Anything is possible when a duckling fits in a pocket

The Herald Scotland

03-05-2025

On Friday night, as we gathered in the village square for our unofficial pub night, one of the kids took a tumble. It was wet and getting darker by the minute, and his knees were muddied. His face was stained with tears.
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'I want to go home, mummy,' he cried at eight o'clock. 'I want to go home now.'
But before his mum could reply, an unlikely hero came to the rescue. A few chirps and a squeak sounded, and suddenly, a duckling was produced from someone's fleece pocket. A tiny brown duckling with faint yellow stripes peered through their fingers, and the wee boy's face lit up.
He spent the night feeding 'Hoppy' crushed digestive biscuits and water, crouching on his knees every so often and cooing at just how cute he was.
I'd like to say that this was a rare occurrence, but really, I've come to realise that just about anything is possible here, and that 'normal' doesn't seem to be in our lexicon. Lesley, Hoppy's keeper, had spent the night before chasing the fluffy ball of feathers through the garden and under a bush. He'd escaped from his mother, and the hooded crows were beginning to circle. It was 11pm by the time Hoppy had been secured, and since then, he'd been tucked in the warmth of her pocket.
While writing this, I asked Coinneach to turn out his pockets. Of course, guys' clothes come with much more storage space, and there were a lot of nooks and crannies to peek at. In his trouser pocket, he had an Allen key, two sets of oddly shaped keys that open the plastic box of paper towels in the loos in the Bunkhouse, and a handful of sea shells. The Allen key immediately brought a sheepish look across his face; we don't have many down at work, but it's something we use every day. The toilet roll holders around our workplace aren't easily changed, and need a certain size of Allen key to jimmy the lock open, and change the loo rolls accordingly. And more often than not, the black key slips into one of our pockets and makes its way home with us, only rearing its head the next day when the other has a shift starting and the cupboard is suspiciously Allen-key-less.
In his fleece pocket, there's a single yellow zip. It isn't connected to anything, but has broken off an equally yellow inflatable Pikachu costume - one that's sat stowed away in cupboards for the last five years. It broke off just days after we moved here. We let slip to the kids on Halloween that such a costume existed just mere hours before a party was due to kick off in the village hall. And despite us living on the island for less than 48 hours at the time, our first impression on many of the islanders was that of Coinneach attempting to squeeze through the creaky door in his inflatable get up, and the zip breaking when the kids wanted a turn later in the night. We're sure it's an easy fix and a quick refasten, but the children don't need to know that.
I'm on the mainland this week - less shopping and seeing friends like last time, and more squeezing in as many appointments and to-dos before the season is in full swing. Once on board the ferry, we changed from our wellies and waterproofs into our mainland white trainers and jeans, which normally lay untouched in the bottom of our wardrobe.
I don't wear makeup on Rum, nor do I style my hair; two things that used to be the most important part of my morning routine. It makes visiting family in Inverness feel like a rare treat worth dressing up for. We've already gorged ourselves on pizza and cocktails - and if you read last week's column, you'll know just how good that first takeaway tasted.
And reaching into my pocket earlier today, I felt the familiar metal of the Allen key. 150 miles from home, but a welcome reminder that we're never too far away from Rum.
Elle Duffy is a former Herald journalist who is now living and writing from the Isle of Rum