For almost a week now, we have been lodged at a beachfront campsite with a front row view of the sunset over the islands of Muck, Rum and Eigg. Comically named they may be (at least, to the English ear) but they look sublime when the light plays about them. Naturally, we are not alone: places such as this are prized by campervanners, motorhomers and caravanners from all over, thousands of whom are on the coast, even after the holiday season has ended, in search of peace, tranquillity, somewhere to run their dogs and the great, covid-free outdoors. Yet this landscape does feel wild and remote, despite the presence of others. It’s as if the lack of an urban landscape automatically reconnects us all with nature’s force.
In the last three weeks we have ventured just once into the dangerous confines of a restaurant and that was to dine with friends staying nearby at the quaintly named hamlet of Back of Keppoch. But, with our adjacent tables being two metres apart, sustained intimacy was difficult to achieve and I am inclined to question the very future of restaurants. It is said that many will become unviable and have to close down. If so, we may see a partial return to the time when dining out was occasional or celebratory, which is not necessarily a bad thing, given the proliferation over the years of so many pizza and burger outlets that have added little to the excellence of dining and much to the rise of unhealthy eating – and at pretty fancy prices, too. I say this having dined cheaply but regally last night, in the campervan, on locally caught scallops and bream, which I washed down with a couple of glasses of chilled Chablis.
As a resolute city-dweller, used to having everything on the doorstep, it may seem surprising that I have no gripes about the nearest shop being a forty-minute walk away in Arisaig but, if it were not so, the illusion of remoteness that makes this place special would be shattered. The older buildings of Arisaig sit on the shore of yet another of the perfect little sandy bays that are the hallmark of this coast, while the newer houses are arranged on the steep hill behind. Boats take tourists out to spot wildlife and ferries ply to and from the small islands – although this service has been suspended since the pandemic took hold. Islanders are, sensibly, guarding their isolation. The self-described “community” has provided a toilet block for visitors, in which there is a tin box and a polite notice asking for contributions toward its upkeep. And the sense of a community is evident in the prominence given to honouring its dead. As well as the prettily positioned hillside churchyard, there are two prominent war memorials. One is a stone Celtic cross high above the village, its pedestal inscribed with the names of local men who fought and died in wars from 1914. The other is a modern sculpture in polished granite that sits just above the tideline, across the road from the Spar shop. At first glance, the inscription appears to be in both English and Gaelic but, in fact, the second language is Czech and the memorial is for the fighters of the Czechoslovak Independent Brigade who trained here for special operations behind Nazi lines in Europe.
This place is charming but, in its way, dangerous because it lulls you into thinking that all is well with the UK and its quaint, quirky history. Sure enough I awoke this morning to the news of the reported loss of 25% of our plant species, the Government’s feeble stance on environmental protection, the familiar catalogue of its incompetent handling of the pandemic and its self-serving fiddling-while-we-burn policies that seem intent on the destruction of what is left of our social fabric. In the face of all this, I must accept that the sunset over the Western Isles is but a temporary balm for my spirits.
😢
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