Monday 9 December 2013

Why I am an Island Bagger

Evenin' all,

I was recently asked to answer some questions about island bagging, and my views on islands in general, and I thought that the response I gave summed up quite nicely the reason for the passion and the excitement of the quest. I figured you might like a read?

Have a good Christmas and all that

Sam


Right, where to begin...What are the challenges of visiting so many islands? The most obvious two issues are the time and the money. For the last three years we've spent at least a full week in Scotland over the summer, and then we've also had other weekends and day trips in between, and this involves a big commitment from our holiday allowances from work. We've also spent probably thousands of pounds on petrol, ferries, hostels and planes, not to mention the twenty pounds slipped to the fisherman to run us across the bay every now and again, so there is a limit to how many islands we can get to in any given year, but then we've always said that the challenge isn't really the sort of endeavour that you want to finish too quickly, it's more fun doing it than to have done it (I suspect!). There's also the issue of travel, with Liam living in Bristol and me in Milton Keynes we quickly covered off the reachable islands in the South West of England and we've just about done the South East too now, but it's a long drive to Scotland where most of the quest takes place, so there's little option of a quick weekend away. Realistically we seem to be looking in the region of fifty new islands bagged every year, but I suspect this number will either start to drop as we finish off the easier to get to ones and each one starts taking more and more planning and time to reach.

Aside from these more general challenges, there are more specific issues that we've encountered around the coast. For example we had to go to Essex twice so that we could fit in with the schedule of the Ministry of Defence's permitted open days to visit Foulness Island, and despite our pleas and explanations the staff there still wouldn't let us on to nearby Potton or Rushey Islands, strictly off-limits - I guess this is fairly representative of the human aspect of the restrictive nature of islands, if someone wants to make an island private it's easier done than to do so on the mainland. On our approach to Osea Island we were threatened with prosecution by a signpost before we even got in
sight of the water let alone the island, so that one is still to be ticked off. Whilst some places are really welcoming and the people seem to go out of their way to help us out as much as they can, in other places we get a stony faced response and a complete lack of interest. We asked an old man in a shop in Essex the way to nearby Ray Island and he said that no such place existed, despite it being just a couple of miles away. I guess a general theme could be inferred that people from England are either far less interested in islands, or alternatively far less helpful overall, than people in Scotland.

The other main enemy when it comes to bagging a new island tends to be nature, and in particular the tide. Two instances that immediately spring to mind, once just a couple of months ago at Asparagus Island in Cornwall, and also last year at Toll's Island off the edge of St Mary's in the Isles of Scilly, me and Liam have been out bagging alone and been met with a wait of more than a couple of hours for the tide to go out so that we can cross the channel. Both times impatience meant we attempted the dash a little early and ended up with soaking trousers, and we've both said that if we had been out with some of our less hardcore island-bagging friends then they might not have been up for the wait.
Sometimes we haven't been able to cross at all, on our second trip to Essex we wound up at Bradwell Marina looking out over Pewit Island as the tide rushed in and had to give up for the day. That's perhaps the most frustrating thing, when you get within sight of a new island but you have to leave without setting foot on it, especially when it's one on it's own that will need a whole extra trip at some point in the future to finish off. Conversely there was a smug satisfaction when we made it to St Michael's Mount with minutes to spare on that same recent trip to Cornwall, as we'd last been in Marazion a year before as the tide was fully in and we had to get back to Bristol for work, it's
definitely good to go back and finish what you meant to do, though the two minutes we actually got to spend on the Mount made me think it might be worth going back a third time to actually have a look around!

Your next question needs a bit of care, and a bit of explanation first I think. First of all, it's important to define exactly what an island is, and how it can be bagged. In writing and maintaining our blog, I've come across a couple of other individuals and groups online who are also undertaking the same challenge as us, and our criteria seem to vary a little. The exact definition of an island itself can be very wide and varied, and as far as I am aware there is no universal distinction between an island, an islet, a skerry etc, and if we were to count every bit of rock that breaks the surface of the waves we'd be challenging ourselves to visit tens of thousands of tiny bits of land, so we have decided upon our own rules. To be an island it must be above the high tide mark at all times, must be cut-off from the mainland at some stage of the tide (apart from man made structures, though the causeway from Eriskay to South-Uist is close to the line), it must support a reasonable amount of vegetation and must be large enough to support 'a couple' of sheep. The definition of couple in this instance is intentionally loose. Additionally, it helps, though it's not essential, if the island has a recognised name, but we aren't against naming islands for ourselves, as we did with 'Bagger's Island' in Vementry, Shetland. I think, though I'm yet to get a definitive answer, despite badgering the
Ordnance Survey (you think they'd know) that there are about eight hundred islands that fit the criteria, and two thirds of those must be in Scotland if not more. The next thorny issue is what counts as bagging an island? We've very firmly agreed that we will only count an island as visited once we've set foot on it properly, and we always look to take a photo of everyone who's with us so that they have evidence of visiting.

Both of these rules have led to a good deal of discussion and not a small amount of frustration. We're still unsure as to the true position on whether Gluss Isle in Northmavine in Shetland counts as an island, as there is so little information published about the hump of hill far away from anywhere, but one source I've found suggests that in extreme high tides the causeway does flood, cutting it off. I'm waiting for some more official verification of this before I'm committing to putting Gluss on the list. Conversely, I was recently on a non-island bagging trip to Edinburgh and over the weekend happened to cross the Forth rail bridge twice. My Girlfriend's Nephew was puzzled by how interested
I was in whether any of the bridge supports were rooted in the soil and rock of the small island of Inchcolm in the Firth below. It transpired that it passed just a few metres upstream, but had we gone over the top it would have started a new debate as to what counted no doubt.

But of course, as you might expect, the statistical progress of the challenge isn't really the point of it at all, I've been enthralled by the idea of an island for as long as I can remember, and this is just the vehicle that gives us a reason to travel to as many as possible. From reading Enid Blyton and Treasure Island when I was really young, to family holidays in South Devon not far from tidal Burgh Island, right through my absolute love of maps and atlases to the point they plaster my walls where others would have family photos, I've always found a romance, yet also an isolation, a mystery and a poignancy about being on, and getting to, an island. So in answer to your question, the number isn't
really the most important thing. There have been some days when it's felt like we were collecting numbers just for the sake of it, like when we were in Scilly and hired a motorboat to make landfall on what seemed like dozens of identical uninhabited mounds, but a lot of the time the reward of the challenge is to find just how utterly different each island is, not just from the mainland but also from often it's near neighbours, each with eccentricities and unusual highlights of it's own. It's probably fair to say that there's usually a payoff in terms of effort with reward, as the islands that require more planning, travel and organisation to get to often exude the sort of charm that you just won't get by driving along the A road to Canvey Island. I think it's something to do with a singularity of understanding that everyone has been through the same struggles to get to, and be on this island at this time, and probably it's also true that the fewer the people present the more they need to use each other for support. It always seems that the places where memories of this sort of community spirit usually crystallize are in the pub, and to give just a few examples, the Turk's Head on St Agnes, the Mariso Tavern on Lundy and a lunchtime session in the Rousay Pier Bar have all been some of the most welcoming I'm yet to encounter.

The real success of island bagging is the whole process of spending hours in the winter poring over googlemaps and Wikipedia and ferry company timetables, and putting together a timetable to take in as many islands as possible, it's waking up five in the morning to set out on a two hundred mile journey with the sole intention of walking over a beach and up a hill on the other side, which is otherwise such an absurdly pointless thing to do. The real joy in the whole mission is to discover the lonely and forgotten corners of the British Isles that not only survive but in many cases thrive despite not having broadband or houmous at their fingertips. There's a lot of history, we've learned a lot
about Vikings and Romans, heard the name Admiral Sir Cloudesley Shovell where otherwise we might not, seen more Neolithic burial tombs than perhaps we really care to, and managed to pick up some rudimentary geology, ornithology and seafaring knowledge along the way. We've met countless helpful people, hiring us a car for the day on trust alone on Westray, risking being late for a wedding party by ferrying us around West Mersea harbour and helping our late night conspiring to find a way to Vaila. We never got there, but that's not really the point. We've also seen some sights that are completely unique, the sheer cliffs of the Old Man of Hoy appearing through the mist as the ferry slid by in the early morning light, the view from the front seat of the twin islander cruising at 600 feet as Northern Orkney's mess of sandy beaches and low-slung hills sprawled before us, and the steep and hidden pathways through the undergrowth on the former pirate haven of Steepholm in the Bristol Channel.

I don't think islands have really changed in my perception since we started the quest, more that they have shown themselves to be the sort of mysterious, windswept and singular places I always hoped they would be. If we ever did finish the quest I think my response would probably be to start it all over again, but would I like to live there on an island? Only if I could work from home and they had reliable broadband and a well-stocked supermarket. Maybe Stornoway?!

Sunday 1 December 2013

Sanday and Stronsay - Teacakes and Rum


  Following another pleasantly peaceful night, this time cocooned in the surprisingly warm little wooden böds, we woke up energised and after a quick wash-and-nosh we were back on the bikes. Our plan for the day was to head north towards two connected tidal islands known as the Holms of Ire, before heading towards Lady Village to find some interesting looking places to explore. 

The well appointed Ayers Rock facilities

Sanday Coastline

We had a gentle ride of an Orkney mile or two, which terminated at the edge-of-nowhere pair of wild tidal islands on the north-west end of Sanday, bleak, desolate and strewn with ruins (St Colm Chapel accounting some of the ruinous items), nautical junk, wrecks (“Alex Hastie” trawler accounting for some of the wrecked items), ominous, solitary dog walkers and such. The causeways were passable at the time we got there but the tide seemed inbound and the terrain tough. Accordingly we made as much haste as possible scrabbling over the slippery, sea-weed covered rocks, avoiding deep, dark pools of seawater and generally having a classic bagging time while getting the obligatory photos along the way! 

Holms of Ire #1
Holms of Ire #2
 Another unhurried ride through rolling green countryside and we were at the local shop in Lady where we replenished our snacks and supplies (Irn Bru and Tunnocks Tea Cakes) and found our first ILP, the nearby Croft Museum, notable in my humble opinion for having an awesome old hootsamaphone – in full working order

Sanday


We poked around the house for a bit, which presented a little snapshot of croft life, massacred Für Elise, and signed the guest book (donating to the honesty box of course!) before heading off to see what other gems we could find. The next ILP was the Heritage Centre, its focus on Viking discoveries and lost walruses. 

Inside the Croft
Outside the Croft
 We had a go with the props as always, the Viking shield, sword and helmet combo seemed to be a popular staple of most Orkney museums (part of a museum starter pack perhaps?!), read about the remarkable Viking discoveries made at Scar and elsewhere, and checked the highly detailed maps on display for any other islands we might reach prior to our first Loganair flight.


Where all the heritage happens
Viking Liam
 Alas, there were no islands near enough, so we embarked on our final Sanday bike ride back to Ayre’s Rock to grab some food, pack, and get kindly taken by Paul himself to the airport to catch our flight to the neighbouring island of Stronsay. No passport control here, just a small room, some dedicated islanders (who already have several jobs) taking time out to sort our baggage and carry out safety checks on the airfield, and photographic evidence that they are rehearsed in quelling any flames that may arise should everything go wrong. The flight went perfectly – of course! “Five minutes isn’t long enough for anything bad to happen.” I said.


Flying over Sanday
Welcome to Stronsay


We touched down, hubris justified, offered the pilot a tea cake as a thank you, and were swiftly swept into a car with a pair of kind gentlemen who offered to take us to the Fish Mart Hostel, our exact destination, located in Whitehall just a few miles from the airport. Too good an offer to pass up, we jumped in and drove down the hill towards the small picturesque fishing village, which included the island’s only shop, pub, hostel and pier. 

Not a soul stirred along the main street where its houses lined the quay silently on one side and humble boats bobbed lazily in the water on the other. The shop showed some signs of activity; from here we were directed towards one of the houses further along the quay to get the hostel key from the hostel keeper, who sure enough let us in to the basic but comfortable accommodation, which appeared unoccupied aside from us. 

The ill-fated mission while we were here was to try and get to Papa Stronsay, a neighbouring island viewable across the quay and inhabited by the Sons of the Most Holy Redeemer. Immediate attempts were made to contact the harbour-master, then the monks themselves. We left some messages on phones and in houses, then hit the shop again, this time to buy some food. In the shop we were told by several people to look out for the monks as they were often coming back and forth between the two islands and apparently happily take visitors to show around. To kill some time while we waited impatiently for news from the monks, we had a little walk around the peaceful coastline, before going back to the hostel to make tea. 

Due to some unfortunate mix up, there wasn’t the facilities we thought there was and we were unable to cook the food we had bought, so we ended up eating at the Stronsay Hotel. However, this turned into a happy accident as it was some of the most delicious home-made lasagne I’ve ever had, I’m serious, and for only a fiver! The barman yet again was English seeking a quieter life from all the hustle and bustle etc, but was very welcoming and served us a number of delectable “Dark and Stormys” while we shot some pool and regaled our adventures to him. A great end to a great day. “But what about the monks?” I hear you ask. I’ll let Sam finish that story because it still niggles me.