On Lewis

Guest author Rosie McCann meditates on solitude, home and the comfort of open windswept landscapes

Words and images: Rosie McCann

This piece was submitted in response to our latest creative prompt—an open invitation to our readers to create and reflect. You can find the full prompt and details on how to join in here.

There is no one around. Anywhere. I have hardly seen anyone on Lewis. A few cyclists, bike packing. I spoke to a local surf coach on the phone. I saw a man visiting a grave from where I took this photo of my van. Maybe I’ve seen dog walkers; they don’t stand out in my memory though. I’ve erased them perhaps or blended them into the vast open landscapes.

I spoke to a couple in the community shop whilst I was eating some hot potato soup. They sat on the table next to me. I can’t remember how I got speaking to them, but they were telling me about their daughter. She’d had an operation, and a tough recovery. I told them that I missed my parents, and though they were far from here, where they lived wasn’t home anymore. Tears welled up in my eyes, and I blinked them back, staring into my soup.

Lewis got me thinking about home. I felt safe there, on the empty roads, staring out to sea. Nothing in the distance but a horizon line. Open spaces make me feel calm. It’s the chance and possibility of the limitlessness which draws me in, wraps me up and keeps me warm. The endless blue ocean stretches out until forever. If I left the coastline and headed west, I would swim forever and meet nothing. This is something I will never do but think about anyway. The sunsets filled the empty blue, grey and green—effortless. The sun has nothing to compete with here. Everywhere is sky.

I turn into a meadow off the road and park my van where it feels right. There are few edges here, no spaces to slot into perfectly. The fields here don’t seem to have fences or hedges which act as boundaries; the land runs free. It forces a confidence out of me. I run outside, towards the edge of the cliff. It isn’t high—Lewis is low lying. I climb down onto the sand. Jump across the rocks. Lewis has taught me that being alone is not loneliness and it has taught me how to find home within myself. From the edge of the cliffs, I turn back to face the van, tiny in the expanse of green. I walk back to it, noticing the yellow flowers I pass, hoping the camera will pick them up. When I’m back, I nap with all the doors wide open, falling asleep to the view, the sound of the cooling wind, the relentless wind.

I’m not there for long, in the meadow, or on the island. I take the ferry back to the mainland on my birthday. I fear the wind will blow my small home over the night before. Scratch a poem down as we bob across The Minch. I don’t drive far before I stop again. A new home for the night by the Summer Isles. Bardentarbet. I never stop for long, and I haven’t for a while. But I am home.

Pebbledash,
lace curtains and smashed windows.

There was a lone white pony in the front yard.

Nothing for miles but strong wind, some standing stones.
Nothing on in the clearest sea and on the whitest sand.
Free parking on Sundays.
Island star by the ferry to Ullapool.
I’ll take a soup of the day and an afternoon nap.
Scottish water, Scottish fuel, flying the lion rampant flag.