After a month away and the arrival of our newborn son, we return to the Isle of Rum under a canopy of stars — navigating nappies, ferry timetables, and the quiet joy of island life, says Elle Duffy.
It’s 4am, and we’re driving under a sea of stars.
We’re on the A9, making headway on our six hour journey back to the Isle of Rum after a month away. It’s the longest we’ve ever spent away from home, and for good reason. Sitting next to me is Cailean, our 10-day-old son who has just drifted off after a very restless night.
This morning was our first taste of mad-dash parenthood. Where are the nappies? No, not those ones - the ones with the rabbits. Can you spare me three extra minutes to sterilise these bottles? If you sit on this bag, I’m 99% sure it will close.
We’re leaving this little Highland village with two extra suitcases - and, of course, an extra housemate. The last day has been spent picking up scattered tiny socks and deciding if we really need that extra muslin cloth for the drive (the answer is always yes).
Read more:
- My maternity drama: My baby boy is here - and he is perfect
- Ferries, fear and firsts: Preparing for birth on a Scottish island
- Something really lovely happened when I talked about becoming a mum
- Dashed plans and a lack of pants: My day of chaos as a mum-to-be on a Scottish island
We took a stroll through a supermarket yesterday with Cail perched in a plastic trolley seat, taking in the bright freezer lights and the beeps of the checkouts. Shopping brings with it so many mixed emotions now. Moving from a busy city with virtually every shop on your doorstep to somewhere as small as Rum was an adjustment, but a welcome one. Where once we’d spend frivolously on end-of-aisle temptations and unnecessary snacks ‘because of the bargain’, we find ourselves being more conscious over our eating habits. We are limited in the best way, shopping local out of a desire to support the community - and also, the convenience of it all.
People ask me what I’m most looking forward to about heading home, and I’m almost embarrassed to admit that the question instantly makes me imagine pushing Cailean in his pram to the village shop, fresh leeks and hearty potatoes stuffed in the basket underneath. It’s always dark when we pick up our veggies in winter - there’s something romantic about walking home by moonlight, mentally preparing to slice and chop sweet potatoes for a warming winter soup.
Of course, we now have another mouth to feed and person to clothe, and it marks a whole new chapter in our island logistics. If we run out of wipes, we can’t just hop out to a 24 hour supermarket to restock. If our breastfeeding journey doesn’t quite go to plan, it’ll take a good few days before a formula alternative to turned up at our door. So we’ve had to plan.
The nursery doesn’t quite live up to its name at the moment - it is very much a storage room and will be for the next few months until our baby moves out of our main bedroom. We have boxes of clothes and nappies piled high, and the buggy sits in the hallway, ready for its first outing on the bumpy Rum roads.
We’re around an hour away from Mallaig now, where we’ll catch the 1.5 hour ferry to our home. And we are giddy. We had the nerve wracking first drive home to my in-laws house last week when Cailean was eventually allowed out of his incubator. It was the slowest drive of our lives, and our eyes were trained on his furrowed brow as he slept soundly beside us.
Today’s journey feels different. There are nerves, sure. But our overwhelming feeling is excitement. We get to walk over the threshold of our home with our son for what is essentially the second time, and experience a host of firsts all over again. We get to settle into our own routine in our own space, and have our friends and neighbours round for tea and obligatory cuddles.
We’ve spoken a lot, Coinneach and I, about what we want for our son. Not in the sense of ambitions or achievements, but in the texture of his upbringing. We want him to know where food comes from, to see stars every night instead of streetlights, to learn that boredom isn’t something to be feared. There’s a simplicity to island life that I hope will root him, not in limitation, but in gratitude.
The clouds are resting atop the trees across the loch - it is light now. When we finally roll onto the ferry later this morning, I know there will be a sense of homecoming that runs deeper than relief. The familiar faces, the smell of log fires in the air, the first glimpse of our roof at the top of the hill. One friend has already promised a pot of spicy lentil soup will be ready upon our return - another has told us she thinks our cats can sense we’re coming home.
In the weeks ahead, we’ll find our rhythm. The nights will still be long, the feeds still frequent, the laundry ever-growing. But we’ll walk the same paths we always have, only now with a pram wheel tracing alongside our footprints. There will be quiet afternoons by the fire, Cailean asleep against my chest while rain patters against the windows. There will be laughter, exhaustion, and the endless wonder of watching him grow in a place that shaped us too.
The stars have long since faded now, the day has begun, and our island - our little world - is waiting for us.
Elle Duffy is a Herald columnist, who lives on Rum
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