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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
18-05-2025
- General
- The Herald Scotland
Life on Scottish island of just 40 residents is 'built on community'
Fifteen years ago, our village became community owned. And last week, we marked that anniversary together - residents, returning faces, a few curious visitors, gathered to celebrate not just a date on the calendar, but everything the purpose has come to mean. For the last few days, a bunch of us have been hunched over in the village hall, cutting out 16-point stars with facts about the village and painting mismatched signs to hang around the exhibition we've been planning for months. There's something grounding about setting out chairs and trays of home baking, testing out the hot water urns (and fixing the last minute leaks), and stocking up on fresh milk from the shop. There was a buzz to the planning, and it had all led to Friday's get together. Read more Elle Duffy As the newest arrival to the island, it was a learning experience. I got the chance to delve into the island's history and learn how many of my neighbours were instrumental in creating the island that I know and love today. I saw sun-burnt wedding pictures, baby pictures of teenagers that I've given lifts to across the village, and images of families who have long since left the island for new adventures. People arrived at the hall early, some queuing outside, excited to have a poke around the hall and get to know us a little bit better. They snaked around the carefully laid out displays we had throughout the building, marveling at how we got to where we are today, and what our community has managed to achieve since we took ownership of the village. But we didn't stop at memory. We also looked ahead. A display showcased upcoming projects: our ambitious plans for a new community hub near the old pier were talked about with excitement, and suggestions for possibilities for the island were written on the wall in their dozens. The island's kids drew their own visions - their favourite parts of living here, and pictures of friendship from across the years. Music followed, of course. It wouldn't be an island event without it. A ceilidh band who have frequented the island for events in the past - and don't yet have a name - struck their chords into the wee hours. Islanders created a potluck style buffet, as a way of thanks for those who had taken the time to join us in celebration. Strip The Willow ended with some stomped-on feet and peels of laughter, and the Canadian Barn Dance perhaps started a few too many drinks in. Everyone got a round correct at least once - but never at the same time. The hall became cosy very quickly, not least because the doors were promptly shut because of the midges, who were determined to join in the festivities. Halfway through the night, I ran to a neighbouring house with some friends to grab some fans to keep the heat at bay - but we barely minded. Read more Of course, my entire existence on this island comes down to the community. Rum Bunkhouse was one of the first - and definitely one of the largest - projects undertaken by the new community of owners, and the impressive 20-bed hostel was opened in 2014. Since then, it has welcomed thousands of people in its doors and held stories of adventures and friendship, and I'm lucky to be a tiny part of its journey. If you visit Rum, you'll likely meet nearly all of the island's 40 residents - the kids might be playing in the school playground when you get off the boat, I may be on the campsite chatting to some folk who have just pitched up, and a fair few of us will likely be at the village shop for a cuppa and a catch up. This is an island that truly thrives on community, and its future relies on it. There is still work to do—there always will be. Funding bids don't always succeed. Not every idea lands the way we hope. But we are still here, still building. And that, I think, is worth celebrating. Fifteen years ago, this village said yes to the long haul. And on Friday night, with the warmth of our community wrapped around us, we said it again. Elle Duffy lives on the isle of Rum
