Virginia Woolf and me

It has been very challenging returning from a trip to London this week, where I spent an intense time spending my tea-shop money and basically, just enjoying myself! I had a week of full-on London-ness meeting friends, going out to the theatre (though really London is a theatre in itself - but I haven't gone to the theatre for ages!), seeing the Pet Shop Boys live (a long-held ambition; but I never expected to see them at a decidedly gay and highly political Prom at the Albert Hall!), swimming at Hampstead Heath Ponds, sitting in cafes, but most importantly, wandering the streets and breathing in London life, grateful for all the wonders of the city and the kindness of strangers.

Coming back here is a lesson in how to be contented - one I am very bad at learning.  Despite the beauty and quiet of the island I know now that I am not an island-dweller by nature; the sense of boundaries enclosing us is strong and the need to explore life in all its many facets is often overwhelming and hard to deal with when the only "way out" is to cycle up a big hill. So much the harder after a week when I could indulge myself by disappearing into a crowd and "sailing" the Tube or overground to a destination only I need know about. Not that I had any secrets - but it satisfies a deep need in me to be able to make my own way to places and think my own thoughts, without worrying about my impact on others or theirs on me.  This is something one always has to bear in mind on Rum; what you feel and think will always have an impact in some way, in your interactions with others and your actions in your own life.  There's no automatic boundary between your private and your public life...

The word "indulge" makes it sound as though being on the mainland or rather, not being on Rum is somehow akin to "spoiling oneself" - sometimes the resilience needed to be here can turn into a kind of pride in adversity and a kind of disapproval of the "ease" of mainland life.  What is true is that living here has given me an inner resilience that nothing can now take away.  I notice my carefreeness about the future compared to my London friends, my lack of worry compared to how I used to be. But the cost has been high.  Coming back gives you perspective on both the good and bad of being here.  I often wish I could be more like Mel and just see things without judging them, but this is something I am still learning to do...

So what is it about being here, what is it I am missing?  It's not just the anonymity - that gets tiring too after a while.  It's not just the Tube or the buses or the swimming pools or the pubs - although naturally I miss all of them.  Those are things that are just symbolic of a bigger thing.  Although cities can be exhausting, lonely and hard places to be - especially when you are poor - they are also full of striving. Striving not only for the next promotion or to increase your "net worth" (my "unword" of the year!), although lots of people do that of course, and not just to survive, although lots of people do that too.  Cities are also full of people striving to make life more joyous; full of people who are playing, as well as people who are working hard, and in many cases it's kind of the same thing.  When you think about the future and when you imagine something good, you have to be playful.  Play means you are doing something aimed purely at the imagination - at making people happier or giving them a life with more possibilities.  The opening of a new transport connection may not always be strictly necessary (though I'm sure people feel that it is) but it always makes me happy because it shows that people are trying to make something good happen.  But it also makes me smile when I walk down a street and see that someone has opened a new coffee shop or a new gallery or has done some graffiti that is exciting and funny, or just someone sitting on the pavement chatting to the crowds or busking in a doorway, or demonstrating for a better world.  Or to look at the Proms with the sheer amount of organisation that has gone into basically just giving people a good time, and to see all of those hundreds of people at that Prom getting excited about a piece of music that is also extremely political.  But perhaps it is just the sheer volume of people, all with their imaginations, thoughts and ideas ticking over all the time, that gives me a sense of aliveness.  And knowing that to make things work, they have to work together, often putting personal feeling aside for a while to make other things happen; that gives me hope.

Virginia Woolf wrote in her diary that "in the countryside, the soul rises to the top".  This was not a good thing for her; she meant that there is no escaping oneself, no new impressions coming in to settle the soul where it needed to be, deep inside, mulling over those impressions and turning them into writing.  It is true that here there is no escaping what you are or who you are.  That can be a good thing and I have learned a lot from it, some essential things I would probably never have learned in London or Berlin.  Also, I have been able to write; to distil all those millions of impressions, thoughts and ideas from the city, into something focused and different.  But at the same time I sometimes want not only to give energy to the island, but to get it back; to see things that just make me smile without having any responsibility for them.  Is this good or bad?  Well, maybe one thing I still need to learn is not to ask that question; to take it as it is; to see if it changes just by existing, like the natural world always does.



What to eat on Rum - besides chocolate

Searching for dinner!
It is finally, actually hot on Rum, and we have been making the most of the summer days. Trudi, our new Ranger, held a Foraging Walk to show us all the exciting things that grow on the island that we could actually live off if we had to and the Calmac didn't bring us our Co-op order.  It was a hot afternoon and we wandered across the salt marsh before crossing the beach - the tide was way out - while Trudi explained how incredibly full of nutrients the loch must be, each rockpool hosting a crowd of creatures, both plant and animal.
Crossing the salt-marsh
This was an opportune time, as the Small Isles area around Rum and Canna has just been declared one of the 30 Marine Protected Areas in Scotland.  We are very proud of our role in helping to secure the MPAs - we visited the consultation, wrote letters and were - though it didn't feel like it at the time - "politically active" in helping to make this happen.  The MPAs are a vital step towards safeguarding our sealife, Britain having one of the most fertile and important coasts for marine animals and plants in Europe, and hopefully England will soon follow Scotland in designating more areas around the English coast too.  Even (some) fishermen agree that it's needed, to protect fish stocks well into the future...although the reason for "our" MPA wasn't so much the fish as the molluscs and black guillemot.

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Speaking of molluscs, these were a popular topic during the foraging walk as Trudi helped to show us how to harvest mussels and winkles responsibly (i.e. not too many of them, and by hand), but I found it more exciting learning about all the weird and wonderful plants that grow on the shore, that I have often trampled on or more likely, fallen over on my way to the beach at low tide (Mum isn't the only person to fall in holes on the island!).  There is the notorious "scurvygrass" - so-called because it contains vast amounts of Vitamin C and was eaten by sailors when they got back from their not very nutritious journeys across the sea - forget 5 a day, this was their 1 a day if they were lucky.  Then there was plantain - not the Jamaican kind but small plantain plants.  We were warned not to eat buttercups - apparently they contain large amounts of arsenic! But "silver-root" is good for you - it is the leaves that are silvery, but the root can be cooked for dinner:

Silver-root

Trudi demonstrating how much food there is on Rum...

...getting it out of the ground can be somewhat more awkward!



As the tide rushed back in the foragers had to abandon the rocks to cross back to the island, but not before they'd made an impressive collection:

What they found.
I had given up on the walk before this stage though, as I dislike taking creatures from the sea. I know it's illogical as I will eat fish, but there's something about prising sea creatures off the rocks that makes me feel worried - we don't exactly have to hunt them down, they are too easy to catch! - also I feel very protective of the seashore.  Perhaps because I swim by the rocks so often, it feels strange to evict the creatures that live on them from their home.  We have so much space already - though maybe not on Rum, where we are in the minority...

So I returned to the garden, where despite all the hurdles we have faced in growing stuff, it is, unbelievably, still growing!  We have already harvested our first onions, lettuces and salad leaves, and it looks as though the potatoes may be ready soon, not to mention the hordes of tomatoes that are turning the polytunnel into a forest.  For a while I was dismayed by the garden and the over-fecundity of the weeds, rats and generally by "Nature" - it made me realise how hard it is to grow food and how much is stacked against you when you don't use masses of technology to "fight back".  It's not all pretty tweety birds and beautiful butterflies - those butterflies kill your broccoli! It made me understand why so many people see Nature as their enemy and feel a need to fight - for centuries, survival was incredibly hard; and for many people it still is.  But nonetheless I wouldn't be comfortable spraying it all with pesticides or turning it into a garden centre; it's living with nature that's the challenge, one that people perhaps haven't really got to grips with yet: how can we live with it, still survive (happily) while allowing everything else to survive too?  What is the balance?  There are lots of farmers in the UK trying to achieve this and I am amazed at their persistence, and also proud that I am trying in a tiny way to see how it feels, too.  Although what I may chiefly remember from Rum gardening is learning to hate dock-leaves...

But ultimately, it's good to know that if all else fails, we can at least eat potatoes, onions and, er, marigolds.  Not sure if they're a "foraging" food...


It's madness inside our polytunnel! The squash monster is gradually taking over...

...tomatoes ripening...

...beans growing madly upwards now they've run out of bamboo to climb on...


Although the carrots were devoured by rats, the marigolds have bravely taken their place and are flourishing!

And the curly kale and potatoes are still hanging in there...



By popular demand...

Although it is now some time ago (nearly a month!) here by popular demand are the pictures of the "Airlift from Kinloch Castle"...

Mum and Dad waiting to get on the helicopter...somewhat dubious...



They're in!  We're about to retreat behind the wall so that we don't get blown away

When will it take off Dad?

Awesome!
The castle is still there!

11th July - Pamper day...for large mammals, that is


Gathering of ponies...

The farrier has been to visit.  This is quite an event on Rum, involving all the ponies being brought down from Harris (or wherever they are roaming) to the village paddock, and then led out, two by two, to the Old Byre where the farrier brings out his travelling forge and proceeds to file their hooves, treat any problems they may have been having and then hammer and shape their new horse-shoes, before nailing them on.



...this is their destiny! Farrier's van and travelling forge
It is a sunny, almost sultry day on Rum and the tea-shop has been quiet all morning, just a breath of a breeze keeps the midges away and makes it bearable to sit out in the sun on the decking behind the community hall, looking out to the glittering blue sea.  We could almost be on a Mediterranean island...I am drifting off when I hear the clanging of the byre gate and the whinnying of the ponies. So I run out to see what's happening and there are Lesley and the farriers leading Fraoch and Struma - you may remember Fraoch was the foal who lived in our paddock for many months, with Struma, her mum, and she is now huge! - and another pony back up to the field.  Well, I say "lead" - Struma and her sister, being settled matrons, proceed calmly up the dusty path on their ropes, but Fraoch will have none of it - even at a year old she still refuses to have a halter put on and makes her own way, agreeably enough but with a hint of naughtiness: "I could go anywhere I liked...but I won't!"  I ask if I can watch the next set of ponies being shod and chat to one of the farriers about the work.  He loves his job, which he trained five years to do, but is sad that blacksmithing is no longer as much in demand as it once was: "There was a forge once at the heart of every village", and on Rum, there still is, I've just never seen it before.

Inside the old forge

The old forge (I was going to give it capital letters then, but no-one has ever actually labelled it "old", it is just there) is in the old stable block by the community hall.  Now empty of horses, instead swallows dart in and out to build their nests high up in the beams above the rows of old horse-shoes hanging on the wall, the rusting tools of the trade and the old forge itself, complete with huge bellows and still in working order, according to the farrier.  Sunlight pours in from the high-up windows and with the whinnying of the ponies outside it is easy to imagine the rows of
beautiful horses lined up in the boxes and the grooms working away to keep them in top condition.  George Bullough loved his horses, spending much of his time off Rum at his stud at Newmarket breeding winners and (presumably) talking to the grooms and trainers about what was being done.

Bellows (and hat)



But there are real ponies here now, and I ask the farrier how often they have to be shod.  "In the old days, you would have had your horse re-shod maybe every six to eight weeks," he explains. "But now I only come twice a year, and not all of them are shod anyway." Why not?  "They don't all need it.  Mostly my job is about looking after their feet more than anything, stopping the damage...until Lesley moved here a lot of them were neglected and the older ones still have problems." 


Young or old, most of the ponies are very patient, standing still while he lifts their hooves up (not a light task), shaves and files the hoof and measures them for shoes.  Then the forge is heated up and the shoe hammered and shaped for each hoof, before being plunged into a bucket of cold water to cool it down.  It is a lovely sight, only the oldest "gentleman" pony is slightly perturbed and shows the whites of his unusual amber eyes now and again as his turn comes.  But even he submits to the gentle ministrations of Lesley and the farriers, and is happier when he's been rubbed down with the cream that helps stop the Clegg flies biting.

Filing down


Inspecting the hoof
Today the ponies went back up to Harris, all but a few of the mares who have been left down here prior to the visit of the stallion next month...but that's a whole other story.  However, I can add that it's not only the ponies that get pampered...today the "Cow Man" came over with his "cow cage", causing a mini traffic jam on Rum after the ferry got in.  I rang up Mel: "What on earth is that big blue iron thing?" "It's the cow cage." "What for?" "To stop the cows running away while they get a pedicure".
 
Travelling beauty parlour...for cows.
So now all the animals on Rum are looking beautiful...I wonder if we can get a travelling foot specialist in for us?


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Halcyon days

Having spoken so much about the hardships of Rum something nags at me...the more I write about them the more I know I'm leaving something out: the days when Rum is truly the paradise so many visitors hope to find.

Days of dazzling - and hot! - sunshine in the early morning, wandering up the glen and swimming in the cold river..clambering across the rocky river bed which has nearly dried up in the heat (and falling into the remaining deep pools now and again). Days when the swallows dart over the wild flowers growing in our untamed meadows and chickens sit on the picnic benches to get a better view of the insect life.  Days when nothing can be heard except the wind in the trees and the bees buzzing in and out of the lupins.  Days when the boats sail across the horizon and we dream of climbing mountains in a cooler season. Days when the clouds rush across the landscape and we can look across Kilmory Bay to Skye and freewheel down the hill back to "our castle". Days when you can look out the window and see Lesley going for a walk with a pony, or Mr Rhys singing with his wheelbarrow, or deer antlers sticking up from the meadow where the deer think they are hiding, and laugh because it is just so funny living here.

Summer.  I know winter will come and still I don't have a plan - though I have lots of plans - but our summer days make it so easy to live in the moment, perhaps I don't need one.






Excellent Advice for All Occasions; aka a trip up Askival


So it all started when Lesley asked Mel if we would like to "go up and see the shearwater chicks."  Thinking this was a kind offer of a private viewing of the burrows and chicks before the actual official Shearwater Events, we said "yes please!" "So we'll meet at 9 then," she said.  At 9.00 am we were outside the White House rather tired from the previous evening's hard work on the village hall, and learnt that our job was to help the researchers identify burrows, bring out the chicks (and parents), measure same and record our findings in a little book. "Ok," we breathlessly assented (breathlessly as we were now scrambling up a steep hill a long way behind Lesley and Gordon). Some time later, we finally made it up to the Shearwater Hut, very red in the face and panting for breath in an embarrassing manner.  Three tall and evidently super-fit researchers, who had just got up and had their breakfast and were - to Mel's dismay - brushing their teeth outdoors using an old Thermo mug, looked at us scornfully as we fumbled for our emergency chocolate and giggled at them. They didn't need to say it - it was obvious what they were thinking: "Who on earth are these short-legged, unfit, giggly girls that you've brought us, Lesley?" Well, we can't help having short legs...

Ah! There it is...

Where's it gone now?

Finally made it! The Shearwater Hut

Once they were ready and we had regained our breath somewhat, we followed them up the hill. After a while, as no word had been spoken, I ventured to shout in their general direction,"Where exactly are we heading for?" Chris and The Other One (whose name I never managed to find out), shouted back, "We're going up to Askival South.  They'll be on Askival North." "Oh," I replied, not wanting to admit that I didn't know where either of these places were, "so are we actually going...you know...up Askival?" "Oh no, no, no," responded Chris, "we won't be actually going up a mountain, don't worry." I did not point out that we were already on a mountain but continued to scramble, at one point losing sight of their rugged outdoor-clad legs entirely (I was just following the legs...my view didn't really go any higher at this point).  Every so often, they would take a cigarette break and gaze down upon us as we made our slow way up the hill. "Do tell us if we're going too fast," they begged. I could not help feeling this was meant ironically but I was too worried about how to get back down again to start an argument and risk being left behind completely...
Quite high up now! Where have the researchers gone?
Eventually, however, we reached a point where the researchers began to get down to business.  Consulting their GPS they discussed burrows and told us that the nearest one was probably "about 155 metres south-west of here".  Wherever that was, it was definitely upwards. We were now on the rocks somewhat below the Askival summit and looking down felt rather dangerous.  So we looked for burrows instead.  Mel and I managed to regain some self-respect when, having all searched fruitlessly for some time, we actually spotted the little metal tags that mark the burrows. At this point, a slightly friendlier atmosphere set in - which became even warmer once the researchers saw us melt into soppy civilians at the sight of a shearwater chick, just a few days old, pulled from its burrow...and we got to hold it!  Some time later, Mel was brave enough to attempt to actually pull a shearwater out - one muddy arm and a bitten finger later, she had succeeded...
I'm never doing that...or am I?

Yes I am! Ouch...

Parent shearwater...
...and chick!

The shearwater research project has been going for nearly forty years now.  Rum has the largest population of Manx shearwaters anywhere in the world, and to help this continue, it's essential for researchers to understand what affects their breeding, survival and return to our island.  Hence every year, as far as possible, the same burrows are sought out, the parents (or would-be parents) weighed and ringed, and the chicks, if any, weighed and their wing-span measured.  As the chicks are very tiny at this point, the parent birds are understandably concerned when they see their offspring dangled in a cotton bag from a portable scale, but the researchers do an amazing job - they are able to plunge their arms into a burrow, bring out a shearwater and its chick (or egg), measure both and take the records within about three minutes for each burrow. Finding the burrows themselves is the hard bit.  Deer and goats often kick the tags away, and you have to remember that the burrows are dug high up on the mountain where the incline is pretty steep, so you're walking along a stony, exposed, near-vertical mountain face to find them.  Looking down is scary, but the views are immense...
Eigg with mainland behind (this wasn't even the highest bit!)
After a while though, we realised we'd have to get going even though we'd only "helped" with about ten burrows.  It had taken us ages to climb up and we'd need hours to get back.  "Will you be ok?" our now friendly researchers asked us, concerned. "We'll be fine...we've got an OS map!" we reassured them.  And we still had chocolate. So we set out on our journey...
We soon noticed several things: (1) that all rocks look very similar to non-geologists, (2) that a path that is obvious on the way up when you are following someone, magically becomes invisible when you are on your way down on your own and (3) that the bottom of the mountain was a long way down.  Luckily (4) also held good: An OS map is a miraculous thing.  With its help, we were able to identify the burn we needed to climb down to meet the Dibidil trail - quicker and possibly easier than making our way down the long way via the shearwater hut again.  So we set off.  The route was arduous, but to our surprise, both of us managed to remain calm, non-cranky and excited about how far we'd walked that day.  Also, of course, it was beautiful.  If it had been raining I think we might have cried.

Rocks...



...rocks...(that's Hallival behind, and Skye behind that)

...rocks...

...more rocks...

The river valley we climbed down.  Note coastline quite a way below...

We did it!
So we finally made it, with that special happiness that comes as a combination of having averted disaster and feeling smug: "We cuddled a shearwater chick!"  But I shivered too as I thought of how easily people can get lost, or if you don't have the right gear, get chilled, fall and have to be airlifted away or worse...So I was left with two final thoughts:
1.  Never wear trainers on a mountain;

2. When pulling a shearwater from its burrow, always hold it by the beak.
(3. And if going up a mountain...it's best to be a goat.)