Finding a different pace in Scotland’s version of Hawaii

by Karen Darke (United Kingdom (Great Britain))

I didn't expect to find United Kingdom

The queue is full of travellers in typical Scottish summer attire; puffy jackets zipped right up, hoods and hats and luggage trailing. No one seems interested in our flimsy boarding cards as we board The Clansman ferry. It looks a hardy vessel, white paint dribbled with rust and the drone of its engine grumbling of hard work. We’ll leave Oban to head due west, a four-hour roll on the waves via the Isles of Mull and Coll until eventually we’ll land at the surf-bashed, tree-less Isle of Tiree. Perhaps it is the promise of entering a curious no-man’s land that makes me feel calm: there will likely be no mobile signal and no wi-fi that works. Setting ‘sail’ for the Shipping Forecast fringes of Britain, I notice my busy mind slowing and it’s to-do list drift away. The ferry has one cafe with a basic menu: porridge, beans on toast, black pudding or a full Scottish breakfast. I just order a coffee. Simple. No decaf, soya or coconut milk, no syrups or extra fluff, no barrage of extra temptations to resist. Then I settle into a plasticky reclining seat, and despite the whimpers of dogs and babies, sink into a peaceful sleep like I haven’t known for days. We trundle off the ferry with a handful of cars, the chill wind a reminder that we are sharing the latitude with southern Alaska. “Welcome to Hawaii of the North!” Mark, the husband of the local vet, enthusiastically greets us. He doesn’t know us, but has donated his day to escort us around. We drive a single-track road meandering across a flat expanse of brilliant yellow irises: the machair, fertile and packed with wildflowers and birdlife. It falls away to clear, pristine sea and glowing white sands of crushed shells. The landscape and it’s striking shades send tingles down my spine. “We have more summer sunshine hours here than any place in Britain you know!” Mark effuses. People come to live in Tiree impromptu: a holiday with no return home, the magnetic attraction of a slower-paced life pulling people from all wefts of life. On route to the Cobbled Cow cafe for lunch, we swing by some sights: the village shop with homemade fudge and crafts, it’s drinks aisle suggesting that Irn-Bru sells better than Coke; the new seafood vending machine to gawk at the giant crab and langoustines; the airport more the size of a carport, where boarding would take less than five minutes including time to stop and breathe the beautiful air before leaving - why would you? - for a fast, polluted land. Arriving at the Cobbled Cow we discover it offers far more than lunch. We could visit the ophthalmologist, the chiropodist, get massage or chakra clearings, join a community class, or trade animals at the monthly farm sale. We arrive at the house, a wind-battered, grey-clad, somehow austere place: Lydia’s home. Like her, it has an air of resilience, lines that are broken and scars that show it has endured. She will be home when school ends, full of stories about the aches and pains of teaching life. She will fuss and spoil us; we already spied the heavily decorated chocolate cake and the fridge bursting with pots and dips and nibbles. Despite being younger than me I think how she reminds me of my Great Aunt Margaret, bustling, caring, full of treats. Meanwhile, I sink into the mattress to the sound of larks and distant waves, turquoise and blue washing me into a sleep. I never sleep in the afternoon. Later, cake devoured and stories told, we lie at the empty beach. We are clad in puffy jackets not bikinis. Our television is the sky. I breathe the sea air deep into my lungs, and feel the moment. Friends together in a land of space and time: momentarily carefree, hearts beating slower than they have in a long while.