At 7pm, my email inbox chimes: “Might need help” is the subject line, and it’s from a visitor who has checked out of my hostel just 12 hours ago.
Running an island Bunkhouse comes with many different challenges. There is, of course, the day-to-day tasks of cleaning the place head to toe, changing bed sheets and emptying bins, and the emails and admin that go on behind the scenes. But what I didn’t quite expect was the amount of rescuing that would be involved - and today, my bat signal has come in the form of a frantic email.
My ex-guest had set up camp at Harris, to the southwest of the island, at a gorgeous spot in front of an old hunting lodge. But it seemed he was not the only one to think it a great spot - within minutes of setting up his camp, he had attracted the attention of the island’s semi-wild ponies. A beautiful herd that is harmless, but no doubt intimidating when all 15 turn up at your tent flap at once.
“I will wait and see if they leave soon,” the email continued. “But all my food and water is in the tent.”
So I grab my keys.
I am often asked if I get a chance to venture across the island at all.
Have you climbed the hills, people ask, or have you been to any of the bothies? My answer usually lies in my work’s bookings calendar. When there is a nice day, a perfect day for hillwalking or sightseeing, it typically means I’m stuck manning the desk for visitors who have jumped at the good weather window.
But this kind of rescue? This counts as getting out.
The drive out to the reserve is bathed in that soft, golden-hour light that makes everything look like a postcard. I’m dazzled for the beginning of the journey - quite literally. The sun is just beginning to set and amongst the incessant midges and slight chill in the air, I didn’t think to put on my sunglasses.
It’s the kind of evening where the hills glow and you feel almost smug just to be there. I pass a few single deer grazing in the grass - they prance away when they hear the roar of my off-road buggy. The night is so still, Rum’s largest mountains, Hallival and Askival, reflect in the lochs on my drive through the island’s centre. The stillness also brings with it the dreaded midge, but I don’t mind much. Not when I’m out here.
I won’t pretend I rushed.
There are videos to take, after all. A few photos. A moment to just stand and take it in. It would be rude not to.
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But of course, my stranded camper awaits. I start to descend into Harris Bay, and see a curious head poke out of the shepherd’s cottage. He makes a beeline for me - he’s carrying a book and is in his flip flops. A hasty exit indeed.
He looks both relieved and slightly sheepish, and we head over to where his tent is still pitched. Sure enough, the ponies start to trot over to us, and I realise this is where they are often fed. I use my ATV as a makeshift sheepdog and keep their curious noses at bay while the tent is lifted in its entirety and stuffed in my dump bed.
We chat on the way back to the village, and it’s fun to become a bit of a tour guide for the half hour it takes us to reach Kinloch. Who knows - maybe one day, we’ll do this kind of tour for real.
When I had a drink with friends a few days later, they laughed when I recounted the tale. “You love all the rescuing really,” they teased. And honestly, they’re right.
Because these moments are the ones that break up the routine. They become the stories I tell guests the next morning and force me to stop putting off filling my tank up with diesel.
It’s so easy to imagine island life as slow and predictable - and sometimes it is. But every so often, an email will come through that sends you on a golden hour drive to retrieve a man from a cottage after a run-in with a gang of ponies. Not exactly what I pictured when I took the job, but it’s these strange adventures that make the days feel fuller, and the job feel less like work. It might’ve interrupted my dinner, but bolognese can always be reheated. Moments like these, however, can’t - and shouldn’t - be missed.
Elle Duffy lives and works on Rum
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