Scottish ferry where your petrol jerry cans need their own tickets

The Herald Scotland

11 hours ago

The reality, however, is that the hills and hikes I talk about so fondly are something I don't get to experience often at all. I spend 90% of my time in the village, only venturing out onto the reserve once a month to take readings of our night sky, and the odd time for a breather during a rare few hours of freedom.
So what do we do when this elusive 'free time' finds us in June? The list is as long as my arm. And the theme is cleaning. It's not your everyday hostel clean - the 'four hours to make this place sparkle while also being available at reception' routine is a well-oiled machine at this point in the season. Instead, it's the deep, honest clean that leaves an ache in our lower backs and a sense of satisfaction at the end of the day.
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We unearth the socks lost under bunks or single walking poles left behind in reception. We change shower caps and bleach trays, and finally tackle the cluttered laundry room that's been driving us crazy for weeks. We descale the kettles, tighten up the door handles, and revel in having a washing machine laying empty for long enough to give it a thorough once over.
These jobs aren't glamorous, and they don't make it onto Instagram - I don't think I'd have the energy for it even if I tried. But these jobs are what keep this place ticking. They're not always noticeable, but they're there, and now, they are complete.
It's not just the physical maintenance that has our attention. It's also a chance to catch up on admin, which may not involve bleach, but can still be just as tiring. Chasing invoices, ordering more printer ink, organising fire alarm safety checks.
This week, that admin has involved one of my least favourite trials of island life - ordering fuel. We don't have a petrol station here, nor do we have a fuel truck that comes over for vehicles. Instead, it's a coordinated dance between you, the ferry and the local fuel station. For the avoidance of any doubt, the parties in this routine are wonderful. They always pick up the phone with a smile, and they've been doing this long enough that when I confusingly ask the most basic of questions, they don't bat an eyelid and immediately help with my struggles.
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To order fuel, you have to first book your jerry cans on the ferry. They have to have their own ticket, and their own dangerous goods form - even if they're empty, I was surprised to find. But here lay my first problem. Searching in the back of our shed, I found the three cans I'd been looking for, however they were a distinct rusted orange instead of their khaki green. It took more than a week for my replacements to arrive, and by then, our petrol mower had mowed its last blade, and our vehicle was steadily nearing the end of its tank. But once the tickets were bought and the forms filled out, it was time to let the fuel station know what was coming their way.
It's a coordinated two-step of phone calls and dates, but this time, it wasn't to be. Turning up to the boat on Monday, they were turned away. Too many passengers on the ferry, they said. Ach, well.
And so the jerry cans came back home, still empty, to wait their turn. Just another job delayed (only until Friday, mind you), another small job folded into the long to-do list of June.
Because it's never truly quiet here. The guests might slow down, but the work doesn't. It just shifts. From full beds to empty jerry cans, from muddy boots to fresh mop heads. And it's what keeps this place - and me - ticking, one day at a time.
Elle Duffy is a former Herald journalist who lives and works on Rum