ERRAID’S LIFE – DECEMBER 2007-APRIL 2008 .
My world wanderings continued from Glasgow to Fort William and Oban on the west coast of Scotland as I headed to the Inner Hebrides. After continental Europe, I had no plan, and unlimited possibilities. From expansive Australia, being ‘over there’ was simply incredible, every place so close – within 2 hours in Europe one can drive from one country to another, and fly across three or four. What made me choose one place over another? Was it accessibility? Rather, was the question ‘What leads me to travel here’, or, ‘…at all’? Europe has its old, beautiful, intricately-carved buildings and architecture for all to see. I analysed my reasons for travel and realised it brought me unimaginable blessings, indulgences, personal fulfilment, and strangely, a lot of Australian history. I was reminded, while in this hemisphere, it wasn’t only the English who had sailed into and settled Port Jackson; there’s much history of migration from the west coast of Scotland and Ireland.
The ticket office crew asked ‘can I help you’ in a delicious deep Scottish brogue, and with my ‘single to Mull’, I left Oban on a large ferry with three decks and huge expanses of glass revealing the changing colours and moods of the sea, while the café offered Scottish breakfast with black pudding. I had to remain on deck until the salty spray and chilly wind chased me into the cabin. My anticipation combined with a beguiling remoteness at being at the edge of the beautiful and dramatic Atlantic with its swell and wash. Lismore Island and its Stevenson lighthouse flashed us by. I was born in Lismore, a town named in the 1800s after this Island, or so I believed, but I’m now not so sure; could be its origins were Irish. Over the next 5 months on Erraid, I learned more early Australian history, that place names and even first settlers, came from this area. For instance, Governor Lachlan Macquarie, Australia’s fifth Governor from 1810, was born on the Hebridean Island, Ulva, and The National Trust of Australia today administers his mausoleum on Mull.
We docked at Craignure; I hopped the Fionnphort bus enjoying the driver’s accent as he sold me my ticket. I’d found a placement as a wwoofer with a working farm on the tiny Isle of Erraid. Wwoofing is a worldwide organisation of organic farms which gives accommodation in exchange for work. Erraid, with its resident community, is all of 1 square kilometre, and sits at the extreme southwest of Mull, quite often either forgotten, or left unnamed, on maps. But irrespective of size and concealment, I would find it offered a wealth of landscapes including golden beaches and azure seas, untrodden moorlands lined with sheep trails, bogs, peat, secluded rocky shores, and, peace.
On arrival at Fionnphort, Gaelic, pronounced Finnefort, from where ferries sail to the Isles of Iona, Staffa and Tiree, I was met by Karen and with other guests and baggage, we arrived and parked at Fidden Bay. And across the bay sat the enchanting Erraid. It is said a picture paints a thousand words; Erraid painted lots more. This place fully engaged my senses. Robert Louis Stevenson’s (RLS) words on his first visit, even before Dubh Artarch lighthouse construction had begun
‘I first saw it, or first remembered seeing it…the sea lying smooth along its shores like the waters of a lake, the colourless clear light of the early morning making plain its heathery and rocky hummocks…’
That’s eloquence.
Karen explained that this Isle was isolated and sometimes made nigh on inaccessible by tide or weather, but now, snug against the hill, a line of stone cottages each with a different coloured door, was waiting, and we could cross. The Bay’s clear, choppy waters with three grey seals so close, too, was a great sight. Another new journey of discovery and what was I to learn here? Maybe increased vocabulary and resources of language would permit a perfect description of this place? A lack of vocabulary created a lack of expression.
I have had a fortunate life, have travelled extensively free of commitment, and seen many places. There was Transylvania, a place I thought was fictional before my visit, with its beauty; the surprisingly steep hills forming valleys where ancient villages have sat diligently for ages. But back to the group with baggage needing to get to the small motorboat moored at the end of the slippery rock wall. High tide would have allowed for easier access on the sand, but low tide brought fewer options. Alternative accesses to Erraid when boat crossings were dangerous included, a walk on the sands around the bay, collection by the community tractor for the sand crossing across the bay, or, a further drive to the croft, ‘Knockvologan’, owned by John and Linda Cameron, a couple of real ‘Scots’. Then another walk down the hill, avoiding bogs and through fences, to cross ‘the narrows’, the sands that link the Isles, past the empty croft and into the village along or around another beach. This took much longer and could be quite a trial in rain, hail, snow or sleet, which happened regularly in winter, and in the dark. It could even be negotiated on foot at very high tide by wading through at waist height, and I got to experience this one evening, in winter, in the dark, returning from Mull. The experience was priceless. I had no words to describe the feeling – I loved it.
However, for this first visit, we safely motored across, struggled up very narrow steep steps to the wharf, and walked up the street to the cottages. These were of solid pink granite and had been built to accommodate the engineers during construction of the Dubh Artach lighthouse, and upon completion, were used by lighthouse keepers and their families. As this was a community, I was to share with a Brisbane woman and a man from Lancaster, and cottage #7, with blue door, and welcoming wood fire, was ours.
The community was a small, self-supporting and mostly self-sufficient group, at that time totalling 7, and, disappointingly, none was Scottish. Over lunch, the group members introduced themselves and the principles, purpose and practices which shaped their spiritual community. They introduced their daily routine showing joint community responsibilities, and each had their own focus.
Sally cared for the gardens and plantings, and George managed accommodation and worked with the boats. This was a family from Newcastle and son, Josh, 7, daily attended school at Bunessan on Mull. His routine was surely character building. He would be accompanied by one adult, boat over to Fidden, driven in to Fionnphort, and hop on the school bus to Bunessan, about 20kms away. The reverse procedure saw his return, however, this routine could change very quickly when the weather prevented launching the boat. On those days, they would walk the narrows to the croft and drive to meet the school bus, but if the tide was not right, it could mean a few days off school. The main school break occurred in the warmer months of July and August, but school continued right through the wintery, bleak months, with more chances of interruption to school attendances.
Another of the residents, Irmi, who was from Germany, managed housekeeping and laundry, and kept the shop stocked. Yes, they had a shop, which sold chocolate, as well as items made on the Isle, such as soap, stained glass motifs, candles, and stationery. Helen, from Liverpool, had charge of all animals and was responsible for grocery and produce ordering which, when delivered to Knockvologan, would be collected by her driving the tractor and trailer across. Betty was the clever candle maker, and in charge of the kitchen roster for cooking and cleaning, and Dick, they’re a couple from London, organized the wood pile, sawed and split it for cottage and kitchen fires, and maintained machinery. Karen’s responsibility was transport onto and off the Isle.
Guests were included in the daily work programme and were offered choices in the kitchen, garden, wood pile, candle studio, or where maintenance was required. I was assigned garden work only and the experience of bitter weathers felt – occasionally only – exhilarating. In really inclement weather, there was work for me in the kitchen, or polishing candles. The day offered lots of meal breaks, and all, but breakfast, were communal, which meant lots of fun.
First day Helen walked us around the cottages to familiarize us with the layout. With no street lighting, it was usually very dark at night. Found in the back yards, were two smaller stone cottages with one called ‘Stevenson’, and the other, ‘mothers’ pride’, while down near the wharf, sat the original ferryman’s little stone house. This was my introduction into the connection the Stevenson family, and lighthouses, had to Erraid. It is believed Robert Louis Balfour Stevenson lived in the small cottage, Stevenson, while on the Island and mothers’ pride was where the women gathered on washing day. Stevenson is now used as a candle studio, and the other, for soap making.
RLS’s father, Thomas, and uncle, David, were civil engineers, lighthouse designers and builders and were commissioned to build a lighthouse on the Torran Reefs off Erraid in 1871. Although his father intended his son to continue in this profession, Robert was born a sickly boy and grew up with little physical ability, but with a natural inclination towards literature and writing, and with little practical connection to lighthouse construction. It is believed that it was on one of his visits to the Island that the idea for his book ’Kidnapped’ originated. The Isle is mentioned, even if uncharitably, as the story tells of a kidnapped David Balfour, shipwrecked and washed up on Balfour Bay. He lives poorly for 4 days before escaping across the narrows to Mull.
Life on the Island was simple and uncluttered. There was space to ponder, meditate, and reflect and the hilltop Sanctuary was there for that purpose. There was no noise, perhaps a trawler in the Straits of Iona quietly checking lobster pots early morning, and always the wind and rustle, or roar, of the trees. The Sanctuary was the most magnificent observation place, and one could reflect while being totally immersed in the magic of the Inner Hebrides. It was possible to watch over Mull, Iona and its ancient Abbey, the Straits, and even follow the ferry making its crossings. Goose, called Angry, flew in about 15 years ago, never left, and claimed and patrolled this area as his own. He could look and sound quite threatening, but he’d never drawn blood.
Sunday walks were given for guests to explore the island in all its wild beauty. Balfour Bay was always the destination and with low grasses and rocks and sand sloping down to the water, it was beautiful. In autumn, the beach is covered inches deep with kelp which the community loaded with pitchforks onto the trailer, and spread as a fertilizer on the gardens. Many campers visit, and boats anchor here in summer and a little further west around the Isle is Tinker’s Hole, a safe anchorage for boats, with good fishing, and then follows Seal Bay with its indolent residents, including otters and wonderful birds. The walk ends back near the observation tower, a dilapidated stone building, a disused quarry, and the site where the stone cutting tools were sharpened. The granite stone was shaped and fitted before being towed on tenders 16 miles offshore to the lighthouse. Dubh Artach is clearly visible from the observation tower when seas crash onto it, while Skerryvore, the second lighthouse further north, 25 miles offshore of Tiree, is visible only by its flashing light at night and when the sun glints off it. Erraid housed keepers for both lighthouses, and the observation tower, with its two long slit windows, faced each lighthouse for signalling.
Five months flashed by, and with the mundane regulatory visa deadline approaching, the journey of soul replenishment, and history lessons, ended. The Isle generated a retreat of tranquillity in contrast to the wild panorama. To get onto the Isle was often felt as a stumble, and to leave, equally bumpy. I had experienced, and been accepted into, an unfamiliar culture and spiritual community, touched and handled history, and learned tons. My contribution, they said, was a strange accent, snakes, spiders, crocodiles, sharks, kangaroos, and, goodness, (by association only), Ramsay Street!
This story was written from a desire to expose this glorious, little known, isolated, but absolutely idyllic Isle called Erraid, which sits at the lower end of the Inner Hebrides of Scotland. My introduction to it and involvement with it was working time spent within the resident farming community and, while there, I was astounded by the many hidden wonders of the Isle, and its history. Personal reflection is what I thought I would get to do while spending a few months there, but I uncovered the wonder of history. There was literary history, a history of lighthouse construction, and my own development history while living within a community, adopting its ways of life, and its philosophy. My story had aimed to reflect the synchronicity of the community with the character of the island. While the literary and historical connection became prominent in my story, and Robert Louis Stevenson with it, narrative about him and his novel ‘Kidnapped’ held great interest. Now the Isle had a famous Bay, and a well-known hero, and a famous book, which book idea was conceived and part written while living there. RLS features in yet another way: the lighthouses off the coast of Erraid feature prominently in both Island history, and book. The Stevenson brothers, engineers and builders, father and uncle to RLS, established a working settlement choosing that Island because of its proximity to the reefs and having the correct granite for lighthouse construction.
I found some of his writings, those from his ‘Memories and Portraits’ and noted his reaction to the first sighting of the Isle was one of pleasure, and on his second visit a few years later, his amazement at the development of the settlement and lighthouse construction.
The characters of the resident community group are not heavily portrayed, although their place on the Isle and in my story is extremely important. They are able to live within a settlement designed for the original residents, the lighthouse builders and keepers. The strength of the blocks in cottages, and their stability is evident throughout the Isle, it permeates the settlement and old construction sites, and suits such a group to live there and be custodians of it, as they are. The cottages have withstood many wild storms with almost no damage. So it was the strength of the Stevenson family to the history of the Isle that I found myself wanting to write about, while the lighthouses still guard the coast, and the observation tower still observes from land.
My attitude to the visit was one of pleasure, development of friendships, an appreciation of different philosophies, adaptation to living there, and although instilled within the group as a member, there was always a feeling of ‘out’ should things not work. So, in a way, I feel my story developed from the position and view of a visitor rather than as a member.
The island boasts many remnants of the construction from the observation tower, disused quarry, the massive stone wharf upon which loaded these massive stones for towing out to the site. All is historically valid and this story has been built to encompass the Island and its history.