The More Things Change...

This month I got stranded by the weather for the first time.  I meant to return from a car club meeting on Eigg on the Sheerwater, a little passenger boat which runs from Arisaig.  However, no amount of eyelash fluttering would persuade them to brave the waves across the Sound of Rum, so I had to take the Calmac ferry back to Mallaig and spend the night there.  I'm lucky to have a friend there who lets me stay in his spare house at times such as these.  It was like having a day off from my life, and reminded me of some of the long solitary journeys I made in my more youthful days; that sense of being in limbo, between places, outside my self.  On the other hand, being on Rum is often like being on a mythical fantasy island, removed from the outside world.  The mainland is erased by cloud and the goings-on of the village become suffocatingly everything.  Being not-on-Rum, but looking at it half obscured by mist, it seemed tantalisingly easy to just not return; to not stop at Mallaig but keep going away, away, away.

I’ve been examining this tendency in myself to pack up and leave when things get a bit ... well, a bit much.  A friend across the water recently set herself the challenge of not leaving the similarly isolated community in which she lives, for a whole year. She’s making a film about it, which I’m looking forward to seeing.  At the end of the year she fled to London and hasn’t been seen since – I can understand this, but wonder if the pull of the wild land and open spaces will eventually be too much.  I am absolutely certain that not leaving Rum for a whole year would drive me insane; but perhaps it wouldn’t.  Perhaps standing still and acknowledging what’s going on is a more healthy way of doing things.  Running is easy.  Sitting through the turmoil is much more difficult.

I haven’t measured the time since I came here by photographing myself in the same place every day.  I haven’t kept a diary with any regularity.  I do try and sit in stillness for ten minutes each day, but have lacked even this simple discipline in recent months.  I strive to measure time by what I achieve between one point and the next, but have found it unsatisfying to do that here, because of the way time works – nothing happens for ages, then everything happens at once.  Time moves in stops and starts; backwards, forwards, sideways.  A week can seem to last a month, but there are some months I can’t account for at all (August, for example).

I find change unsettling, and yet staying in one place doesn’t stop things from changing.  When I came here I didn’t know what to expect, but I did expect there to be some kind of stability or continuity.  It’s a remote, isolated island.  Surely all that changes is the weather?  In fact, there is a constant coming and going of people.  Again and again, I form quick, deep bonds with people who move away after a few months, and so I start all over again with new people; but how long will they last – how long will I last?

I’ve been thinking hard about my motivation for coming here – the job, the sense of helping a community to achieve something.  But the community is fragmented, we don't speak with one voice, we're a collection of individuals rather than a single organism.  I'm tired of writing the same thing over and again in funding applications, of consulting everyone yet again on the same project becuase this is what funders require.  If only we had our own money & could just make things happen without being at the mercy of grant funding.  Many of the beneficiaries of my hard work seem completely indifferent to the changes I’m helping to bring about.  If nothing happens, as nothing has happened historically, what difference will that make?  Change is unsettling.  Time will tell.

Summertime...

July was a month of visitors.  I suspect my parents view my move here with some bewilderment and I’m never sure what to do with them when they visit.  They’re not really walkers, birdwatchers or nature enthusiasts, and there’s little else to do here.  I could just let them sit around and read books, but they can do that anywhere and I want to share my lovely island with them and somehow make them  understand why I’m so smitten with it.

Papadil

A friend and I hitched a lift to Harris & walked to Papadil on the south side of the island.  The sea sparkled blue in the lovely summer weather we’re starting to take for granted, and Papadil was cradled under Sgurr nan Gillean like a little lost world.  I was briefly excited by movement in the bay at Inbhir Gil, primed to look for minke whales by a number of recent sightings, but it was just a seal observing us with typically detached curiosity.

We had a visit from the Minister for Environment & Climate Change, though we were unimpressed by his apparent lack of interest in what we’re doing, and left wondering why he bothered to come at all.  Our Climate Challenge Fund project, Greening Rum, is proceeding with typical slowness – the polytunnel is still not up, the rotor composter hasn’t arrived yet, and when we went to roll out the loft insulation we discovered woodworm which will need to be treated before we cover it with fabulous non-itch ecowool made from recycled bottles.

I’m rueing the day I thought it would be a good plan to apply to the new Coastal Communities Fund.  With only £1.8million for the whole Highlands & Islands, we went for a middling amount to get the Byre redevelopment off the ground and were invited to submit to stage 2; a rare event, by all accounts.  However, the amount we’ve requested is only around 10% of what we need for Phase I now that the Feasibility Study is complete with figures.  I’m stumped about where we’re going to find the rest, but I’m sure we’ll find it somewhere.  I’m thoroughly daunted by the two 38-page forms I have to fill in for what is essentially a teeny tiny amount of money.  Luckily about 10 pages of each form are guidance notes...  Making the Byre project happen feels a lot like standing at the bottom of a very steep mountain & wondering how I’m going to get to the top.

This month I managed to spend 28 straight days on the island, but it was good to get away for a weekend of hillwalking in Perthshire.  Two days felt like two weeks.  Must remember that I don’t need to do everything, and it’s ok to let things evolve in their own time.  I don’t know if it was just being in one place for four whole weeks, but it feels as though the relentless onward march of Time slowed down this month, and July went on for ages.  Not a bad thing.  I’m hoping that August will proceed at a similar leisurely pace.

Rum from Muck

Don't Mention the Midges!

Apparently it’s been the wettest June on record in the UK – except for the North West of Scotland, where it’s been remarkably dry.  Unfortunately, this has not affected the midge population.

Rather than avoid the subject of our less welcome residents, the Isle of Rum Think Tank got together and decided to embrace them and hold a festival in their honour.  So MidgeFest is born – put it in your diary for the 4^th August; you have to get up early to catch the ferry (or come on the Sheerwater from Arisaig later on) but you can spend 10 hours on Rum and take part in various Rangery, crafty and fun activities.  It’s aimed at families, but everyone’s welcome!  Watch the Isle of Rum website for info.

Last week I went to Ullapool for one of the Local Development Officer get-togethers organised by our funders, Highlands & Islands Enterprise.  I value these events as I get to show off to my fellow D.O.s about how much funding I’ve drawn down recently and what excitement is going off on Rum (What? Competetive? Me?).  I also get reminded that I’m not alone in wading through treacle, and the numerous frustrations dragging me down day to day are the same ones experienced by people in community development everywhere.  People are what they are – wonderful, maddening, individual, and communities are the sum of their people parts.

One of our residents has left to return to her native New Zealand – it’s a big loss to us as she was an active volunteer as well as working for the Trust.  She was probably the best ambassador for the island we had; cheerful, chatty, friendly, and spreading the word wherever she went.  She was instrumental in making me feel welcome when I arrived, helping me move in, showing me around, and introducing me to everyone.  I will miss her a lot, and I’m sorry I didn’t spend more time with her when I could have – her departure is a timely warning against taking things (and people) for granted.

So here I am counting my blessings: I’m young(ish), healthy, I have wonderful friends here and elsewhere, I live in a most amazing place, I have a nice house and a good job – and things are moving; slowly, but definitely moving.

Yet I’m feeling a bit stale.  I’ve achieved all my personal goals.  What I’m doing at work should be enough for one person – taking forward two big building projects as well as all the small day to day stuff – but as my friend in the Scottish Parliament likes to say: if you’re not growing, you’re stagnating (he says it with an ironic face on).  I still haven’t figured out what I’m doing here or which direction I want to grow in, but the island meets several of my Requirements for a Happy Future Life, such as:

• Off-grid living
•  Potential for near self-sufficiency on a community scale
•  Shiny, happy, like-minded people

Yet I’m still reluctant to commit to being here for a longer term than the length of my contract.  I still feel temporary.  What’s that about?

One Year On

For those who haven’t been following my adventures on a remote island on the Scottish Community Land Network, you can catch up here (start at the bottom of the page).

For the rest of you; here I am again!  A friend recently impressed upon me the absolutely vital importance of continuing the blog; as a way of recording the passage of time and my changing responses to events as they unfold, if nothing else.  Several glasses (or was it bottles?) of wine may have been drunk at the time, but a certain wisdom in her words stuck with me so instead of waiting to see what happens with the new Highlands & Islands Enterprise website, I’m going to pick up the story here.

I’ve been reading through my original blog posts, and am struck by the surge of optimism and naivety which carried me to Rum, and by how it was gradually eroded as time went on and the realities of just how damn hard it is to live alone in a remote place.  Every single thing is so much more difficult; every step forward involves at least five steps backwards (or sideways).  And yet ... a year later, I’m still here.

 

We’ve been having some exceptionally lovely weather – the kind that makes me realise there’s nowhere in the world I’d rather be than right here.  I’ve also finally arrived in the Time Of Change I’d been looking forward to all winter.  Our new crofting family has settled in beautifully, although the “Rum Effect” has stalled the progress of their static caravan at the beginning of the croft access track, rather than actually on the croft where they’d like it to be.  They’re being remarkably stoic about it, and say they’re enjoying all the attention from walkers passing on their way to or from the Nature Reserve.  The Weshman and his (not)Wife have also arrived and started work on Tattie House, the only privately owned property on the island.  They’re living in a touring caravan for the summer and blogging [http://tattiehouse.wordpress.com/] about it.  One of our families has left for a new job on the mainland, and will be replaced by an older couple this month.  That makes 8 new people so far this year.  I’m pretty excited to see what will happen...

We have some new faces on the board of the Trust, with two Directors returning from taking a break and one newbie who’s already proved her brilliance by taking over the management of the camping cabins (before she even became a Director).  Yes, the cabins have arrived and yes, all the wailing and gnashing of teeth was worth it because they’re incredibly popular and they make me smile every time I pass them, knowing that I made that happen.  It was a bit touch and go for a while; - the bases almost didn’t get built in time - but thanks to Dave Won’t-be-Beaton and Miss McGinty’s Dad, everything turned out fine.  The composting toilet is also in situ and in use – it’s rather too beautiful to be hidden away beside the boatshed.  The pier is spick and span, with some screening around the rubbish skips so they’re not the first thing you see when you arrive.  It sort of all happened at once, and I was so exhausted by then that I just wanted to crawl into bed and sleep for a month.

The community’s grand designs for a bunkhouse and the redevelopment of the Byre buildings are proceeding apace.  We have a site and a design for the bunkhouse, now all we need is the half a million pounds needed to make it real.  The Centre at the Edge (everyone still calls it the Byre project) is a longer-term prospect which I’m approaching with some trepidation.  It’s going to be massive.  I’ve already applied for some money to get it started, from the Coastal Communities Fund with its year-long lead in time, but I suspect it’s going to be oversubscribed so I’m waiting to see what happens.

I’m trying to clear my To Do list before I go off on holiday for 10 days in June, but I keep adding things to it rather than crossing them off.  Our Climate Challenge Funding came through and they are my most favourite funder to deal with because they make everything so easy; others could learn a lot from them (I’m looking at you, LEADER).  Our polytunnel has arrived!  It’s stored in the boatshed because one of our resident Twitchers has requested that we wait until the grasshopper warbler which has made its home in the long grass of the walled garden has finished nesting.  “When will it be done?” I asked.  “July,” he replied.  Ah, Rum.  So rewarding, so frustrating.