stricter about tea breaks, as they tended to drift into leisurely, biscuit-fueled conversations that spoiled our lunches—for those of us with the self-discipline of juvenile Labradors.

      Lunch is usually soup and bread, followed by a bit of downtime. It’s important to take this seriously, as the physical nature of the work can lead to real fatigue if not respected. For most of us, it means a noticeable increase in calories burned. For me, there’s also the mental load of on-the-hoof problem solving: water system pressure variations, three-stage cesspit bio-regulation, and so on. What makes this harder is the frequent lack of instructions or any kind of central admin. After a while of scrabbling through lever-arch files, asking around, and phoning past residents who might remember where certain documents are, it sometimes feels like urinating into the gusting Atlantic westerlies.

      In the afternoons, we change things up for variety. With seven people, we can split an impressive amount of logs—one on the machine, one receiving, one stacking, and one feeding unsplit rounds onto the machine. Whole garden beds can be weeded and dressed with compost, seaweed, or, more often these days, sown with cover crops like clover or rye grass. The guests love this. Many remark on how it reminds them they don’t have to struggle alone. Many hands make light work, yes—but they also make light, connected faces and hearts.

      The afternoon meditation is optional, but I like to attend if I’m not cooking or caught up in drains. It helps me mark the rhythm of the day, and I enjoy meditating with others and chatting afterwards while waiting for the dinner bell.Naturally, dinner brings more conversation about the day’s events. Most of the food now comes straight from the garden. Each group of guests brings a different dynamic—some weeks invite deep dives into lives and experiences, other weeks we skim lightly across the surface. As an unspoken rule, we leave politics and current affairs aside; people come here for a break from the noise.

      After dinner, fires are lit. People return to their houses to enjoy the company of their housemates, if they have any, or their own solitude. The nights are drawing in, and from the couch in Number 3 I watch dusk settle over the inlet and the Ross of Mull.

      It’s not unusual for me to be in bed well before 10 with a book—currently Question Number 7 by Richard Flanagan (highly recommend!). If it’s windy, the chimney in my bedroom whistles a little, but an old duvet cover thumb tacked over the retired fireplace softens the sound a notch or two.

      So, I’m extremely nervous about this but I did promise myself I’d do it. As a community member on Erraid I am here on a voluntary basis. There is a small stipend. I also promised myself this would not become a life, however wonderful and nourishing, that would drain me financially. Therefore, if you feel so moved, a small donation to travel costs and the occasional coffee or pint would be warmly received.

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    • Ducks

      Ducks showing genuine interest
      Ducks showing genuine interest

      Ducks. Ducks. I’m happy just saying the word several times to myself when no one’s around. It’s a matter-of-fact–sounding word that reflects well on the animals themselves. I wonder if canard has the same feeling for French people, or Ente for Germans. Perhaps the most satisfyingly onomatopoeic is pata (feminine) and pato (masculine), although the association with pâté is a bit too close.

      The ducks arrived in a cardboard box from the mainland. Someone was just giving them away. Some members of the community were displeased that they were made to sit through a yoga session before the return journey to the island. We hastily rigged up a heat lamp and a small enclosure, placing them gently on the ground where they immediately huddled together under the lamp—their fluffy yellow bodies turning a pinkish red. The urge to go out and start constructing an aquatic wonderland was strong, but all they really need is an upturned bin lid with a bit of water in it so that they can clean and keep parasite-free. The byre, newly free of chickens, felt very big and dark for four small ducklings. It was agreed that they must have access to the outside as soon as practically possible.

      It was at this point that summer break happened and I headed back south for a month. The thing with most ducklings is that they are yellow, and you can’t really tell how they’ll look once they get their adult feathers. So, on my return I was eager to find out what we’d got.

      They had been moved to a paddock all of their own, with a house that used to be the privy for the lighthouse keepers and their families in Victorian times. The grass had been left to grow tall, as John the crofter takes a few bales of hay from it each year. Rubi, Ophelia, and I went on a sort of micro-safari, trying to figure out where in the paddock they might be. Their ducky mutterings gave them away in the end, and we saw them in a flattened clearing just big enough for them. Two had become almost entirely white, one was more speckled, and the other was mainly black; they were only mildly disturbed by our presence. Having made their acquaintance again, we left them in peace. At that point in their development they were just generating low-level, conversational quacks. They are now beginning to practice their adult vocalisations, which can take you by surprise if you’re close by.

      They have taken to parading up and down the street. They enjoy getting into the corners where buildings meet the ground and the grass has grown longer for want of strimming. They shake their beaks furiously, burrowing them into the place where the grass meets soil—where all the bugs and slugs might be hiding. For the past couple of weeks there have been short, fierce downpours throughout the days, and the ducks make the most of the temporary puddles; they are straight in, drinking and cleaning their broad, smooth beaks that are dirty from digging. The sound of four ducks walking towards you through fresh, muddy puddles is a fantastic thing. Beatrix Potter’s description in Jemima Puddle-Duck, “pit-pat-paddle-pat, pit-pat-waddle-pat,” cannot be bettered.

      A meeting of minds
      A meeting of minds

    • It was a day

      like any other. The children, who had been on a visit, were starting their journey home—a trip of some 14 hours. The cat, who had turned up with a lame rear driver’s-side leg the day before, needed to go to the vet, and about 50 litres of solvent-based products that had been cleared from the boat shed and loaded into the minibus had to be disposed of responsibly at the recycling centre.

      We made our way onto the pier with Magnus and Shadow in his crate. Due to offshore storms there were considerable swells, which knocked our usual docking place out of action. Instead, we sailed inland and looked for the one boat ring that had not been used for years and had become as one with its surroundings. Sharp-eyed Rubi spotted it, and we tied on as the fenders tried—but failed—to stop boat meeting rock. Stepping onto wet boulders with full rucksacks and a worried-sounding cat, we shuffled along carefully. When our footing felt unsure, we passed the cat between us.

      Reaching the relative safety of the field up to Knockvologan, we passed the cat around again—its shuffling somehow made it feel heavier. Finally, we arrived at the minibus. I opened the front door and was knocked back by the concentrated cocktail of paint, white spirit, glue, marine grease, and diesel. Luckily, Ophelia needed to sort things out for a few minutes, which gave the bus some much-needed ventilation.

      With windows wide open, we set off. Petrol was low, so we stopped at the only garage for 30 miles. Robin keeps his commercial enterprise like most others on the Ross of Mull: keenly aware of his total lack of competition. Maybe this is why the fuel pumps are held together with a combination of ratchet straps and cable ties. He noticed that a tyre on the back was a bit flat but didn’t have the right attachment for his compressor, so he concluded that we’d be fine until Craignure. By this time, after being stationary for a while, the hum was strong again in the car and the cat had become subdued by the intoxicating effects of the various chemicals on board.

      It was one of those days with flashes of bright sun that lit up the mountains of the interior and their busy gullies.

      I said fond and sad goodbyes to Ophelia and Rubi, and reset the satnav for the vet, another hour away. By this time I had to keep checking on Shadow in case he was slipping into a kind of stupor. The roads were even narrower than the southern ones but less busy, thankfully. Approaching the location of the vet I looked for signage. Of course, this being remote north Mull, the vet worked out of a Luton van behind someone’s house. I had phoned to say we’d be a bit late and hoped Shadow could still be seen. Overwhelmingly glad to be out of the minibus, I was greeted by the loveliest vet, who inquired about our trip. I managed a sheepish grin and handed the patient over.

      It turned out that Shadow, who had been missing for a couple of days, had damaged his sciatic nerve—perhaps trying to extricate himself from a tight spot. He might get better, he might not, but, as the vet said, he has three crutches and a home environment free of aggressors, so a more sedentary life wouldn’t be too bad. Most importantly, he was in no pain. She also remarked that, of all the cats she had seen that day, Shadow was, by a stretch, the calmest. I couldn’t think of anything funny to say that wouldn’t have sounded concerning to someone dedicated to animal welfare.

      After being talked through the anti-inflammatory meds, it was back in the bus and on to the tip. I was told to expect dogged scrutiny by the staff. As I drove in they were leaning on a skip having a chat.
      “You know what you’re doing?” one inquired without moving.
      “Yep,” I replied, whereupon they all left the yard, presumably for lunch.

      Glad to finally be shot of my toxic cargo—apart from the black exterior paint that I couldn’t fully get off the floor—I briefly enjoyed the feeling of orientation and lucidity until I realised it was 3 p.m. and I hadn’t eaten anything all day. Luckily, The Coffee Pot at Salen was there when I most needed it. They even have a 24-hour honesty cake cupboard around the back!

      Then it was just the one-and-three-quarter-hour journey back to Erraid. I had put a blanket over the cat basket and Shadow was, mercifully, at peace.

      The final leg of the journey was no fun at all. Tired of the stop-start nature of single-track roads, I began to resent the mobile homes and the blind spots, the careless sheep, and the beauty I couldn’t properly take in for fear of driving into oblivion.

      But finally, after nearly eight hours, I made it back to Fidden, stopping to pick up 100 kg of chicken feed before meeting the boat again.

      Luckily, there was some cricket on the telly that evening. I retired early, jotting a note to myself: buy a manual tyre pump.