Holding tightly to the rail, the metal cold against my fingers, I watch birds glide over the waves that rock the boat. Their flight is effortless. Are they Arctic Terns? They look so tiny I think they must be. Kittiwakes soon join in the dance. And others, whose names I don’t know. It’s been so long since I’ve observed such creatures that I can’t remember which is which. Perhaps I’ll get a chance to go on a bird watch on the island. I hope so, because, despite all the hassle of the ferry, and the drive in the dark round treacherous bends on the “Road to the Isles”, I have a feeling now that I am returning to something. Or someone. Is it my younger self, I wonder, as the sound of gulls battles against the rising tide. That curious person who yearned to be alone on solitary adventures in strange new places, facing unknown landscapes and disparate challenges? It’s been a while, I think, shivering as An Sgurr grows closer.
…
After I find the woodshed, the toilet, the outdoor shower with no screen, and my mezzanine bunk, I start to unpack. It doesn’t take long. Laptop, phone, chargers, Kindle, all by the desk, at the ready. The view from the floor to ceiling window is wild and warm. As far as I can see, the ferns and grasses of the mountainsides stretch ahead of me, joining with the sea to my left, tearing towards another coast to my right, all the way to the Singing Sands. Behind me looms a skyline that will be etched in my memory forever.
As the caretaker is giving me directions to local spots, we stop by the woodshed and she looks towards the heavens, at a single piece of rock that juts into the sky.
That’s God’s Finger, she says. Whenever you get lost, just look for that and know that the bothy is to the left of it.
Yeah, to the left, and far, far below.
…
I hear the flutter of wings pass my bedroom window and a grouse cry out. Apart from a rustling of wind, it’s the only sound. As I stir, I feel warm and cosy, but I am confused by the proximity of the bird. I realise that the window is open. Just as well, I think, remembering last night’s smoke and sparks from burning logs.
I’m seeing the morning through the grey mesh of a midge screen. It’s cold now. I’ve left the warmth of sleep behind and I’m aware how much the temperature has dropped. From the window I see the mountains against the skyline and above them, a shade of blue sky and greyish clouds. I hear the grouse again. Or is it an answering warble and the flapping of a mate’s wings?
Last night on my walk towards Laig Bay, I watched a buzzard circle the air, against the backdrop of deep copper mountains. As I sit up, I see that I’m in the midst of fern leaves which are a river of burnt umber and I am reminded of the previous evening’s golden light against the mountain ridge. It was glorious - as though lit by God’s Finger itself.
…
It’s perishing and dull at the bay now. The ocean is roaring in my ear and waves are rolling into the shore with an energy that is lightening my spirits. Mist lies over the mountains of Rum. But the sky is growing darker as I sit on a wooden stump still trying to believe that I’m here. I realise just how peaceful the island is. A few houses dotted on the hillsides, hens that roam free and gather at the gate to cackle at the stranger who stops to say hello, rabbits hopping around at every corner, bright tails bobbing against rusty bracken.
I love the sound of the sea, of the waves lapping in before me. It all adds to the calm. That tranquil feeling that is beginning to emerge. I had that strange experience of flashing zigzag lines before my eyes again as I started on the short walk to the water. It’s odd and scares me. A new thing. It only started this year. After mum died.
The light is fading, and the blue outlines of outer islands are becoming sharper in the gloaming. Still the waves shimmy to the shore but their roar is becoming louder. A wildness is setting in and embracing me, like a spirit from the sea. A skein of geese gathers overhead, gaggling their way into my thoughts, bringing me into the present. I move from my tree stool. It is almost four and getting dark and cold. The weather worsens.
I head back, under the bleak late-autumn sky, towards the shadow cast by God’s Finger. Sleet batters my face now like pins of steel. Water is thundering down from the mountains into the grey Atlantic ahead. I gasp for breath. Rum looks like the sleeping giant of legends, and seabirds still ride the waves, cackling and squawking passengers in a storm. I photograph gulls and kittiwakes before realising it will be pitch black in ten. The sleet has gone but the cold bites into my cheeks as a flurry of snow descends. I pull the wet fur of my hood tighter into my face. Then I see it.
Washed pebble eyes staring into my own, whiskers dripping with ice buds, silky sienna coat glistening with smatterings of snowflakes in the fading light. It’s as though time is standing still, and we are being observed from above. Neither of us knows what to do, so we simply bask in each other’s presence. In seconds it is gone. Too brief an encounter for a photo but the moment has gifted me one of life’s greatest adventures. My first sighting of an otter.
God’s Finger guides me back to the bothy under the dark sky and my jaws ache with joy.