Leaving
19/02/07 14:55
Wow, Eigg.
Ten eventful days and now a three or four hour journey back to the mainland, via Rum and Muck. I've found a plug in the corner of the top room on the little ferry: woo-hoo! Power is a happy compromise; getting online can wait.
I don't quite know how to give a sensible overview of my time on Eigg. "It's been mental" is the first phrase which comes to mind, allowing me to encompass the surprises and serious excitements as well as the severe lows. Again, as I found on Ullapool, many of the cliches I might have imagined I discovered, from the gossip culture of island life, to the slow pace of living, lack of technology and strong community feeling. The surprises came from myself, as I watched myself adapting to my own astonishment. A particular moment in the first few days, having successfully made myself a hot water bottle on the little gas stove in my caravan, and I realised I was enjoying myself. Accomplishing that small task of independence made me feel that I was coping with the challenges, and that I could cope. This left me freer to enjoy my experiences.
Another (hand-written) diary extract (Thursday 15th February):
"Painted sign white, then dug for about an hour. Sun came out. Made omelette lunch. More painting. Then veg preparation: leeks, brussels, spuds. Made sausages. Did animal feed. Book. Made dinner. Book. That's it really. Beginning to cope with / enjoy life. I like the fact that I can describe it so simply. That is all that happened. I didn't hear anything particularly interesting. I'm not reading anything of particular relevance. There's no point just at this minute worrying about anything particuar. The only thing of minor interest is my discovery of how long it takes to prepare vegetables... The great conundrum: money or time."
Meeting some more people helped too. I discovered on my second weekend that there were more options to living on Eigg than staying in my caravan every evening (yes, even in February). On Friday I had a day off and went down to the pier, taking photographs of the ferry and later of the cows. Ferry time, especially on a Friday, I found to be quite the event. The tea room and shop turned into a hive of activity, of people collecting, dropping off post, exchanging news, gossip, smoking together. I myself recieved a few second glances, a rare February visitor, as well as friendly introductions by people I'd only just met. Then Hannah, who I'd met in the office told me about a meeting / talk later in the afternoon by some architects from Skye about rural housing, and I jumped at the chance of attending (something to do! people to see!). I found myself ridiculously excited at the prospect of being in a room with a handful of other people - excited enough to shower and change my clothes into only slightly muddy jeans. Wow.
As I'd hoped / anticipated, the meeting led to drinks down in the pier bar, which was fun (a word on definitions: "pier bar" and "tea room" are in fact the same place, the former emerging out of the latter at an unspecified moment, perhaps when more people are drinking beer than tea; and "bar" is a few boxes of cans in a store room). People were nice to me: friendly, interested or bored enough to make me feel rapidly welcome. Perhaps people need each other more here; in the dearth of visitors that is midwinter I felt like quite a celebrity. In my diary later, drunk, I wrote:
"Is this why people live here, for these moments, when life is absolutely, unalterably beautiful, positive: for these moments, when you cannot believe that life can be any way otherwise than starlit, with clouds of acne lights... How can I describe it, that wonderful, bumpy journey home across the island, all in a van together like old, old friends? I wanted it to go on for ever..."
As I left, the ferry drawing away from the pier and seperating me from the island, on my way back to the mainland, towards 'home' - something I'd been anticipating since I'd arrived, feeling nervous and lonely - I felt a strong wave of unqualified longing, and I realised that I'd had a good time, and I felt sad to be leaving having only just realised this. I know I can, of course, go back, but I wonder whether it might be better to appreciate the place as one which travels with me; I can never retrieve the Eigg I've experienced.
Ten eventful days and now a three or four hour journey back to the mainland, via Rum and Muck. I've found a plug in the corner of the top room on the little ferry: woo-hoo! Power is a happy compromise; getting online can wait.
I don't quite know how to give a sensible overview of my time on Eigg. "It's been mental" is the first phrase which comes to mind, allowing me to encompass the surprises and serious excitements as well as the severe lows. Again, as I found on Ullapool, many of the cliches I might have imagined I discovered, from the gossip culture of island life, to the slow pace of living, lack of technology and strong community feeling. The surprises came from myself, as I watched myself adapting to my own astonishment. A particular moment in the first few days, having successfully made myself a hot water bottle on the little gas stove in my caravan, and I realised I was enjoying myself. Accomplishing that small task of independence made me feel that I was coping with the challenges, and that I could cope. This left me freer to enjoy my experiences.
Another (hand-written) diary extract (Thursday 15th February):
"Painted sign white, then dug for about an hour. Sun came out. Made omelette lunch. More painting. Then veg preparation: leeks, brussels, spuds. Made sausages. Did animal feed. Book. Made dinner. Book. That's it really. Beginning to cope with / enjoy life. I like the fact that I can describe it so simply. That is all that happened. I didn't hear anything particularly interesting. I'm not reading anything of particular relevance. There's no point just at this minute worrying about anything particuar. The only thing of minor interest is my discovery of how long it takes to prepare vegetables... The great conundrum: money or time."
Meeting some more people helped too. I discovered on my second weekend that there were more options to living on Eigg than staying in my caravan every evening (yes, even in February). On Friday I had a day off and went down to the pier, taking photographs of the ferry and later of the cows. Ferry time, especially on a Friday, I found to be quite the event. The tea room and shop turned into a hive of activity, of people collecting, dropping off post, exchanging news, gossip, smoking together. I myself recieved a few second glances, a rare February visitor, as well as friendly introductions by people I'd only just met. Then Hannah, who I'd met in the office told me about a meeting / talk later in the afternoon by some architects from Skye about rural housing, and I jumped at the chance of attending (something to do! people to see!). I found myself ridiculously excited at the prospect of being in a room with a handful of other people - excited enough to shower and change my clothes into only slightly muddy jeans. Wow.
As I'd hoped / anticipated, the meeting led to drinks down in the pier bar, which was fun (a word on definitions: "pier bar" and "tea room" are in fact the same place, the former emerging out of the latter at an unspecified moment, perhaps when more people are drinking beer than tea; and "bar" is a few boxes of cans in a store room). People were nice to me: friendly, interested or bored enough to make me feel rapidly welcome. Perhaps people need each other more here; in the dearth of visitors that is midwinter I felt like quite a celebrity. In my diary later, drunk, I wrote:
"Is this why people live here, for these moments, when life is absolutely, unalterably beautiful, positive: for these moments, when you cannot believe that life can be any way otherwise than starlit, with clouds of acne lights... How can I describe it, that wonderful, bumpy journey home across the island, all in a van together like old, old friends? I wanted it to go on for ever..."
As I left, the ferry drawing away from the pier and seperating me from the island, on my way back to the mainland, towards 'home' - something I'd been anticipating since I'd arrived, feeling nervous and lonely - I felt a strong wave of unqualified longing, and I realised that I'd had a good time, and I felt sad to be leaving having only just realised this. I know I can, of course, go back, but I wonder whether it might be better to appreciate the place as one which travels with me; I can never retrieve the Eigg I've experienced.