Erraid life

Tag: adventure

  • 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.

    • 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.

    • Arrival and knitwear

      View from number 3

      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.