When you picture spending a weekend on a beach on the west coast of Scotland, there are perhaps a few key things you might expect. Midges, for one; perhaps a brisk wind cutting through a waterproof jacket; a flask of steaming tea to warm up your body after a brave dip in the sea. And rain - definitely rain.
You don’t, generally speaking, imagine yourself lounging on toasty sands, basking in roasting sunshine with the slightest hint of a breeze to keep the midges at bay, or heading into the sea four, maybe five times to cool down from the humid air.
But that’s exactly how I spent last weekend at Kilmory Beach on the Isle of Rum. And it was magical.
I’ll be the first to admit that, even after moving to such an idyllic place, I’ve still had the itch to ‘get away’ for the summer. Our cancelled honeymoon last year means that our last beach holiday - or rather, or last visit to any beach - was almost three years ago on the outskirts of Barcelona. It’s such a habit, almost like an annual muscle memory, to have a peruse of the airlines and see where looks good for a few days’ escape. Even this year, seven months pregnant and not exactly in peak travel form, I caught myself having a peak at flights to Italy, beckoned by the call of sun and fresh pasta.
But this weekend was a reminder that I live in a place that can be just as extraordinary. Sometimes, better.
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We’d been eying up the forecast for the week previously, after having ferries cancelled due to high winds and lashing rain. The promise of temperatures above 20C seemed too good to be true. And yet, it arrived. We packed bags of homemade wraps and fruit skewers and took to Kilmory Bay with some of our good pals on the island, and some very excited kids in tow.
It was the first time we’d properly been to this beach. Good weather days tend to mean extra hours working at the Bunkhouse, and advising day trippers to visit all the places we wish we could also escape to for the day. But today we were determined. That’s one of the strange things about moving to an island - you can live somewhere and still have endless new places to explore just a few miles away.
The sand was golden and firm, and boiling under our bare feet. The sea was calm and a pearlescent blue that “looked like Hawaii”, one kid commented. The waves, however, were certainly a fair bit colder than Hawaii.
We spent hours running between the crystal clear waters and the roasting sand; as the hours passed, the sun got more intense, and our squeals got louder and louder every time we entered the freezing sea. We saw crabs scurrying at our feet, jellyfish coming a little too close for comfort, and even some deer picking their way along the high tide line, glancing at us as if unsure what sort of wildlife we were.
While we were swimming, another joined our picnic. We’re fairly convinced it was an otter, though the only evidence left behind was a trail of sandy footprints and a pilfered sandwich.
But even the sunburn couldn’t spoil the joy of it all. The weekend brought with it an unexpected magic of discovering that you don’t need to fly hundreds of miles to feel like you’ve had a proper escape - or, in our case, you don’t even need to leave your island. Sometimes you just need to be brave enough to trust the forecast and take a chance, and live with the consequences of your poor sun cream application.
There’s still something to be said about why people decide to venture abroad for their holidays. Accommodation in Scotland can be pricey, particularly over the school breaks, and if you live in a highly populated town or city, the idea of spending the day down at a heaving local beach or trying your luck along the A82 might not be the same as the beautiful picture I’ve painted today. So why not give our islands a try?
Of course, not every weekend will be like this one. There will be more grey skies, and more days where the sea doesn’t look quite so inviting. But it means that next time I get that familiar urge to go searching for summer somewhere else, I’ll try a little harder to find it here first.
Elle Duffy lives and works on Rum
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