by In summer, the walk from little Bryher on the Isles of Scilly to St Mary’s primary school involves climbing over rocks towards a fluorescent sea and then jumping on a boat with the local teacher. In winter, light pollution is so minimal that nights are pitch black, except for the moon reflected on the water’s surface.
Issy Tibbs, who grew up on a farm on the island and returned to run a fudge business and rent holiday homes, paints an idyllic picture. “Our summers were spent in complete freedom, messing about on the farm – planting our own little gardens and playing on the beaches while Mum and Dad worked,” she says. “I feel like I know every part of the sandy tracks and farm lanes that wind around Timmy’s Hill on the east side of Bryher.”
Our approximately 200 inhabited islands are a colorful bunch, from inhospitable spots to supposed paradises. There are tax havens and poverty-stricken areas, French-influenced Islands and rocky patches on the way to Scandinavia. And there is no doubt that life on Bryher and elsewhere holds a certain fascination for those of us on the mainland. Can it really be as different as it appears from across the water?
For Rachel Hazell, a teacher, bookbinder and author who spends part of the year on the Scottish island of Iona, the long journey from the mainland is a very special step. The trip from Edinburgh takes seven hours and includes travel by train, two ferries and a bus.
“I love using public transport because then I can look out the window. When you leave Glasgow you see the whisky barrels stacked up, then the stops become fewer and further apart, and then you have these incredible sea bays and landscapes,” she says.
Iona, where St Columba and his twelve followers built an influential abbey in the 6th century, is one of the few “thin places” in Britain, considered by Celtic Christians to be areas where the earth touches the sky. On less populated islands like Iona, without the noise of new restaurants, bars and shops and the obstruction of skyscrapers, stories have also spread more easily over the years. The vague interface where history meets myth becomes even more blurred.
We will never know whether Saint Columba really took all the women of Iona to the nearby Eilean Nam Ban (Womens’ Island), while time has romanticized the lives of the smugglers and bootleggers on the Isle of Arran, off the west coast of Scotland. A few hundred years ago they were responsible for the illegal trade in “Arran Water” whisky. Today Arran is home to the far more prestigious Lagg Distillery, run by manager Graham Omand.
Although it takes an hour by ferry from the Scottish mainland, Arran really does seem to be a world of its own. Grey squirrels have not made it to the island; there are only red ones in the trees. The rest of Scotland’s “Big Five” can also be found here: red deer, otters, seals and golden eagles.
“Geologically, it’s unique,” says Omand. “Right on the ferry’s doorstep are huge hills and mountains. The Highland Fault runs right through the middle of the island. In the south there’s a lot of farmland with rolling hills and the north is just mountainous. You don’t see anything like it anywhere else.”
However, the isolation from the mainland also has its downsides. What are new inconveniences for tourists (delayed ferries, patchy internet) are annoying problems for the locals.
In the same boat
Despite delays and cancellations, residents of the Isle of Arran are eagerly awaiting a new ferry, now six years overdue. And although the island is big enough to support several supermarkets, Omand pays a premium for everyday goods due to a lack of choice. “We have Co-ops and they can be more expensive than other supermarkets. I can’t go to Lidl, I can’t go to Aldi. My chicken breasts cost £7 and I have to make do with that,” he says.
One thing Tibbs misses about Bryher after 10 years on the mainland is good takeaway food. “It’s so handy to be able to call someone to bring you food when you don’t feel like cooking. It’s amazing,” she says. “The other thing I love about living on the mainland is that if something goes wrong, you can almost always just call someone who can find a solution – a plumber, an electrician, a mechanic. On Scilly, it can take weeks to break down.”
She is also preparing for her eldest daughter to start secondary school in 2025, living at St. Mary’s boarding school Monday to Friday. “I did it as a teenager,” Tibbs says. “I’m scared of it, but she’s really excited. They’re much more hands-on than when I was there, and the off-island kids love it. It gives them the opportunity to make friends with kids from all the other islands and participate in more extracurricular activities.”
“At 16, the girls will go to the mainland to attend high school. I’ve been saving since they were babies because accommodation is expensive. But I’m still a long way from that.”
Hazell notes that power outages can be a problem on Iona. They mostly happen in the winter, but if a cable breaks, it can take days to fix everything. “When the power goes out and I’m not connected, I’m a bit like a robot that’s been unplugged. Then I think there are lots of things I can carry on with,” she says.
Her Zen approach may be influenced by her three stints in Antarctica, including one as assistant postmistress on Goudier Island, where she was stranded for five months with a handful of other staff and supplies, relying on passing ships for fresh food and running water. “You have to have enough to survive on the island in case no one can reach you, but it was a great pleasure when ships invited us to dinner,” she recalls.
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But even according to Hazell’s reports, winters on Iona can be dark and harsh. The Scottish islands are known for their storms and changeable weather. On the Orkney island of Papa Westray (population: around 90), new arrivals are viewed with interest as the days grow shorter.
“There is a perception locally that immigrants [people moving in] “If they survive a few winters, chances are they’ll stay there forever,” says conservationist Tim Dodman, who has lived there since the 1990s.
Outside of the tourist season, some islands seem almost deserted. During the pandemic, Hazell enjoyed Iona’s isolation. “We have this beach, and there were so few people there at the time that we could see people’s footprints on it – like, ‘Oh, that’s David. He was running,'” she says.
And while some find the low population density claustrophobic, others find the community spirit a major attraction. On Papa Westray, most residents are involved to some degree in the day-to-day affairs of the island.
There is a community-owned shop (which sells imported goods as well as fresh produce from the community vegetable garden). The community runs a hostel where visitors to the island can stay overnight. Community members have also recently invested in houses that can be rented to young families, helping to maintain the primary school. Dodman even volunteers at the fire station.
Although much of Papa Westray is community owned and operated, other islands have benefited from the “Amazon effect.” Hazell tells me that Iona’s postman used to ride around on a bicycle; now he needs a van for all deliveries. But there are some things that even Jeff Bezos can’t control. “Fog means you never guarantee anything,” Tibbs says. “I broke my foot earlier this year and waited three weeks for an X-ray because the radiographer who comes on Thursdays was sitting in fog week after week.”
Eerie encounters
Of course, not all British islands are so isolated. Some, like the Isle of Wight, are very popular with tourists. Others, like the Isle of Sheppey, are hardly islands at all and are only connected to the mainland by roads and rails.
Sheppey, about an hour’s drive from London, has never been particularly desirable. In the 18th century, the docks of Bluetown were notorious for alcohol-fuelled brawls, prostitution and even malaria. When Sheerness Dockyard closed in 1960, 2,500 workers were made redundant. Parts of Sheppey remain some of the poorest areas in the country.
All this has led to bad publicity, but for Martyn Miller, who has lived there all his life and is now foreman of the island’s 3,300-hectare Elmley Nature Reserve, it will always be home. “I love island life,” he says. “People think it’s quite strange, but what’s strange? I could never imagine living anywhere else.”
Miller is delighted that Elmley is helping to change people’s perceptions. Londoners come to stay in the chic cottages and admire Sheppey’s misty plains and thriving wildlife. He would like to see even more visitors. “I don’t think people make enough of an effort to come and see it. It’s only a 10-minute drive from Sittingbourne, but Elmley just feels like a completely different place,” he says.
A lack of tourists is not a problem on the Isle of Wight. According to the tourism board, fewer than 150,000 people live there, but more than 2.6 million visitors come every year. The influx has advantages and disadvantages.
Some ferries charge dynamic prices for car passengers, making travel to the mainland expensive for islanders in the summer months, despite discounts for residents. At the same time, seasonality is impacting employment, says Del Seymour, manager of gallery and live performance venue Quay Arts. Many young people are moving to the mainland for more opportunities, as are people with serious medical conditions who require better hospital care.
For Seymour, the pros always outweigh the cons. These ferries sponsor some of the Isle of Wight’s most exciting events and he has been able to book some surprisingly big acts for Quay Arts, who he says have been drawn to the island’s charm. After a decade there, he still feels lucky. “Sometimes I look out the window and can’t believe this is Britain,” he says.
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