I'm living my Scottish island dreams but I'll never forget my roots

The Herald Scotland

31-05-2025

'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.
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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.