Last year I was still the newcomer, bracing myself against every gale. This winter, the rhythms of Rum — and a few stubborn snowdrops — have begun to feel like mine, says Elle Duffy.
Just a few, mind you. They’re sitting next to my gas bottle, bundled together beneath the kitchen windowsill, sheltering from the rain. I’m sure the sight of snowdrops isn’t very fascinating to everybody. They bloom every year. But before now, before living more than a stone’s throw away from busy Argyle Street, I’d never noticed them. Never slowed down enough to take sight of the grass, never mind a few fresh flowers pushing their way through it. For me, the sight of these tiny flowers mark the beginning of the end of my second winter living on the Isle of Rum.
I remember writing something similar last year, marvelling at the ease at which I navigated my first few months living here. It was relatively simple, bar a few storms. The ferry was touch and go, our shopping stuck on the mainland every so often, and our Christmas dinner was very nearly a raid of the freezer for a festive chicken nuggets and chips.
There was a novelty back then. Everything felt new: a few days without a boat had us excitedly explaining to friends that we can’t just nip back to the mainland; the wi-fi dropping had us eagerly diving into our box of board games. It was all part of the adventure of island life, the kind you imagine when you tell people you’ve moved somewhere with more deer than residents.
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Winter last year felt like an initiation. We were proving ourselves. Could we hack the quieter days before the season of tourists and holidays arrived? Could we cope with the dark that rolls in mid-afternoon and lingers until what feels like mid-morning?
This year, I expected it to feel different. Harder, maybe. The rose-tint worn off. The practicalities more pressing. Particularly now that we’ve spent this winter with a new baby.
The nights are undeniably longer and louder – sometimes, I can’t hear my son for the wind outside, and vice versa. My white noise machine has been made redundant by the roar of the burn outside my window. Our goal of heading outside at least once a day has been hindered by the countless bouts of rain and hail that seems to sense when I’m ready to bundle Cailean up in the pram and take him on a jaunt to the shop.
And yet, despite the broken sleep and dreich weather, this winter has surprised me with its familiarity.
Last year, we were the newcomers. The fresh faces to a world so unfamiliar. We spent the winter finding our feet, and panic-buying wellies to go with them. It was a winter of making friends through huddled makeshift pub nights in the village square, and sipping tea over crotchet in weekly crafternoons. We took time to learn the rhythms of the island – not just as a new place, but as an entirely different world to the one we’d left behind in Glasgow. We were taught things from those around us, and figured things out for ourselves along the way.
This year, without quite noticing when it happened, we’ve become part of the routine that makes up life here.
I no longer feel the need to preface every conversation with “we’re still new.” In fact, the population has grown by five this year, with my son being the latest addition to our village. There’s a steadiness that comes with that. A feeling of belonging that softens the harsh edge of winter in the Hebrides. When the wind howls in from the sea and rattles the windows, it feels less like a test now and more like background noise. It’s second nature now: we light the fire, we put the kettle on, we coorie in.
Of course, there are still moments of frustration. We’re finding the weather and, by extension, the ferry to be a total hindrance when it comes to seeing our health visitor. Appointments are mere suggestions at this point, and we find ourselves feeling pangs of annoyance when plans dissolve in the drizzle. But we’re finding ourselves shopping online for fresh midge nets – a sure sign that spring on Rum is on the way.
There is an intimacy to island life that winter sharpens. There are fewer visitors, and fewer distractions. More time for each other and for the island itself. And so the snowdrops matter. They have beaten through the remnants of frost and lashings of cold rain, and stubbornly pushed through the ground. The second winter hasn’t been harder in the way I feared. It’s been less about proving we can do it, more about realising we are doing it – raising a child, running a business, building lifelong friendships – in a place that still feels quietly extraordinary.
