Our Garden - the story so far

Before (left and back) and After (right). Our three raised beds - thanks Mike!

Nice fork!

Bet Lady Monica never went out looking like this.

Ready to plant!

It's Spring! And so much to tell..

Sign of spring (1)

Well, where to start? So much has happened in my comparatively short absence...fears of boredom as I returned simply can't be justified, as there have been dramas, comings and goings and news at every turn. 

Eigg (left) and Rum from the train

I came back on what seemed to be the first day of Spring, although the day that preceded it was anything but.  Travelling from a hot and sunny Cambridge with blossoming trees, blue skies, cheery tea-shops and flip-flopping students, 500 (?) miles north to a freezing cold Glasgow my heart sank as I arrived at Queen Street and was greeted by sleet, rain and hordes (well dozens) of drunken Scots who had been to see the rugby.  Slept for four hours on the train, and just managed to download "Call the Midwife" (final chance to download anything before island internet kicks in!) before falling into my Premier Inn bed and instant sleep.  One huge breakfast and a beautiful train ride later I was ready to board the ferry...the sun was shining, the sea calm and blue and birds singing away as if winter had never happened.  The sky and sea were so clear, everything was reflected like glass; a far cry from the "keep your eyes shut and pray" journey last time around.  It was lovely to arrive at Rum and see Mel waiting, and walk along the shore road to the accompanying sound of blackbirds, robins and who knows what else (haven't had a chance to check yet!) singing their little hearts out and catching up on each other's news, while I caught up with ours.

Rum...from the boat, 10th March

Since then, my enthusiasm has taken the normal knocks (the internet is soooooooooo slow! the rain is soooooooooooo horrible! etc etc...) but a general sense of excitement is still alive in there, somewhere! So what has been happening? Get on with the gossip, I hear you say...

Tea-shop ructions as Claire gave an ultimatum to the rest of the island about having sole use of the community hall (our only public space)...we said no, and so she has pulled out for good!  Who will provide this vital service now? (See below for some ideas!) The new playground equipment for the children has arrived and is being constructed next to the shop...giant swings and what looks like a survival course climbing frame are first up for use! Debs has started a spinning group - not cycling but actual spinning, some lovely wools are now being produced.  The Ranger has resigned, and a new one is being sought.  Our poor castle has suffered so much from the perpetual rain in February that the ceilings are now buckling ("Just run quickly through the hall and you'll be fine").  

New roof on the hostel (behind the trees) and invisible new roof on the turrets!

The hostel is FIXED, and the roof no longer leaking...Billy has created a brand new one, with an actual slope!  Dave has finally started mending the roads now that the rain has stopped, and several potholes have vanished - it will be strange not to fall in them every night after dark, but apparently some are still irreparable as the rain has just gone too deep.  And it's not only the fabric of the island that the continual rain and darkness of February affected;  February proved just too much for some people and certain set-tos resulting from carelessly worded emails led to an unspecified "police incident", now all peacefully resolved. 

Sign of spring (2) - turkeys displaying

But although today it's raining again, we know that Spring is here.  It's not only the daffodils finally pushing through to the light, or the birdsong, or the turkeys attempting to get it on up at the croft. It's something about the fact that it's now light until 7 pm rather than 3 pm, the way we can walk around the village without wearing three hats and five scarves, a birthday celebration that takes place in the light not in the dark.  A sense of new beginnings.  Which everyone needs in spring, but we need it perhaps just that little bit more than those sun-spoiled Cambridge types. Being away has given me a bit more perspective and it's so clear from people's stories that winter is just really, really tough here.  We're not kind enough to ourselves.  We didn't create a social space for ourselves over winter, didn't continue the Sunday tea-shops (or any tea-shop), didn't think about how we might deal practically with the undoubted fact that the word isolation comes from the Latin word for island.  How can we make it better?

Everyone has their own story.  Gav and Laura and their new baby are living in a friend's room, the weather has been too awful for them to finish their croft, and they wonder how long their resilience will hold out, much as they want their new life here to work.  Debs is new to the island like me and, also like me, is here because of her partner's job, spending much of the time on her own at home; self-sufficiency and "being creative" is all very well, but...One couple's marriage has (we hope only temporarily) broken down.  Other people struggle with accommodation issues.  Yet on the other hand, this can be such a wonderful place to live.  We talked yesterday (during an all-day Six Nations TV marathon - yeah!) about how we could stop being so isolated, have more fun, enjoy things more.  

I came back full of positive thoughts, ideas to make things work better, things I can do myself to help out.  What stops me?  Fear that nothing will come back from others - this is a real issue, so often the impulses I have had here and the suggestions I've made have met with no response whatsoever - more daunting perhaps than an outright "No." Or perhaps I've set the bar too high. This isn't like at work, where you can ask people for things and they are bound to help you if they can.  No-one here has to do anything, if they don't want, and many people are busy enough already.

However, it's amazing what just talking to people can do.  Chatting to Debs in her sunny kitchen over lovely coffee (the first time I've been to someone's house for coffee!) we hatched a plan to take on the tea-shop for two days a week - daunting but exciting.  And also, what is even more daunting, to try to set up a coffee morning (or afternoon) one day a week.  A drop-in?  A book group? Or just a place to sit and drink excellent coffee (very much lacking on Rum!)?  I now have to work up the courage to actually ask people!  It sounds so odd, but it can feel as though the onus is entirely on you not only to ask a question, but to provide the answer yourself too.  

There are many things that need doing besides this.  The archiving.  The tea-shopping. The Rum guide-book which I am applying to write.  Keeping the flat clean (now it's Spring we can see all the dust!).   Ordering food.  Keeping an eye on those dodgy ceilings.  Plus, we are now starting a garden; this is a long-held ambition, and the outgoing Ranger has very kindly bequeathed us his raised beds in the back of the walled garden...we have started digging them over, but I can see there's going to be a lot more work involved...

But I feel sure that having some kind of island get-together, a daytime chance to sit and just chat, is the most important. Probably because it's the most important for me.  Hell, if no-one comes along I'll just eat all of those cakes myself, and what will I have lost?  Nothing really.  But the fear of failure really can be more than just worry; it can stop you doing absolutely everything.  So we have to overcome it.  Or nothing will ever change!

Sign of spring (3): smiling!

So what is Burns Night anyway?

By popular demand...here is how we celebrated Burns Night on 25th January:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/nicgee/sets/72157640189839624/

This is one of the most popular events in the Rum calendar...it marks the end of the January blues and reminds us of what a lovely community this can be.  Nearly everyone was there including baby Maggie, making her first public appearance with Gav and Laura since they came back to the island on the 23rd.  It was so special to have a new baby there, as well as all the older babies, and all of us!

Burns Night celebrates the Scots poet Rabbie Burns, who loved Scotland and its people.  The evening has a tradition just as important as Christmas for Scots, involving:

1. The Procession of the Haggis (The haggis is ceremonially brought into the hall accompanied by piping; on this occasion courtesy of Reserve Mike (guitar), Ranger Mike (guitar), Sean (drums), and Ross (also guitar); no pipes, but plenty of clapping!)

2.  The Address to the Haggis.  This is the traditional recital of the Burns poem that begins:

Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,
Great chieftain o the puddin'-race!
Aboon them a' ye tak your place,
Painch, tripe, or thairm:
Weel are ye worthy o' a grace
As lang's my arm.

(The full poem and a translation for us Sassenachs can be found at http://www.robertburns.org.uk/Assets/Poems_Songs/toahaggis.htm)

The gist of the poem is: Scotland's poor people and Scotland itself need proper fare, not just watery soup.  And although it stands for lots of other things besides food, being on a cold island in winter you certainly appreciate a real Rum haggis: made of our own venision by Marcel.

Dave recited the poem dressed in his full Scots gear - in fact several of the men sported their kilts, looking dashing and not in the least bit girly.

3.  Toasting the Haggis.  While the address was going on, Ady was going round filling up our glasses with whisky, so that we could toast the haggis in the proper manner. An enthusiastic moment!

4.  Eating the Haggis.  Lesley and Abby, Dave and Sylvia had prepared not only THE haggis (which was huge, made of venison by Marcel, and worthy of Burns himself) but also neeps and tatties plus a vegetarian option. I made pudding (Cranachan).  This part of the evening went on for quite a while.

5.  The Addresses. Traditionally more Burns (and other) poems are recited after the meal, and this time Nic and Ady did us proud with their own "Address to the Lassies" and "The Lassies' Response", describing how Rum would be nothing without either the lassies who "run it" (thank you Ady!) or the laddies who make it all happen (thank you Nic!). We all need each other...

This was followed by Mr Rhys' recital of "To a Mouse", then a poem by Lesley and some jokes and tales...until it was time to start the singing and dancing by the singing of "Auld Lang Syne".  We gathered together and linked arms for a rather patchy, but heartfelt tradition.  Steve had brought an old song-book belonging to his father that explained both words and music of many a Highland song, and I understood for the first time the meaning of the poem.

6.  Music.  The band, now well-lubricated with wine, whisky and song set up a medley of new and old music...although by around 11 pm the singing was getting decidedly dodgy.  However, by that point no-one cared.  Mel and I tripped a measure and Nic and Debs tripped several!  The ceilidh did not develop very far, but the music was grand.  

It was a wonderful night and made me realise how important it is that we show our strength as a community and do things that bring us together.  It's so easy to stay isolated in our little homes, especially when there's a gale blowing outside and it's sleeting or snowing.  But all of us need each other, and my resolution when I am back is to try harder to make those connections with others - especially when it's reaching across the Scots-English divide.  Although, maybe I should invite people round for whisky rather than coffee...

From EastEnders to Emmerdale...and everywhere in between!

The other end of the country...calm after the storm

I can't take the credit for this post title...it belongs to a young lad working in the Orange call centre whom I spoke with today.  He couldn't help me with my phone, but when I gave him "The first line of your address, please madam?" we kind of got off the subject of phones and started talking about Rum. When I told him I'd lived in London before moving to a tiny island, and would like to write a book about it, he said, "Aw! So, like, from EastEnders to Emmerdale kinda thing, yeah?"

So, if in the future you should notice a modest volume with just that title peeping out in the travel section of Foyles or Waterstones, or see it at Number 1 in the bestseller charts, you'll know who thought of it first (if it makes number 1 then I may have his lawyer on the phone to ask for a cut of the royalties...I'll have to help him move out of call centres and into publishing...)

Anyway, I thought I'd try it out here first although actually it's a bit inaccurate.  It should really be "From Emmerdale to Eastenders and back again" because over the past month I feel as though we've travelled the length and breadth of the country.  From our tiny isle in the snowy north of Scotland, to the crashing forty foot waves of Portland Bill, and everywhere in between. Looking back over the past few weeks, it's hard to put it into a narrative - what I see is more a series of events, small and large, marking a long transition from a dark January to hopefully, a kinder and brighter spring.

I felt the first ray of sunshine before leaving Rum, when we finally saw otters! It was a freezing January day, most of us still hung over from Burns Night (which I WILL post on the blog...), hailstorms threatening from the north-west.  We were hit by the hail just as we meant to go out, but after we'd cowered behind the post van for 10 minutes in our waterproofs it cleared up and we decided to go for our planned walk after all.  "Just to the otter hide, though," we said. But somehow we kept going.  We clambered clumsily along the beach with its red, awkward stones slippery and niggly underfoot, making our way onto the even more slippery and awkward path that leads up away from the beach, through undergrowth, trees, streams and bogs eventually to what feels like the far edge of the island, land and rocks gradually thinning out until only the mossy ruins of the blackhouses and the irregular, spiky trees remain against the sea and the snowy mountains beyond.  Of course we got lost. But we didn't care, as by then we'd already seen the otters!

We had climbed up a little way to the first "ledge" of the cliff where you can stand and catch your breath, rearrange your clothing etc, which is usually already too hot after the first ten minutes or so, and as we were rearranging (and trying not to fall into the puddles) we heard a weird squeaky, chattering sound that seemed to come from out at sea. It wasn't like any bird we knew. Mel grabbed her binoculars and looked out to sea and "Otters!" Swimming, but not just swimming, curvetting through the waves like dolphins with rounded backs and diving snouts, and much faster than you would imagine - two of them on parallel paths, chatting to each other as they went. Soon they were round the corner and out of sight but we had seen them, for the first time in either of our lives. But more was to come.  After we had reached the peninsula and found a freezing cold, but relatively sheltered spot to eat our picnic, I was scanning the waves when - there it was, another otter popped up, on its own this time.  We watched breathlessly (and even let our tea get cold) while it came ashore and lay wriggling in the sunshine to dry itself, apparently not worried by our company.

That was a lovely day, and it meant so much to have seen these most elusive of creatures before I left, reminding me just how amazing the island can be.  Why does it lift your heart to see creatures in the wild?  Two days later I left for the mainland but this time on a beautifully clear day, with no high winds or storms, just a lucid sea and sky with the Cuillins remote and cold-looking as a lunar landscape, no hint of habitation or vegetation anywhere on them, bare and forbidding as a desert.  All the way I was sad, although the ferry journey was livened up somewhat by the awesome S., who told me all about her complicated family and the funeral she would be going to on the mainland. She drank two half-bottles of wine on the way over ("Well, we're on holiday now"), knew everyone on the boat and didn't appear even tiddly by the end of the journey...I left her greeting her second ex-husband whom she married too young and to please her mum, her third husband and true love having stayed at home to mind the kids.

The journey to Fort William on the "Harry Potter Train" was incredibly beautiful, that warm sunset light shining across from behind Rum on to the mountains to my left and making them glow orange and red.  I'd never seen it like that before.  Still less had I expected the journey down to Glasgow the next day to be so amazing, traversing the Highlands with constant glimpses of lakes, waterfalls and snow-laden moors stretching for miles with hardly anything else in sight but deer and occasional lorries.  The summit at Corrour was a pure white landscape with dark, bubbling rivers running through it...a featureless landscape one would say if it weren't for the stags starting up amazed at our audacity to drive through their bit of territory.

From Glasgow it was a mildly chaotic journey, with lines down at Penrith meaning I had to get to Edinburgh instead before I could get down to London.  But that was only the first and most minor hint at the craziness the weather has caused in England...Rum has got off lightly in comparison.  There were floods everywhere we travelled past and even in London the parks were sodden with the constant rain.  From London we went on to "As Seen on TV" Weymouth, seizing the one day without rain to travel out to Chesil Beach and Portland Bill.  Chesil Beach was impossible to look at....it went on and on, disappearing at the horizon into clouds of spray and a vast grey sky, with the road and cars that run alongside and below it seeming unreal in comparison, like two films running concurrently in different languages and on a different scale. I couldn't get both into my head at the same time, even now it is quite hard to remember, let alone describe. But Portland Bill was even stranger...we stood for ages staring at the awesomely huge waves, how they come in from far off and appear incapable of breaking, until suddenly, at the last minute, they do. Impossible to imagine those waves even bigger, sweeping over the lighthouse, but that is what has been happening.  

There were no trains to Exeter of course and none on to Cornwall, so we travelled by the "Jurassic Coaster" double decker bus through Dorset and Devon to Exeter, descending steep and crooked roads into towns where normally the sea is sedate and pretty, but now was a huge uncontrollable creature dashing itself against the harbour defences, walls and beaches, waves driving in at maybe 30 miles per hour (?) to crash against the rocks.  While listening to the elderly ladies around us quoting the Daily Mail approvingly ("That Nigel Farage, he does have some good ideas"), we veered between worry and excitement. Would the bus make it down the hill?  Would it slip off the road and into the sea?  Somehow we couldn't be scared..we felt more awe at the sights around us. It was an exciting journey and we talked about what we could do together on Rum and the good things that the future might hold for us there. And, in a semblance of our former life, we then got to drive a car...all the way down the near-empty A30 to Cornwall, where we spent a week in a strange state of limbo, not able to do most of the walks or trips we would normally do as so many places were "out of bounds" due to the weather.  

So now I've been travelling up, down and around this flooded country for nearly a month, and am still not home. Our travels have led us from Scotland to London, Weymouth, Dorset, Cornwall, Kent...everywhere there are wringing wet fields, oceans of water covering farmland and footpaths, undercut cliffs, fallen trees and enormous waves...and even now the waves have settled down a little bit, the sea still holds an undercurrent of threatening energy, you can see it still in the too-high tides, the curling and foaming pools in the harbours and the way in which the normally tranquil English Channel continues to slap at the land as if to say, "Don't forget about me!"  As if we could.  Travelling back from Exeter to London on a very slow train indeed, we watched how the rivers continue to rise, seeing them churn and overflow banks that are no longer visible.  Passengers on the tiny packed train were not stressed out, not even "philosophical"; there was nothing more to say really, so it was quiet, with heads turning in unison whenever we passed a particularly flooded area, such as Romsey where half the town stood half under water.  Buzzards sat in the wet fields and waited for...something, we speculate for lost fish!

We have been lucky enough not to be directly affected, so I can't help feeling excited rather than worried or upset, although Mel's aunt, who comes from Somerset, was very sad after visiting her parents there: "It's like looking out to sea," she said. Perhaps it is quite sobering, after all.  I've noticed a kind of rootless feeling, like the trees you see lying devastated by the water...and through it an increasing sense of how peculiar our civilisation is.  On Rum there has been non-stop rain (so I hear), but no floods of course, as all the rivers run straight down the mountains to the sea and out!  There are no flood plains, no over-crowding with new housing developments, no neglected flood defences or concreted-over gardens.  There is a place for the rain to go even if humans find it slightly more difficult to identify a home. 

I still have my home, so I am very very lucky.  But just like everyone else I need to deal with the question of how to live with, rather than in conflict with nature.  Some people who are concerned about climate change would like everyone to live like we do on Rum.  That might be ecologically better but doesn't solve the problem of how humans and nature exist together.  We build cities for a reason, the joys of civilisation are just as real as the joys of the natural world, and when it's cold, dark and dreary outside then the joys of a DVD are not to be underestimated!  The raw unmediated experience of "nature" in its least amenable form is something more than a "survival challenge" a la Bear Grylls or an RSPB "Date with Nature".  Yeah...it's not so much a date with nature as full-on, non-negotiable Getting-married-to-nature-and-having-its-children, I-wish-I'd-sorted-out-that-prenup-earlier emotional rollercoaster.  It's not a survival challenge in the sense that you go there, gleefully relish whatever it throws at you for six weeks and then leave to tell your tale to idealistic, if less hardy, TV audiences. (Though I wouldn't say no!)  It's a survival challenge in that it challenges everything you think you know about normal life, your identity, your relationships with others, your concept of what "society" is for, and your ability to influence where you are. I wonder if this is how other people feel who have been isolated in tiny communities with seas of water surrounding them...

Now down in Kent, I've been talking to a Scottish doctor who comes from "up there", but is married to a Whitstable lass.  I wasn't expecting anyone to understand what on earth I was talking about but to my amazement it turns out he is from Lochaber.  "I took the wife up there for a year...she couldn't cope.  We were in the Cairngorms, not on an island so the social life was fine...it was the weather that broke her, the darkness, the cold..." He doesn't need to go on.  I nod, understandingly.  I ask him if it's common to have an anxiety reaction to living in such an isolated community.  He replies vigorously, "It is!  Of course it is! The west coast of Scotland is notorious for it..." I feel a little bit better - and also fascinated.  My anthropological interest is bearing fruit!  I ask him why that is.  He says, and I find this really interesting, that it's to do with a culture clash. People from down south, English people, city Scots looking for a lifestyle change, looking to live the dream, turn up in places where "the dream" is everyday reality and they don't know how to fit in.  Some places they start to define the culture, as on Skye, which, catering for mass tourism, has also attracted so many new people to live there that it no longer feels like a Scottish island (not to me anyway), beautiful as it is. But in other places like on Rum the communities are so small that the clash remains obvious and tricky to negotiate.

This isn't a complaint. (No, honestly!) I'm trying and trying to understand what it means to live somewhere so different.  Do you have to change your own needs?  Do you change the island, so that it meets your needs?  What is the compromise?  Or do you just adapt and let Rum change you, let the island itself guide what you need to become? What does it say about me, and Rum, that I can write there more than anywhere I've ever lived before, yet can't go for more than a few weeks without becoming massively anxious?  Can living in such a crazy state of closeness to nature actually provoke crises in people, in both a good and a bad sense...can it in fact have even a quasi-medical effect, a kind of physical intervention that changes you for either good or bad? 

I know that the answer for me is yes, and it's only just begun.  I think that just the fact of living somewhere so silent, so hugely un-human and with proper air, water and space, makes us breathe, think and feel differently.  It shows you sides of yourself you never knew you had.  It forces you to behave in ways you might never have behaved otherwise.  It shows you what matters to you, what you can do without and what you really cherish.  It can make you feel.  As we went through Britain and saw the flooding and slept through weeks of gales and storms we also saw the fascination of nature.  We saw how people crowded to the sea to watch the crazy waves, sometimes at risk to their own lives.  We saw how despite the sadness and horribleness of losing your home to a flood people were awed by the rivers and their power. We share that power - we are natural too, and we see our emotions, passions and physical needs mirrored in the "other" nature around us. What would it mean if we really took that seriously? 

What I cherish. Close to nature...

and even closer.

And how have I got from floods, to Rum?

Mel's uncle is a marine biologist and he recently attended a massive climate change conference where he and his colleagues came to the consensus that basically, the world has 20 years before "this" - floods, hurricanes, states of emergency - starts to look normal.  There is a massive challenge in that, one that I don't think people will know how to meet.  I certainly have no idea.  But looking at the challenges people are facing on the mainland right now, I feel privileged to be somewhere where I can experience a "different" civilisation without it being a "ruined" civilisation.  Rum is not at the end but at the beginning of a transformation.  It feels new, even though the island of course is old.  We are putting a community right in the middle of something totally un-communal, and I want to know how it works out.   

As seen in Herne Bay today.  Maybe that should read "Do fall in love it hurts..."

Some sad news, and our reflections on it

Today has been a very cold, grey day, a day for introspection - or not, depending on what your introspection may lead to.  I'm one of the lucky ones; I've noticed that the "indoorness" of winter days here does give you the chance to become more creative in some ways, not distracted by the spectacular natural world outside; things rise to the surface that might otherwise have remained squashed down by day to day life.  Sometimes a good thing; sometimes less good.

So, what's been happening?  I only started writing this post to keep my hand in, feeling that "absolutely nothing" was the probable answer, but realised as I did so that in fact there's been a lot going on - in many different ways and on many different levels.

A sense of some progress on the island has been marked by large bits of machinery arriving to clear the site for our new Bunkhouse, a funded project aimed at providing community-owned, up to date accommodation for visitors; it will be right by the campsite with views out over the bay and should have beds for up to around 20 people (http://www.isleofrum.com/blog-84-community-bunkhouse-project-takes-a-step-forward-july-2013).  The diggers and tractors can be heard night and day, and ominous-looking smoke signals arise from the shore road where the huge tree trunks are being burned (although these are only a tiny proportion of all the trees on that site, thank goodness). Anyway, the new Project Manager for the Bunkhouse came over to get to know the island, and got stuck on Rum on his very first outing, as no boat came today.  We were all rather incensed by this as we feel we've survived the gales and storms of December only to be refused a boat in much more "clement" weather, although of course, it's better to be safe than sorry.  However, Rum people love a gossip and speculation abounds that it is a new "wussy" skipper who won't brave the admittedly choppy waters.  "It was far worse than this when we came over before Christmas!" we complain, then speculate further that this is precisely why the former skipper has gone elsewhere - traumatised by the sudden turn at right angles out of Muck's dodgy waters and into the coastline of Rum with a westerly gale trying to shove the boat in exactly the opposite direction.  I remember it well - at least my stomach does.

So, a freezing cold and wet day, with much more rain forecast for the week (at one point it was saying 1.6 CENTIMETRES for Sunday) and with no ferry to brighten things up, we instead lit an absolutely enormous fire at 3.00 pm, which is burning fit to bust as I write, making my face glow and keeping my knees warm, although the back of my neck is still cold!  Mel has gone to see if the contractors are alright for the evening; the Bunkhouse contractors are a new gang.  Actually, that should be "contractor" in the singular; his mates have all scarpered already.  He works long hours, possibly because he wants to get it over with: "In my last job I was put up at a four-star hotel and had all my meals cooked for me!"  "Is there no TV?" Abandoned by his maters, he is all alone in the hostel, which is STILL leaking despite everything Mel and her team can do.  Billy has promised to mend it, but isn't back yet from his break. And there is no money to sort the rooms out - as yet.

So the contractors were a bit desperate.  One in particular was so dismayed by the weather, lack of TV and lack of - well, anything really that he's used to, that he waited for the school boat (a tiny little ferry bringing two of the teenagers back to the island for the weekend) and asked the skipper to take him back to the mainland. 

On days like today I can't blame him.  It seems to be about eight weeks max that we can enjoy Rum without feeling a pressing need to escape and see other places, other people, especially familiar people; people we love and who love us.  I am still not able to get to grips with the total lack of sociable-ness the majority of islanders display (there are lovely exceptions and you know who you are), and was quite disconcerted when I realised last week that our newest resident, Debs, who has just moved up to join her husband, was the first person except for the Goddards to actually ask me to "pop in whenever I felt like it" for a cup of coffee/tea/something stronger.  This affected me more than I like to admit, as  I realised how lonely I had been feeling.  But I know it to be a temporary situation, I am luckier than some.  

Loneliness can go so much deeper.  Our most recent copy of West Word, our local community newspaper, told us that a resident of neighbouring Eigg had been found dead, and we understand that he killed himself on New Year's Day.  This terrible news - terrible for the islands as well as for his family - can't be glibly explained; I don't know the reasons why he killed himself, although I've since found out that suicide is more common in Scotland than elsewhere in the UK and more common in the Highlands (as a proportion of the population) than anywhere else apart from Glasgow.  Men are at particular risk, and so are people who are poor, suffer from addiction, have lost their jobs or simply live somewhere where there are high levels of deprivation (http://www.samaritans.org/sites/default/files/kcfinder/files/research/Samaritans%20Suicide%20Statistics%20Report%202013.pdf).  Whatever the reason, it prompted sombre reflections from other islanders writing in the same paper, our very own Fliss bravely noting that while outsiders may envy us for the beauty of our landscape and apparently idyllic communities, these cannot be taken for granted and may conceal hidden isolation, pain and loneliness. 

My questions were of a different nature, my first thought being, well where would you go if you did need help?  We are so lacking not only in medical, but also emotional and psychological support resources up here in the Highlands; and on the Small Isles we have only one locum (there was a three month gap between his last two visits to Rum).  Mallaig itself currently has only one GP to cover its entire catchment area (around 3000 people), despite ongoing attempts to woo doctors to the practice.  Nick Clegg's statement yesterday that mental health services in the UK must be transformed so that mental distress is given as much help and as much funding as physical illness, only drove the message home.  Like many people I know I have suffered from depression and anxiety in the past (and am always vulnerable to anxiety), and apart from one very unusual exception, the service I received from the NHS was appalling, to the point where I would find it very difficult to seek out a doctor if it should happen again.  One lady on a Radio 4 programme I was listening to described her experience of being passed from doctor, to A&E, to the police, and back to the doctor, with none of them having the time or understanding to actually listen to what she needed.   And my experience is that doctors rarely have time or expertise to deal with psychological illness; their attitude often seems to be "if we can't throw a pill at it it doesn't exist."  Only last year did the NHS in Scotland finally put in place a more coherent strategy for addressing suicide and depression (http://www.scotland.gov.uk/Publications/2013/12/7616), and services are just not joined up, even if they are publicised, which I haven't noticed so far.

The problems with suicide in Scotland have been known for a long time, so why does it take so long for things to change? Yes, rates have dropped since the introduction of the "Choose Life" project in 2002, but a recession can and does change that, with job losses and the resulting isolation and anxiety meaning far more people become vulnerable (I'm not making this up, have a look at the Samaritans website for more stats if you like that kind of thing). I did some research and found that searching for "mental health provision Mallaig" and similar, led to a page telling me to get in touch with my GP (what GP? see above) or dial 999 in the case of emergency, and failing this, the Samaritans.  There was a page called "Who can I turn to?" but I found it addressed only physical problems... Why is there is no intermediate kind of intervention; no centres where you can just go to explore the options, talk to someone who understands what is going on?  Why is our model of care always medical in the first instance, even though the new strategy notes that interventions must become "person-centred" and "compassionate" to be effective?  (And seeing as we're in 2014, not 1914, one would think that being compassionate and "person-centred" towards people in distress would be a given...but clearly not.)

There are other ways.  In Berlin there is an outstanding model of care known as the "Krisenberatung" (literally "crisis advice") - these are centres dotted about the city, each staffed by a small team of medical and psychological experts.  Their role is not to judge or to medicate but to act as a net to catch those in danger of falling further into the psychological pit of despair, whether this be due to everyday anxieties, circumstances such as poverty or bereavement, a new situation (e.g. marriage breakdown, loss of a job) which someone can no longer cope with alone, or underlying disorders such as addiction, psychosis, schizophrenia or paranoia.  The team listens to you, and can advise on next steps; if needed they can refer to a psychiatric hospital, a group or a clinic where further help can be obtained.  They are free and open to all, and operate seven nights a week, that is, as an "out of hours" service for those who cannot or don't want to talk to their GP.  They are funded by a partnership between the city government, the health system, and a number of charities such as the German equivalent of the Samaritans. I used this service on several occasions for various reasons (none of which required medical treatment as such) and was always overwhelmed by the team's compassion, common-sense and use of non-medical language to describe what was going on; their ability to engage with each individual, not just try to fit those individuals into a textbook description.  This is so lacking in the UK; and yet, as the Radio 4 lady pointed out today, it's the lack of joined up care that is costing money, not its provision.

Maybe things are better in London where there is a greater number of people who work with different models of health and wellbeing, and more support groups.  What is certain is that up here, where it is needed so desperately, there is very little help available (or if there is, why isn't it emblazoned in ten-foot-high letters on every information board and shop window?).  One can easily feel that there is no-one to help, unless you are lucky enough to be able to talk to family or friends, which isn't always the case; sometimes people have no friends or family, sometimes they don't want to burden them, sometimes family and friends are not equipped to deal with the level of suffering that they are confronted with.  Sometimes people don't know themselves what's wrong.  Sometimes no-one ever discusses it; as on Rum where there is a bit of a culture that it's wrong to find things hard or scary; everyone knows who's alcoholic, or may guess at who's otherwise struggling, but how to talk about it?   

We've been asked to give our views as to what we'd like to see in the way of medical provision up in Lochaber.  Well, my vote will be for more support.  It doesn't have to be a GP costing £75k a year, though that might be nice.  Even more helpful would be some joining up of people who can provide a variety of services: support for carers, help with addiction, preventative screening through nurse clinics, wellbeing classes, forums where people can talk about their experience of life up here and what happens when you don't fit into the traditional community or don't feel that you do.

So I will get on and write a letter now.  But everyone out there - if you get a chance to tell the government and the NHS what you think, please do. And a final word - none of this takes away from the beauty and wonder of the Highlands, or people's love for their communities; it would just be nice to have a little bit more support to be able to enjoy it.

The Pig and Poultry Gazette, vol. 1

The other name for this post was going to be "Turkey Attacks!" but sshhhh....I don't want them to know I'm talking about them.

Nic and Ady and family were going off island for nine days, so asked if anyone could help look after their animals while they were away: four pigs (at time of asking) and assorted poultry, i.e. countless chickens, 6 turkeys, 8 geese and some ducks.  Somewhat nervously I volunteered - that was on a sunny, blue-sky day on a cheerful walk around the nature trail.  Actually looking after the animals included, as I'd expected, at least one day of torrential downpours, gales and falling over in the mud (me, not the animals).  All par for the course for hardy croft owners and my respect for Nic and Ady knows no bounds.  There is no let-up; come what may creatures must be fed and watered, and God knows this winter has been enough to test any crofter, however resilient.

Barbara, Tom and Piglet

The pigs were relatively straightforward, although just before Nic and Ady left the island I bumped into Ady and found out the penultimate piglet had had to be slaughtered slightly earlier than planned...Tom, its dad, had been getting too interested and trying to mate with it. It's never boring living with animals!
On my first day, all three pigs - Tom, Barbara and the last remaining piglet - were lined up at the top of their pen staring down anxiously towards the path, waiting for someone, oh, anyone to come and feed them...they'd been deserted for at least two hours! A noisy, joyous, if reproachful grunting greeted my arrival and the three of them hurtled heavily down the bank towards the gate where the feed is kept.  I'd also brought a bag of food scraps which I tipped over the gate, and within seconds, the pigs were mulching around in it, eating fast, but getting distracted by my throwing pig-nuts into the pen.  I attempted to scratch them behind the ears, but only Tom appreciated this treatment - Barbara reacted with suspicion and grunted at me, and I couldn't actually reach the piglet as he was too fast.  So I had to content myself with chatting to them and filling up their water by cunningly employing a stick to reach the tipped-over trugs without having to actually get into the pen...

Before the pigs, I'd run the gamut of a reception committee of poultry, also lined up to see who was coming up the path; except for one very slow chicken, who turned up late to the feed looking extremely perturbed. (Interesting behavioural observation: As the days passed, generally it was the chickens that noticed me first, while the geese, turkeys and ducks only seemed to catch on after the chickens had already taken up their place around the feed bin.  But there was one group of chickens that was always a little bit slower than the rest and on my way to the pigs I would bump into them hurrying as fast as they could down the muddy slopes, clearly annoyed that they'd overlooked feeding time yet again...)

Turkeys approaching...

On the first occasion I managed to scatter their grain without mishap; they were so intrigued by this new routine that they clearly forgot to worry too much about the actual food.  It was a different story a couple of days later, when I donned my hardiest waterproofs and headed down the stony trail towards the croft.  It was raining and I had to lift up the heavy stone on top of the bin, set it down carefully and then get the feed out.  As usual, the chickens were gathered waiting and as I started to scatter the feed, I heard the sound of the geese and turkeys catching on. Those turkeys are total drama queens.  There is no other word for it.  With squawks of outrage as if to say"Why didn't you tell us you were coming?!" they run down the croft, flapping their wings and lowering their heads as if going into battle.  And on this occasion they were!  Just as I had a cup of feed in my hand, the oldest and biggest male turkey, his blue wattles quivering with determination, came up and started pecking the bag and trying to get into it.  I fended him off with the lid of the bin, but he kept coming back and, as I bent down to pick up the stone, he flew at me with an especially loud squawk!  I'm ashamed to say I did not preserve my dignity...I yelled at him and then inadvertently sat down in the mud.  I tried to tell myself I had scared him off, but I think it may have been the other way round...

...getting closer...

Returning humiliated to the castle I explained dolefully that I had been attacked by a turkey...sadly it only made people laugh.  The next day, I made sure I practised my assertiveness training and despite the torrential rain, assumed an air of competence and ability to deal with any poultry...but I didn't hang around long with the feeding.

Be afraid!

The very last day I spent a bit of extra time with the pigs and was sorry to be ending my shift.  It has been a great experience and reminds me of how nice it is to have some responsibilities here for creatures other than myself, and how much of a commitment it is too...just as over Christmas, knowing I had to look after the chickens kept me going through the awful gales...I had to overcome my fear of the dark to go out and shut them in after dusk, 70 mph gusts or not, and returned with a great sense of triumph - not to mention the pleasure of listening to them clucking away contentedly in their straw.

We have now been offered chickens by Jinty, who is trying to rationalise her large flock by giving some away.  Caution has to be observed though, apparently it's important to have three chickens rather than two as then they are less likely to fight (they can't work out the pecking order when there are three...a bit like humans maybe), and the type of chicken is also important!  Ali up at the cottage has made the mistake of taking on small black chickens next to the large white ones she already has and the small ones are getting bullied.  We are looking for henhouses and already looking forward to fresh eggs.  It is not too much of a commitment, either, because everyone on the island likes having chickens, so if either or both of us are away, there will always be someone to look after them.

And in other news this week:  The rain earlier in the week caused the burn to rise by around 18 inches in just one day, but by the next day, it had fallen again.  I am still not used to how quickly the weather can change here.  No-one has removed the tree trunks from the river yet and my enquiry as to when it might happen met with the response, "I'm sure Dave or Rhys or somebody will remove the logs when they need them."  There is no such thing as a deadline on Rum...
The drama of getting fuel here continues. On Tuesday, someone finally came off the ferry who had a licence to drive the tanker...we were meeting the boat and so we saw him get off, but then once we were home, watched the pier mystified as the tanker did not move for at least an hour (Yes, we do watch the pier on boat days to see what's going on!)
Then I saw Sean turn up at Mel's office in the tractor, so rang her to get the news.
"The tanker man is too fat to get into the tanker and he doesn't fit behind the steering wheel."
So in the end Sean did the driving just as he would have done in the past, "supervised" by the tanker man, who got to have a ride on the tractor and a look at the castle, before going back on the boat a couple of hours later.  Our first visitor of the season!
He was followed closely by our second, an Italian man with a carrier bag and an iPad, who wandered around the village consulting his iPad at all times and looked at us suspiciously when we tried to get him to remove his headphones so we could talk to him.  But he did seem to have a purpose:
"The castle, is it open?"
"Yes, there will be a tour at 12.30."
"Very good."
So at 12.30 Mel waited at the castle for 15 minutes without him turning up.  Where was he? Where did he go between arriving at the village with his iPad, and departing from it two hours later, still clutching his iPad and carrier bag and not looking us in the eye...? We will never know.  But still - a bit like the first swallow - the first tourist has arrived.

January brings the snow...

And it does!
What a strange new year it has been so far...rather than the usual big bang of New Year's Eve followed by a reluctant and grumpy head back to work, this has been more of a slow burner gradually easing our way into 2014.

The storms are gone for now, but it's January alright, with the mountains on both sides of the Minch powdered and in some cases blanketed over with snow and hail. Billy's gang is back bravely mending the turrets in the iciest weather, back from their cosy (we hope) mainland homes and making do instead with a wood fire, endless cups of tea and old copies of the Sun and the Press and Journal in the old hostel in the evenings; when they've gone we raid the common room for newspapers to light our fire and catch up on month-old Scottish news; mostly stories about the independence vote, trouble on the A82 and Gaelic gigs in Aberdeen, not to forget the all-important puzzle page. 

Poor castle!

While Billy and the guys move from turret to turret on their cherry-pickers and ladders, we move from room to room, seeking out the warmest spots and dragging up heavy bags of coal to keep the fire going, and burning the old Christmas tree to give the room a smell of pine rather than soot. Cries of "are you trying to smoke us out?!" come from the roof where Billy is trying to re-point the chimney and after dark an eery light shines from under the tarpaulins where work carries on until well into the night.  But despite the cold, the days feel lighter already, the evenings are starry clear and the skies often blue.  The storm clouds have gone and we can see Jupiter and all four of its moons through our telescope, Orion is just above the horizon. It feels like a foretaste of spring, but will another, harder winter kick in after this short reprieve?

People are gradually meandering back to the island after the Christmas break.  There must now be around 30 people again, which feels like quite a lot after it was just about 10 over New Year.  I have signed up to look after pigs next week when the Goddards go off for nine days to the mainland; my first pig-keeping experience (and possibly my last depending on what happens!).  Rivers and burns are running high after our weeks of gales, and there is evidence everywhere of the damage the winds have done.

Stopping to greet Martin "The Deer Man" back from his two-month break (now starting another stint of month-long isolation at the Kilmory research station), we learn that deer have been found dead of the cold, which isn't usual in early January.  The sea has come right up over the shore road and dumped bricks and seaweed everywhere; the road to Kilmory and Harris is full of big stones washed or blown down from the mountains, trees have fallen into the river and ground that felt relatively stable is now marshy bog, as I found when I got lost in the wood across the way. That was an experience; on a short trip to feed a neighbour's cat at New Year, I decided to take what I hoped would be a short cut, through the once-Japanese garden (Lady Monica's).  From the castle, you can just make out abandoned statues and old rose arbours in the thickets of the wood, but nothing else is visible.  

Into the woods

To get to it, you cross a short, high wooden bridge painted red and spanning the normally sedate stream that runs down to the sea.  At the moment, though, the stream is a torrential flood, crashing over the rocks and heading down to the sea urgently, as if its life depended on it - the bridge is a slippery few steps above it. Nervously, I wonder if it's been damaged by the gales and if it's actually safe to walk on; I've never seen anyone actually cross it before, though Katharina did stand on it.  That was in summer, though.  Oh well, I'm on it now.  Having crossed it with caution, I am on the edge of the secret garden, towering rhododendrons to my left, the river to my right; surely it'll be easy to find the way, if I just keep the river on my right side, Vikki's house will be over...there. No, there.  No - wait a minute...By this time I've been making my clumsy way not along the river, as the ground there has become a large, soggy pool, but around the bog, which means going from log to log, tuft of grass to tuft of grass, balancing while holding on to the jutting black branches of fallen trees...and into the wood, where I realise I no longer have any sense of direction. It's raining hard and the rain is freezing cold, making it hard to see, but I get a sense of light over to the north and make for it.  Apart from the rain, it's uncannily silent and I can't see the castle, or the sea, or any signs of human habitation whatsoever.  I can only have been walking (or jumping) for about ten minutes, but it feels like I've been gone for hours.

The light is deceptive...it's suddenly open fields, which means I've come way too far...I'm on the edge of the fields below Hallival and Askival, where eventually, there must be the pony track to Dibidil...but this is real swamp now, with icy water below the clumps of slippery grass.  I'm not mad enough to venture out on that, but where should I make for?  Back?  Turning around I realise I can't make out which way I came...the tangle of dead trees, huge green rhododendrons and the occasional holly give me no help whatsoever.  I try to think clearly; surely if I'm on the edge of the fields, Vikki's house must be back and further inland, and I haven't crossed the river again, so logically it must still be behind me and now to my right, so if I go diagonally right, that must be more or less ok.

I am now getting nervous as it seems to be getting even wetter underfoot and I still can't see any houses.  The wind is roaring in the trees above and I hear twigs snapping all around me.  I begin to get the unpleasant sensation that the trees and bushes are crowding up behind me as I go through, so that I can't go back.  Also, my childish fear of being followed or jumped out on is taking over...I know it is stupid, so I try to be braver, then tell myself that is even more stupid as there's no need to be brave when there's no danger.  Just, on this island sometimes anything seems possible...there is no reason why people shouldn't be lost for days if they do get lost.  Why would anyone look for me here, I think?  Tragic visions of myself cold and hungry (although at least not thirsty) come to me and I have to laugh.  Surely it can't be long now.  Then I come to another stream.  Huh?  Where did that come from?  Well, there's nothing for it; I have to ford it, I'm not going back.  Climb every mountain...

A lone survivor in the secret garden

I'm embarrassed to admit that at this point I'm close to panic in its truest sense, the trees, darkness, rain and invisibility of anything else - not even birds are around, they're sensibly hiding from the rain - making me feel that I could have stepped out of time.  Maybe I have, and I'm lost in the secret garden for ever. The stream is deep and comes to the top of my boots, but it's not too wide and so despite the strength of the water I'm not afraid of being swept away - anyway it's better than staying in the limbo land of the wood.  I'm over!  Still unsure of where to go, but trying to keep in the same direction, I crash forwards and there, suddenly, as if coming out of nowhere, is Lyon Cottage. I stop to breathe more calmly and look back; I still can't make out how I got here.  But my sense of direction obviously wasn't as bad as I feared; I made it, although I'm soaked and covered in mud.

Knowing I've been lost but found my way out has an exhilarating effect.  Yes, it has an obvious symbolism for how things are on the island anyway...but being actually lost is quite a bit more scary than being symbolically lost, where you know that at least theoretically, you can symbolically find yourself again as well.  When you are actually lost, or think you could be, there's no guarantee of that.  Having emerged victorious, like a mini Jennifer Lawrence in the Scottish remake of The Hunger Games (24 Tributes fight over a lone haggis and a bottle of Baileys...the survival kit a pair of wellies and a can of Tennents), I knew it was only a tiny moment of being lost and nothing had really happened.  But I still felt strangely proud of myself, and in awe at how strange the island is.  Just a few feet away from "normality" (contractors and tractors, Co-op shopping on a ferry, chickens clucking) is a little world where a once-ordered garden is going back to the wild, you can be totally invisible, and the strength of the rivers and the wind can be genuinely frightening (did I mention that the gale was still blowing at this point and any of the trees could have come down...?).  But this isn't a bad thing...

The only way is up!

This experience had such an impact on me that I wrote a short story about it, and I realised that I think fear, in some circumstances, has often been something that spurs me on, has been a vital experience. Fear is probably the wrong word, though - there's an element of being afraid, but it's more to do with coming up against something bigger and more powerful and feeling totally in awe of it. Similarly the other day when I pushed myself and my bike up a huge hill just to see the scary weather coming in over Harris - the awesome light and the gale pushing through.   

I've had experiences here that made me anxious or even upset, as well as ones that are exciting and beautiful, but the two that have affected me the most were situations where I was alone, in situations I sought out but still couldn't anticipate.  Firstly when I went up the mountain on my own and my strange encounter with a giant sea eagle circling round me as if I was its next prey.  Secondly getting lost in a tiny wood where I had no idea how to get out, or even where I was.  In both situations my natural reaction was to run away, but I was also awed by these encounters with the island itself in its raw form - what it's like to be just on the island with no other humans around, no hiding places and to feel my own ridiculous panic in a situation that really doesn't call for panic at all.  I mean - I've been walking in the countryside all my life. Nonetheless, I did feel panicky in a way I know some people feel on the Tube, or when faced with an A-Z and asked to find Tottenham Court Road or Wandsworth.  Guess it just shows what a town mouse I am, but these are the experiences that oddly, made me start to feel closer to the island; not such a stranger after all.  Though I will be back in London and happily clutching my A-Z for a while soon, I know I will keep these experiences close in my memory and draw on them when I'm scared of other, more rational things...

Winter companions