Another Return

This weekend, I am returning to this place which holds such deep significance for me. And so I am called to share this article taken from my free download Less Ordinary Living, which you receive upon signing up to my newsletter.

Grandad wanted just to drive us back home again. He had driven me and my tiny daughter the 6 and a bit hours to get to our new home on the north western tip of Scotland, and now that we had arrived, the disappointment was palpable. Our new home sat on the edge of the kyle: a long inlet where the Atlantic flows past, shaping and reshaping the sand bars. It was an old shepherd’s cottage built sometime in the early nineteenth century; its walls were a dirty whitewash, its outbuildings crumbling with rust red corrugated iron roofs, its coal shed door was lying off its hinges. Quite frankly, it was a tad uninspiring.

I pushed the key into the lock and turned. The door swung open to reveal concrete floors, dirt- encrusted walls… it was dark, dirty, and I was thinking that I had made a big mistake. This was our new, fresh start. Our wee girl was only just turned 1 and I was 7 months pregnant with our son and I was standing in this house in the middle of nowhere, which was an utter shambles, and, as I was about to discover, had no electricity or running water. I felt my daughter’s small chubby arms wrap around my legs, and I bent down to pick her up. Balancing her on my hip, I turned to look at my grandparents who both had a look of horror and dismay.

“It’ll be fine.” I try to reassure them, although even I cannot deny the waver that has entered my voice. “All it really needs is a lick of paint. And some carpet. And a bit of a spring clean.” I realize that I’m not convincing either them or myself. My baby starts to cry, and I can feel the tears spring to my own eyes. Grandma and Grandad don’t seem far off crying either. They reluctantly turn to leave, Grandad placing a £20 note in my hand as we hug. “For paint”, he tells me. I walk them to the door, and my baby and I, we wave good-bye and blow kisses as they drive back down the single-track road.

We stand there watching until the car turns the corner and can no longer be seen. Then it is just the two of us, standing outside a house that is barely inhabitable, surrounded by miles and miles of empty wilderness. As far as my gaze allows, I can see no evidence of humanity other than the single-track road which runs empty in each direction. I am 20 years old and I am the most isolated I’ve ever been, both then and since. We leave that house a year later, and the whole area a year after that.

Fast-forward one decade…

The sky stretching out over kyle and cape is a clear blue. Not a cloud can be seen, and the water is smooth, glassy, turquoise. I am standing in front of the house that used to be my home and my children are running in the field that slopes down to the shore. I slip my hand into my husband’s and look up at him, wondering whether to ask the question that has settled upon the moment. “Did we make the right decision moving away? Did we choose correctly? Look at how free the children are. Maybe we made a mistake. Maybe we should move back. Maybe.”

I am seduced by its wild beauty. The months of wind and rain, the drafts that whistled through the house, the isolation, the dark nights so black that I could not see my hand in front of my face… they all evaporate like dew under the heat of a northern sun. All I can think of is the freedom, the air, the water, the land… the solitude. The lack of neighbours that left me so utterly desolate ten years ago suddenly seems like bliss. I feel the strongest need to retreat, to run away and live on the edge of the wilderness. Far away from the madding crowd.

But it’s not to be. It’s not right for us, and we know it. As we drive away along that single-track road, in the wing mirror I catch site of the peeling white wash, the rusting red roofs of the outbuildings, the gate where I stood and waved
goodbye to my grandparents, and there… there I find release. I am set free, and the memories that I have of this corner of the world are gently wrapped in the fabric of my heart and placed gently, reverently in the past.

As we drive back down south, the narrow road winding its way past wild cotton and marsh reed, a bird of prey soars overhead. Circling on thermals, its wings spread wide and its eyes far-seeing. We drive on, facing the future.