Tamsin Calidas - I Am an Island

Tamsin Calidas is a writer and photographer living in the wilds of the Scottish Hebrides.

She worked in various roles in advertising, publishing and the BBC before giving it all up in 2004 to move to a tiny, remote island in Scotland to run a derelict croft with sheep and horses.

To Cristall, all the wings, wilds and bright waters

Nor fire shall burn me

ni teintera teine mi

Nor sun shall burn me

no mo ghrian a losgadh mi

Nor moon shall blanch me

Cha leg a ghealch mo planadh

Nor water shall drown me

Cha teid usage a bhathadh dhomh

The Descent of Brighid

Carmina Gadelica

Arriving into Oban , the first thing you notice is the grey sea and a close, huddled bay that shelters inside the protective arm of its sunken harbour. From a distance the tide is strangely thick, an amorphous mass of slow-moving, restless water. Step a little closer to the fishing boats and great hulking vessels and you will smell the rippling, dark metallic sheen, the striated channels where the diesel runs off as each hull is safely berthed, winched close or tied fast to the metal-ringed quays.

The sound of the waves is not so different from the traffic of the city. But as soon as you lift your face and taste the fresh tang of salt on the air, you will mark how this sky is as different, fickle and changeable as all you have left behind. Then, if you listen, you will hear the laughing gulls. And beyond that, heading off in a low V-shape, the haunting call of the geese.

It is an extraordinary moment when you recalibrate and find your compass. I had been dreaming of staring out at a raw, open horizon for years ever since I found an old map of Scotland and pinned it up in the hallway in my flat. It was positioned across the full length of a narrow wall where I always saw it as I was passing, at an angle where your eyes fell into that empty space between giant masses of land. It is always during that notion of transit, of passing from one space to another, that your heart opens and all of your dreaming begins. I would press my nose to that thick paper, inhaling its musty scent, as my finger traced the ragged coastline of the fractured islets and islands of the Western Isles, straining against the bracing tides of the Atlantic, across the Minch, the North Sea and the Little Minch, to the tortuous fjordic coastline of the Norwegian Sea. In those moments, as my eyes closed, the traffic, shouts from the street, neighbours slamming doors would evaporate into the hurl of fresh spindrift, the thick, curling crests of the breakers drenching the salt-stung air, the gulls tearing the skies apart with an aching, screaming call.

I would imagine how those great birds were somehow daring me, if not to follow, then at least to dream of living a wilder life. I dont know what it is about gulls but they have a way of inviting your eyes to lift above the skyline, to seek some further-flung sky beyond the immediate vicinity or low horizon. Yet, always, as I sense their keening cry, my heart catches and something else dares to drift. It is as if something inside untethers, unsnarls itself from all the finer ties and close meshes that snare you within a life you know is too compressed for you. It can be startling when you open your eyes, and see that creased paper close up, pressed hard against your skin. Then I would walk quickly to the door, throw it open and stand with my eyes raised, shoulders braced, looking above the cars and buses at a thin, pale-blue sky. I would hear the gulls and see them, floating far away, white spattering drifts of light, circling far above the city. Held within a blue orbit that stretches around all continents and spaces, my compass was pulling me, leading unbroken from central London to Oban and those same wave-flung islands, washed by their restless sea.

On Obans rain-drenched promenade, the needle of the compass is wavering.

So, what do you think?

Hmm? I ask, pulling the high neck of my jumper up to meet my ears.

Here.

I look up as my husband Rab thrusts a rain-spattered newspaper at me. We are huddled together, honeymoon-close, in a narrow doorway, only it is the kind of clinch spurred by necessity rather than desire, fighting to catch our breath and to dodge the wind and rain. We are both shivering, skin drenched, in unsuitably thin jackets, the cold masonry providing scant shelter from one of those torrential downpours that will become familiar as a regular feature of Obans climate. It is a rain that comes out of nowhere, as if all the open waters of the skies are descending, a furious sheeting-down. All along the grey promenade, water is shearing off the glistening pavements, bouncing back and ricocheting into whatever surface it can find. It is an impressive soaking. I can feel my toes wrinkling, whitening, cold-drenched inside my shoes.

As the wind nearly rips the paper out of his hands, we run, laughing, jeans completely sodden, across the street into a smoky, peat-steeped inn. As the door opens, it is like stepping into another time, another world. It is all wood inside, toasty and warm, lit by small kerosene lamps. When I look through the window at the boats, I am struck by the thought that I have no family, kin, friends or emotional ties here. It is an unfamiliar yet strangely liberating feeling. Already the sky is darkening, a deeper blueing at its edges, so your eyes cling to the light, and blink, stupefied, as it dawns on you that you are a long way from home. And even after the long weary drive, I am excited because suddenly I realise that Scotland is a different, vibrant country, a whole world away from our stale, tired London life. Sometimes, a life can feel tight, like a jumper you have long outgrown, that restricts your movement, so you feel an urge to stretch and be rid of it. For years I had secretly been longing to wrench that last thread free. And now, still tingling from the chill wind wrapping around me, I feel unexpectedly alert and exhilarated. Change is fresh, sharp and invigorating. It makes you shiver with excitement and cold.

So what do you think? Rab asks again, half an hour later, two drams poured out on the bar glowing amber in the soft light. He wraps his fingers around the water-stained glass.

I think I could get used to this, I say, eyes shining. I take a nervous gulp of the whisky and feel its warmth flood through me. Suddenly our daring to imagine the prospect of embarking on a different way of life feels both dreamlike and also scarily real. I am still shivering, my jeans clinging to my legs, my hair soaking, dripping water into my eyes.

Here, take a look. Rab hands me the sheet. It is so fragile and wet it is tearing at the edges. I lay it flat and smooth it out carefully. Some of the ink has bled with the rain. And then I see it.