Hydro dams and fishing ports, Toronto, Chicago, Auckland… They were among the many locations I heard about in my childhood, featuring again and again in the stories about the working lives of my older fellow-villagers.
Their tales made my life on the Isle of Lewis a little less insular than most of my mainland contemporaries, warming up my existence in the chill winds of winter when we crouched near the peat fires of our homes. Sometimes the drama found within their words was a reminder that the Western Isles was a good place in which to retire, one where both men and women could escape the experiences of their past lives, whether this was abroad or in the cities of the United Kingdom. There was relative peace there, close relatives and neighbours, a lack of the conflict some had experienced in their younger lives.
There were other advantages too for those in such communities. Their work on croft, moor and shoreline helped to provide food for our tables, whether fish caught from rocks or skerries, or potatoes and turnips harvested from thin strips of land. These individuals would also involve themselves in the social and cultural lives of the community, putting forward ideas to improve our shared existence there, drawing upon the experience of their earlier lives. They would look out for their neighbours, seeking to ensure they were in good health and capable of looking after themselves.
Much of this has passed. Many would argue that this is not their experience, with a high percentage of the retired people who settle there today and the likelihood of a greater number being drawn there, perhaps, by reports last week that the Western Isles is among the best places in the UK to which people can go at that stage in life. Together with their belongings, they often bring with them their own insularity. They frequently seem to perceive their new surroundings as a simple wilderness, a place in which the inhabitants of the islands are almost invisible to them. They stride moorland and shoreline rather than pay much attention to the nature or welfare of the villages in which people live, often showing that the natural world has a greater appeal than the existences of the humans in their surroundings.
Occasionally, when they do get involved, some also show little awareness of the distinctive language and culture of the area. As a prominent Gaelic singer recently told me, “It tends to be mainly locals who turn up for a concert in our community. The rest rarely even try to find their way to a seat.”
In line with this, many of the retired who settle in the islands also seem to have little concept of the difficulties that those who live there can sometimes experience. Both flights and ferries to the Western Isles can be fraught with problems. This has largely always been true in winter months, but over the last few years these difficulties have intensified. Ferries, particularly to islands such as North or South Uist, have frequently been cancelled, causing problems with food and other deliveries to island homes and shops. Those with relatives who live elsewhere can end up being extremely frustrated about being stranded on the islands in which they now live.
This sometimes too has its effect on their health. There is an increasing shortage of young people with the skills and experience necessary to assist with the healthcare of the elderly. Sometimes it is difficult, too, to obtain a medical appointment. This is especially true of islands like Barra, which has not had a resident GP for much of the last 18 months.
It is also complicated for those who live in the area served by Benbecula airport to travel to the hospital in Stornoway, with flights only occurring twice a week. In the case of Barra, there are no direct flights whatsoever, leaving patients sometimes in a tangle of loose connections and cancellations across the roads and sea-channels within the Western Isles.
In short, urban areas are often easier to live in than their rural equivalents for those who suffer particular ailments, with hospitals and medical facilities made more distant by winds and tides.
In common with areas such as Skye and West Highlands, there has also been a sharp fall in the number of young families in the Western Isles. This has contributed to the closure of many primary schools, fewer pupils in local secondaries, an overall decline in its level of population.
There is little doubt that the rising cost of both houses and croftland has contributed to this experience. Unlike in the past, local youngsters simply cannot afford homes in the crofting villages. They also look with understandable resentment at houses that lie empty throughout the winter months, their response bringing to mind a conversation I once had with an individual I met in Tiree. Waving an arm in the direction of a long stretch of houses on the shoreline, he declared: “You know from October onwards there are only two houses here where you ever see lights? My own and one of my distant neighbours.”
Clearly there are many exceptions to this rule. The family of the first incomers who arrived in our community contributed much to its future existence, working there for many years before “retiring” and yet still – to this day – being involved in the development of the area. It is also the case that even in my home village, there were houses that crumbled and fell because there was no one around to occupy them, their walls tumbling with every passing year. One could even argue that the rising price of houses and crofts has contributed to the prosperity of some who live in the community.
Yet there have also been drawbacks. As one individual told me, the insularity of many older people from the mainland has transformed some communities into being “more about I than us”.
• Donald Murray is a poet, writer, educator and native Gaelic speaker from the Isle of Lewis
