I was raised in a small town, the kind of place where buses don't run after 6pm and anonymity is close to impossible. As a child, I enjoyed the semi-rural life – the hills, parks and quiet cycle routes. I had never felt the buzz of a city at night, or been tempted by the bustle of a crowded shopping street. I loved to walk up a shaded glen and come out onto a hillside bathed in sunshine, my little town laid out below me like a toy village. I'd spend hours sorting blighted potatoes from fresh ones on my dad's allotment, or riding my bike along peaceful country roads. You don't miss what you've never experienced, and I was quite content with my insular life.
Then I became an adult, and work took me travelling. Suddenly I realised that the world was bigger than I'd imagined, that people could stay up all night and dance and drink and talk until the sun rose again. I could walk down the street and no one knew who I was. No old ladies stopped me to ask after my family, no one was watching through their curtains to see what time I came home. It was a whole new kind of freedom. Each new experience came with a thrill of exhilaration: the first time I performed on stage in a big theatre, my first solo trip to London by train, getting the keys to my first top floor flat.
Then I got used to life in a city. Slowly, the buzz began to fade. It was no longer an adventure to go out and buy milk late at night, when there was a 24hr grocer just round the corner. Night buses were no longer an exciting novelty, merely an everyday mode of transport. My diary became a scribbled mess of dates, times and social engagements, a complicated spreadsheet where every hour was spoken for. I realised that life could be mundane even when lived at high speed in a blaze of light.
That's when I started seeking adventure again, and this time I turned back to the wild. I longed for the calm of a remote island – stifling if I'd been a resident, but refreshing to a visitor. I took the train up to Oban and sat on the beach for two hours, noticing the colours of the shells in the sand and the textures of the seaweed scattered at my feet. Aboard a motor boat, I watched seals balance themselves precariously on the crest of a rock. The skipper turned off the engine and we bobbed gently in the current, waves lapping at the hull with a rhythmic splash. That night, the sun spread itself along the horizon in a glorious fiery display. The next day I boarded a ferry to Tiree. The weather had changed, and the sea looked threatening. We emerged from the Sound of Mull into open water, the boat rolling from side to side as the winds caught it. At Coll, the crew struggled to bring us into port. I peered out through the streaming windows and saw only a few cars waiting next to the whale's jawbone that framed the harbour. By the time we reached Tiree the wind had died down, the rain reduced to a light smir. Sheep scattered as I picked my way down the stony path to the waterfront hotel, bleating their outrage at being disturbed. I tried to stay awake to watch the sunset, but the sky was still bathed in a rosy glow by midnight and I fell asleep.
The following morning I cycled out across the grassy terrain, determined to explore the sights. Gravestones littered an old church yard, their inscriptions worn away by hundreds of years of island weather. I climbed a hill and discovered a bay laid out below me, shining white sands and foamy sea. Surfers splashed through the shallows before riding the crest of the waves back to shore. The sky was a deep, unblemished blue – truly the Hawaii of the North. As we sailed back to Oban that evening, dolphins danced alongside the ship.
After that trip, I started to seek out more adventures. A boat ride to Arran led to a night in a carpeted hostel room with a dubious WiFi connection, then a steep descent to a rocky shoreline with ancient carvings hidden in the caves. Kerrera was accessed via a flat bottomed boat, shared with a Transit van, a Jack Russell and two mums with a quad bike. Once on the island, the only sounds came from the birds in the trees above me and the distant hum of a speedboat engine. I trekked along the coastline of Bute, searching for an abandoned lighthouse that promised to be worth the visit. I got sidetracked by a cave further up the hillside, and clambered over scree to find a decomposing deer who had made the same journey but failed to make it out alive. Heading back on to the coastal path, I found the lighthouse perched atop a rock at the very edge of the shore. Steps led down from the doorway, but then stopped in mid air – how the building was accessed is a mystery. My boots caked in mud, I made my way back to the ferry terminal, ready to plan the next adventure. I could never go back to living in a small place, but as a visitor the isolation is rejuvenating rather than oppressive. I look forward to the next breath of fresh air.