Latest news with #Coinneach
The Herald Scotland
4 days ago
- Climate
- The Herald Scotland
I'm living my Scottish island dreams but I'll never forget my roots
'Your people have arrived!' another said. They started rhyming off surnames of people they know from the area, as anyone in Scotland will do if you say you're from a particular village. Street names, schools - everything was on the table. And everyone had a connection. A few years ago, the village I grew up in had just over five thousand people - and of course now, my current village has less than 40. Read more It's a small world, when these two small populations have so much in common. The hillwalking group came on the day the heavens opened. After weeks of glorious sunshine and no-jacket weather, there were suddenly heavy hailstones and winds that threw the loose rubbish bags from outside our house across the street (no, our skips have still not been emptied). One chap decided after one night that the rain wasn't for him - he left 18 hours after he arrived, with the promise to be back to enjoy the island in all its beauty and sunshine. For those who remained, their boots were wet and midge nets well-used, but their aching joints made for great stories to tell of their trips to Kilmory and up Askival. And while the rain scuppered some plans and put a literal dampener on some people's spirits, I could've danced in it. It was a warm tropical rain that lashed down to earth and soaked you through, but suddenly our hills looked a luscious green and my car was no longer an orange-sandy mess. The metal roof of our cottage bore the brunt of it, and we had to raise our voices to be heard. It also meant that the annual Shearwater count was brought forward. While I chatted away to the hillwalking club and washed tea towels and loos, Coinneach was halfway up Hallival, armed with a ham sandwich and a pair of binoculars, joining the team from NatureScot for the day. Every year, they take a trip up the rugged slopes of Hallival where the Manx Shearwater call home. Manx Shearwater (Image: Elle Duffy) It's their breeding season, and having been back on the island for a few weeks, they've begun laying their eggs. Have you ever been to a museum or exhibit where you have to shove your hand in an unknown box and guess what's inside? This was the job of those out on the hills last week. They reached the burrows along the side of Hallival, and with a careful trepidation, pushed their hands inside until they were up to their shoulder. Then, they had to feel around, slowly, carefully, for a moss-covered nest and feathers - and then, the bird itself. Tiny - around the size of a small seagull, sitting atop the single egg they lay. Some would peck; their home was being invaded by an unknown hand, after all. But once the rangers reached underneath and felt the smooth curve of an egg, their job was done. There was the sad moment where an egg would be cold, meaning their parent hadn't returned and was therefore abandoned. And another when the bird was present, but not breathing. But overall, the count was a success - so many healthy, happy birds with viable eggs that'll turn into fluffy Manxies come August. Their home will be a green one, and they'll grow up surrounded by the hills and the open air. And honestly, I'm glad I started out with stone slabs in my mainland village. They are two vastly different worlds, and yet I appreciate them both in so many ways. They've both shaped me in body and mind, and I'll always have a deep connection to my roots and my present. And in the end, I'll always be a little girl from Holitin, living her island dreams on Rum.
The Herald Scotland
03-05-2025
- General
- The Herald Scotland
Anything is possible when a duckling fits in a pocket
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. Read More Life on a Scottish island: 'This place is just magical, isn't it?' On a Scots island, you'll find your saviour serving in a village shop Life on a Scottish island: Hello there - can we borrow your forklift? '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
