I am lucky. Well, maybe lucky isn't the right word; I don't have good luck necessarily, but I am fortunate. Which sounds like the same thing.
It isn't.
To my mind lucky people meet their soulmates at 25, are in the right place at the right time to build their careers, find fulfilment at work and contentment at home, follow their hearts and know what they want.
Whereas fortunate people have the drive, the awareness and maybe the support to go and seek these things out when life does not present them on a platter. And when tough times come they can survive because they have to, they know the effort is worth it, even if that means holding everything in while waiting for the air to clear.
* * *
I think most people had some sort of epiphany or changed their lives and priorities in the last few years. Such shifts happen every day but not often en masse as has happened recently, changing all of us. Whereas past generations asked each other "what did you do in the war" as a conversation opener, we now ask "how did your life change in Covid?"
I didn't pivot very successfully in the pandemic. I managed to mentally get through it, regressing in many ways, but losing much of my impetuous to write with nothing to offset the solitude of living and working alone.
One of many plans cancelled in 2020 for me was a trip around Mull in a boat. But it was just pushed back (two years) and if nothing else Covid has taught us patience. So at the end of April I set off from Oban. It is lovely thing to do and I appreciate how fortunate I am to have such an experience. But what is so revelatory about a few days away on a boat?
I thought I knew this part of Scotland. I thought I knew the bays, the land, the beaches, the views, the weather, the changing seas, the wildlife (to a limited extent). But I had overlooked one massive proviso. I know them all from land...or from a CalMac ferry.
From the sea everything is different.
Me included, apparently. For the first time in a long time, while on this trip, I wanted to write. I didn't have to push myself or force it, I didn't need an impetus and wasn't trying to improve my focus. Rather it was the almost forgotten need to write, to order my thoughts, process the sensory experiences of the day and eventually explore emotions that were brought to the surface.
* * *
Like with the writing group I haven't edited what I wrote in the moment. It's not about judging what is good and bad, it is about the outpouring of something, anything; it can be about recording something wonderful or processing emotions or expressing frustration.
To write is the goal, that is enough.
Most of us in the writing sessions don't know where our writing is going. We might start out writing about one thing but when we are in the flow we are drawn along an unmarked path to a place that makes sense when we get there but was hidden from us at the start.
Unless you start, you won't finish, and just because the finish line isn't visible from the start does not mean we shouldn't seek it out. If anything, it being obscured is even more tempting.
Bunessen - The cuckoo spoke on the first day of May. It was late afternoon, benign but not what you would call calm. The breeze was picking up lines of briny water which cast shadows on the port side and glints of gold on the starboard. While the caw of a blackbird and the twinkles and peewitting of land and sea birds combined in the gentle bay.
Ancient red granite of the Ross and striated browns of the Burg mingled with last year's desiccated heather and yellowing grasses. Peppered on top were fresh young leaves of acid green in the trees and shrubs and the garish burst of yellow on the clusters of whin.
Shifting perspective turns the world on its head; the familiar becomes alien, the obscure apparent, the easy difficult and the inaccessible tantalisingly close.
Having abandoned geology more than two decades ago, I was mesmerised by the sheer cliffs of "the wilderness" and tried to recall lectures that explained their ancient formation. Basalt columns, seams of red and white granite among sedimentary layers, glacial features dumped rocks, fluvial rills and coastal erosion.
* * *
Treshnish Isles - Lunga
Dùn Cruit - Razorbills, skuas, puffins, shags, fulmars, kittiwakes and guillemots. "The cacophony" of sound falls over the precipice and into the Atlantic below.
Razorbills, elegant in black coats with white shirts underneath, make chainsaw noises as they mate, argue over territory or peck at fellow avian intruders. Their hooked black beaks with a single calligraphic white line, are then used to groom and court their partner.
Just inches away are nesting shags, thin with green-black feathers, yellow throats and emerald eyes, the males show off their fan crests and guttural cries.
Bobbing in and out of burrows, the puffins are close to and unaffected by birdwatchers, stretched out belly-long to capture the perfect shot on a six inch lens. Their small wings work hard against, or perhaps with, the updraughts as they tumble over the edge of the cliff.
Falling and flapping they reach the sea and bob along in their hundreds, a living feathered raft, occasionally diving below to fish. They are comical, ungainly, waddling about and struggling into the air or onto the cliff, but they are familiar, gentle, beautiful, empathetic and joyful. Above all they are themselves and simply go about their lives untroubled by the tour groups clambering for the perfect image to upload.
The fulmars swoop, stiff winged and large, off tiny ledges 100 feet above the crashing waves. They ride the updraughts too, but can easily come unstuck when trying to land large feet on slimy ledges of just a few inches deep. Abortive landings might happen five or six times before a slippery but successful one. This does not faze them in the least, perhaps they are having fun, banking and gliding in the spring sunshine.
So, while the razorbills are scrapping for territory, the puffins are shuffling about, the shags are roosting and showing off, the fulmars are playing about at landing on ledges and all on one rock, one precipitous escarpment, rising at a menacing angle and slipping into the chasm far below.
Covered in guano, seaweed and algae in places with tussocks of grass and birds, birds everywhere; birds calling, mating, fighting, birds clinging on, falling off, birds preening, courting, nesting...birds being.
I was never a twitcher, but you cannot be surrounded by thousands of seabirds and not be awed, charmed, grateful and aware that you are a guest in their world and not the other way around.
Having said that, though these islands are frequently uninhabited by humans, it was not always so. Lunga is a haven for the birds and was, for a few decades at the start of the nineteenth century, home to twenty people all year round before being relegated to a summer pasture for a few more years until being abandoned.
The village of six or seven dwellings and an enclosed vegetable patch is snuggled into the north side of Cruachan, Lunga's conical hill, to brace from south westerly storms. The curved corners on the blackhouses speak to the extent of the wind on the exposed islands off the west coast. (Lovely tune.)
The drystane work is impressive, sturdy and comforting even on a sunny day. Covered thickly in slow growing lichen which shows the cleanness of the air, as if we needed proof. Around the island are similar stone walls that do not connect but prevent livestock from slipping into the worst of the precipices.
It is hard to spend time here and not think about the people that built these walls, grew vegetables, protected their sheep. How they scratched out a living, tried to survive and raise children in one of the most beautiful but hardest places to thrive. Or to imagine the fishermen that shimmied over to Dùn Cruit on boat masts to collect eggs.
We see only the majestic views, marvel at the bountiful bird colonies and wonder at the picturesque ruins that dot photographs. Then slip and slide our way back to a lovely lunch and the comfort of a hot shower and a warm bed.
We tell Instagram stories of what we've seen but don't know the real stories, the history and experiences of the people who tramped here before us.
The other Treshnish Isles have castles, forts, links to the Lords of the Isles and Iona monks. There are connections to Jacobite risings and one tale of Maclean of Lochbuie and the "ugliest woman on Mull".
But the tales of Lunga's occupants are lost; and if they had not been so skilled at building drystane walls we might not know they were ever here at all.
History is like that; you think you know what happened but in fact so little is known of ordinary folk. High brow academics can strive for knowing the key players of the past, understanding political motivations of the elite and contextualising where we've come from as nations, geographic areas, clans and noble families. But where does that leave the masses?
Social history is not de rigueur; but without it, without the common people, there is no history, no culture, no songs, no stories. They might not have begun clan feuds, waged wars or incited rebellions but they were the ones that fought in them, risked their lives and those of their loved ones.
We were all there on Lunga because of them. The wildlife would still be doing their thing without us (undoubtedly with more ease) but the people would not. For that privilege we owe them the courtesy of at least stopping to notice they were once here. We can do history a service, for all the hardships our forebears faced, we can respect them, we can acknowledge them. And even though we know little of them, we can remember them in songs and stories and honour them in treating their land with the care it deserves.
Apologies for preaching but I see this happening everywhere, not just on the beautiful island of Lunga, and it always hits me. No one wants to be forgotten.
* * *
Ulva - the lush green of Ulva's mainly deciduous trees that dot the coastline also extend well into the interior. Oak, beech and sycamore, old and young, saplings and seedlings among mature woodland and mingling with imported spruce from the century before last.
Swathes of fragrant bluebells and the rarer, mutated white bluebells pop up in the shade of these trees, against ancient dykes covered in lichen and mosses.
All the while there is the hum of bees, nesting in the trees above and flying low over the floral pond cover, they have dark bodies with orange red stripes.
Prickly whin bushes with sun yellow flowers, their scent reminiscent of coconut climes, and the occasional broom with smooth grey green spines and pale yellow flowers that smell so sweet of summer that they fog the air.
The wind picks up as geese fly over, clucking to each other and swooping into the bay. A distant buzzard banks over the basalt headland and dives down as the flag flaps in the breeze.
Ulva was lovely. It is lovely. A peaceful and lush island that is easily accessed from the "mainland" of Mull. But for all its natural beauty, it is the human wildlife of the island which draws you in with as much fascination.
The ferryman is called from Ulva by sliding a wooden slat on the other side at the diminutive marina of Ulva Ferry, where boats are moored from trips to Staffa and the Treshnish Isles. One boat called Hoy Lass, a stalwart of these waters, has a defiant sign in the window reading "this is not the Ulva ferry"!
The ferryman, once called, emerges from his lookout and wanders down to his boat. He is laconic, unhurried, an islander twice over; what is there to rush for? He collects the walkers, the cafe visitors, the contractors working on the Ulva steadings and returns to the stone slipway.
Tying up, he helps his passengers to disembark and slopes back up to his lookout until, just minutes later he is called again and he emerges, again. His pace makes more sense over the two hours watching him.
The ferryman's dance is repetitive and regular, steady and yet he is not jaded and he exhibits no frustration. It is his job and he has a smile and chats amiably with strangers but many of his passengers and his fellow slip users are islanders, locals, so there is ample opportunity to share the craic with friends.
* * *
A group of tiny islands with machair covered rocks punctuate a west coast archipelago. Unspoilt, largely unvisited, unmanaged and privately owned so as to avoid interference from institutional bodies...visitors are not discouraged but neither are they invited. Respect for the environment is assumed and fulfilled as far as I could see. It was heaven.
Our island for an hour - The weather is squalling as we step onto rough broken shells. With bare feet and trousers rolled up, we splash onto the shore. A couple of seals watch from the water, their heads like small brown buoys bobbing on the clear, jade green and cold water.
The beach is a mixture of white yellow sand and shells, cockles, razor clams, winkles and limpets. Mussels and clams shells crunch and cut our feet as the rain beats gently on our faces as our launch slips back into the water, leaving us alone on the tiny island.
There are other small bays to explore and as the sun breaks through, warming our skin if not our feet, we clamber over rocks to reach the western beach.
Seaweed floats burst and cushion our tender feet, offering a welcome respite from the sharp shells, but the sea here is even colder.
The salt-sticky lichen covered rock can also be traversed to reach grassy hummocks of sea thrift, bluebells and lush yellow primroses that flourish in the boggy crevices.
We chase the good weather round the northern tip of Mull. Strong south westerlies are coming; our boat is hardy, it can cope with bad weather but we are soft and seek a safe harbour to see out the worst of the winds.
Approaching from the north we pass the first forestry commission trees in days, the first ferries (to Barra and Morven), the first walkers (and gawkers maybe), pausing on benches who are happy enough to sit and gaze, to wave and smile.
Mooring up for the night among other boats, wildlife is still all around us. Shags are drying their wings on enormous buoys while skuas swoop into forest covered nests with seaweed dangling from their beaks, next to a gentle waterfall.
It is a safe harbour for porpoises and seas, for ferries and pleasure craft, for tour groups and fishermen. For us too; the wild south westerlies hit tonight...
The ship
Misty start this morning. A very gentle breeze, but mainly it was still on the water. The cloud and mist mingled at a low level so that Tobermory was almost obscured from just 600 metres away.
Around the headland came the Thalassa, a three masted tall ship that we had been spotting for days. Dark hulled with sails furled and the masts only just visible through the mizzle.
Under power but at almost walking speed, she crept towards us, becoming more definite, more dark, more intent.
With nothing around her but water, the headland and the mist, she looked timeless, ageless and not of the 21st century at all.
The arrival of the Thalassa, coupled with days at sea and on deserted islands save for the crowds of seabirds, made our arrival into Tobermory a bit of a culture shock; suddenly there were people, tourists, in their dozens first thing and in their hundreds by noon.
It was jarring, and with just a short shore leave we didn't even have time to acclimatise over a few drinks in the Mishnish.
* * *
Sheltered
We sit in silence. We read out books in silence. We check our messages (with the aid of Mull's 4G towers) in silence. The strong south westerlies are due to hit the west coast. But moored up in Tobermory Harbour we are shielded from the wind by the island herself.
We eat our food in virtual silence. The seabirds go about as normal, feathering their nests, feeding, preening and courting, sometimes loudly. We drink our tea in silence.
We have never seen these birds, these islands, eaten this food, met each other, or will again. We look, we eat, we take photos, we send them, we hear stories of the islands, details of the birds and their behaviour, their challenges.
We have seen it, heard it, smelled it, tasted and touched it.
But did we really?
And did it touch us?
Would we remember what we have seen if we didn't take a photo, hear the birds if we didn't record them? Would we be believed if we had no proof of our experiences? Can we engage with the world when we are so sheltered, so disengaged, so interested in recording, bagging, owning, philosophising, impressing our own experiences over other's?
I am aware of my hypocrisy here; I took photos, recorded seabirds, wrote my experiences down and am now blogging about it.
My excuse is that without any of these "proofs" the core engagement would still be there; I felt connected (I still do) to the land, the culture, the history. And, although it was almost absent on this trip, the music that is so intertwined with the people and this part of the world.
Unfortunately, the people around me, who were so excited to see a single gannet, had no interest in culture. The west coast of Scotland was a theme park to them; they were untouched by the stories, the people, the history.
But my sense of connection, belonging and understanding, after such a long period of numb oblivion, was wonderful; pure joy and relief, if I'm honest. I had forgotten how it felt to be a part of the world again, to feel as well as see what was around me.
How could I not feel a connection to this extraordinary place?
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