My island record

Tamsin Calidas left London for a Hebridean crofter’s life. She found heartache, rejection by locals – and redemption through swimming

Ilove myths. Myth is a fire that draws you to it. Its quivering flame crackles, combusting the dry kindling debris of our daily grind. An antidote to safe living is sensed pulsing, inexorably alive. A myth asks, would you dare to live a different life?

I was there, restless, searching, 15 years ago. A husband, but no children. Excitedly planning our move out of London, disrupting a too comfortable life. Two drams poured, my heart beating fast, holding a tiny advert for a derelict Hebridean island croft in 22 acres of wild, abandoned fields.

Outside, a darkening sky swept the fierce, lifting sea out of Oban Harbour to the gleaming horizon. One tiny island calling, far out beyond the salt breakers and the haunting call of the geese. All the romance of my own modern myth was there, rich, potent, echoing.

We were breathtakingly naïve and optimistic, planning our great escape to the smallest minutiae yet shockingly ill-prepared. For two idyllic months, the sun shone, the swallows flew and we lived outside. We had two bags crammed full of our small belongings, an old Vespa scooter, a gas camping stove and, when summer broke, an antique battered caravan. Sometimes, it was refreshing to realise how little we needed to live; at other times, it felt precarious.

Neither of us spoke of winter’s lifting seas battering the island, or fierce winds gusting through. Arguably, by our distancing ourselves from family,

friends, culture and connections, our relocation inexorably propelled us out of kilter. Out in the islands, birds flock together. Survival depends on this.

The wilderness eased our transition. Its raw beauty was shocking. Wild grasses, running free over the hillsides, led to pristine coves. One day, fishing off the rocks, I was startled and cried, ‘The sea has turned black!’ Tiny fish were flying out of the water. Behind them, a feeding frenzy of porpoise. In winter, seals basked, their fat pelts glistening; in their singing, a beauty and strange loneliness.

In myths, we journey effortlessly. Even in medieval tales, struggle and hardship are assuaged by the integrity and worthiness of the quest. Stepping off our career ladders in pursuit of sustainability, creative simplicity and a closeness to nature, we never questioned whether we would thrive or fail. We implicitly trusted our self-reliance. Story-telling ritualises the pursuit of happiness; every labour of love ends well. ‘There is a first time for everything,’ we reasoned as we bought our first cows and sheep. Our first lambing was bleak and beautiful. I remember thinking how nothing will stop those lives from coming. And how easy nature makes that gift of new life seem.

Over the centuries, landscape mirrors psyche. With tight kinships and a tiny landmass, freedom of thought is restricted, despite the immense skies. Historically, strangers were associated with incursions; incomers viewed with curiosity, suspicion, jealousy and fear. Voices are polarised; a single-track road accentuated this dichotomy with a north-south divide.

I realised how we had taken old friendships for granted, never considering we might not be welcomed. ‘If you want to be part of the community…’ became a carrot-and-stick mantra. Belonging was an unattainable, unassailable prize.

‘How long will it take?’ I wondered, aloud.

‘Till you leave? Ten years, by my reckoning,’ a neighbour quipped, ‘or until the fence posts rot.’ ‘That will never happen,’ I countered. ‘Ach, you’ll never belong,’ was the reply.

One night, at a ceilidh, as we danced traditional reels, a farmer called out my mixed-race ethnicity.

‘You see, you’re different,’ he smiled, his eyes hardening. ‘You are not family. Not one of us.’

Living remotely has an allure, yet it demands financial capital, breathtaking stamina and shattering resilience. It takes time for your own values to be deconstructed, broken and reassembled. Sometimes I found myself caught between a desire for acceptance and a fear that if we stayed, we might end up different from the people we knew ourselves to be.

Slowly you assimilate these shifting codes, adhere to archaic traditions, protocol, bias and conservative rules. I felt anxious as our identities were wilfully erased; our prior experiences met with lack of interest and a cool disdain. It was confusing. For all our efforts, our home remained for ever the previous owner’s –‘Hector’s croft’, as it was called. Sometimes it made me sweat.

When our longed-for children didn’t come, trust and our marriage broke down. After my husband left, there was little empathy or support.

‘I don’t know why you’re so upset,’ a woman challenged me. ‘We all got over it months ago.’

Farming traditions are still ruled by patriarchy. A single woman is a threat and a risk. I had to run the croft and sheep alone. It was very difficult. It was hard to know where to turn. I was in debt, with the renovations incomplete. With no completion certificate for the house, I was trapped, unable to sell.

I also had two broken hands. My left hand was badly broken in a fall on the croft. A few weeks later, my right hand was severely injured.

Two months later, my father died shockingly, and I became seriously unwell. It is hard not to be able to say goodbye to a parent, especially when they have been emotionally absent over a longer time. I think of my father whenever I look up at the stars. But the truth is that he is everywhere I am, and everywhere I look.

Vulnerability can trigger adverse reactions. Many men on the island were aggressive or inappropriate, and some women fiercely predatory. The mainland was no better. Selling my lambs in a busy local auction ring, the auctioneer nodded, ‘Let’s get you a good price.’ The bidding opened with whistles, shouts and catcalls, as he taunted over the Tannoy, ‘What’ll it be, boys, a flock of cross mules, or this lovely-looking ewe?’

Myth does not talk of the pain of deracination. Or how loneliness is felt like a stinging cold, salt wind. Over time, cold water will wear down even the strongest rock. With no police on the island, law and order are regulated internally, meted out by the collective weight of family hierarchies, muscle, whisky and tribal nepotism. Ostracism punishes voices that sound different. Land is currency. Every fistful of soil counts. I realised some wanted me to fail and relinquish the croft.

I found strength in the harsh, raw landscape. Foraging to survive, I learned to eat roots, bark and leaves. I discovered the abundance of the natural world. I learned to trust in the wilderness. Some days, it feels the mountains are listening.

I did not decide to stay. I just learned to grit my teeth – and stayed. Adversity teaches you resilience. Ultimately, you have a choice. You either go under or you hang on.

I took to the sea, swimming bareskinned in all weathers, at minus 16° windchill, in storms and on heartachingly blue, crystalline days. The sea teaches you to take life’s knocks softly. You give your all, and realise you have still more to give. Over time, your internal fabric changes; you become tougher, more resourceful.

Belonging comes to each of us differently. I have survived. I have won my right to my own fistful of soil. I have grown to love this fierce, brave, beautiful, thrawn, fighting land. To trust in the wilderness. And to call this island my home.

Farming is still ruled by patriarchy. A single woman is a threat and a risk