God's Isle

This was written in response to a prompt to write about one of my favourite places. I chose one of the Scottish islands on which I have spent many happy holidays. The island's name means God's Isle, in gaelic, and it is aptly named. I have been going there since I was about six, and have been thrilled to watch the island thrive since it was bought over by it's inhabitants a few years ago.

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The rattle of the falling anchor sounds loud in the still evening air. The sun is setting over the trees of Achamore Gardens, throwing the island into sharp relief, a solid black silhouette against the flaming oranges and reds of the sky. The few clouds in the west glow an unearthly deep purple, and the sea-birds circle in an amphitheatre of light and dark.

The anchor has bitten and the engine is switched off, leaving behind a silence that seems so complete that you’d swear time had somehow moved on, forgetting to take you along. The air is absolutely still, the sea like a sheet of heavenly silk, laid out to catch our dreams. The boats lie in disarray; abandoned by the wind like a child’s toys, scattered carelessly across the bay.

Off to my left a rounded, dog-like head breaks the surface, casting ripples across the silk, big dark eyes watchful and inquisitive. He languishes in the purple water, stirring the surface and causing tiny waves to dance around his sides, picking up the streaks of red, diminishing in the sky.

By the jetty a mass of dark figures pile into a rubber dingy, whisky-soaked laughter pouring out across the water, mingling with the faint sounds of music that emanate from somewhere on the shore. The seal has moved around, bobbing now, off the bow, not sure whether to be more interested in these new arrivals than in us.

A dog barks to my left and I gaze across to the beach on which I’ve spent many summer days. His shadowy form contrasts against the white sand, his walker barely visible against the shrubs behind. A splash some twenty feet from the beach suggests the presence of a fish, but the dog’s headlong dash into the sea reveals that the movement was in fact a stick thrown from the shore.

I know from experience that the water there will be luke-warm still, having been heated by the sun’s rays throughout the day. Few other places in Britain can boast such good swimming conditions as this little island on the West Coast of Scotland. The warmer water of the gulf stream, shallow bays with sandy bottoms to reflect the sun’s rays, and a micro climate of its own all mean that the water here is more like that of the Mediterranean than the British Isles.

The windows of the yacht next to us glow yellow as someone turns on a light, giving testimony to the approaching night. Dad walks out onto the deck, bare feet padding on the teak boards, and comes over to join me by the railings, gazing out at one of our favourite places in the whole world. This island is the most southern of the Hebrides and we come here whenever we have time to come north of the Mull of Kintyre.

Gigha is an island of tropical palms and rare plants, sandy beaches, sea birds and seals; a place of memories and history, myth and legend. It is salty, splashing, summer days with sandwiches on a secluded beach, or bike rides along the island’s single, deserted road. Long walks in the beautiful Achamore gardens, strolls to the ruined church or partaking of village life at community events or the small hotel, are all activities that have shaped my childhood.

I remember marvelling at the stalls of crafts laid out by the roadside, with an ‘honesty box’ to collect payment, collecting sea-urchins from the pillars of the South Pier, following the arrowed trails in the gardens and carrying bikes in the dingy from the boat to the shore. Gigha is one of the few places remaining, where you can let children roam unattended and know that they’ll be back, safe, at the end of the day. Community spirit has survived here as it has in few other places, and my heart is filled with gladness that the island is now in the hands of those to whom it truly belongs.

As I head down to bed, I can’t help devoting a smile for this sanctuary in a mad world, and mouthing a short prayer to one who no doubt knows this place – long may prosperity continue on Gigha – ‘God’s Isle’.