I Am an Island

by Tamsin Calidas

  The farmer shearing my sheep for me today has been away working on the mainland, and has come back to the island armed with some refreshingly open-minded ideas. He is diligent, reliable and used to shearing hundreds of sheep in a single morning. His relaxed manner and broader outlook have made it easier for me this year to make arrangements for the shearing.

  With the platform assembled, only the last mechanical checks remain. I watch as strong hands expertly position the comb guards so that they are slotted into the handpiece ahead of the cutters. The gleaming blades are clean and sharp, dangling from the machine suspended above the shearer. As he wipes their edges, he reaches into a bag and throws a container on to the earth. ‘Tar, for spraying nicks,’ he explains. I already have my own supplies of tar spray in a bucket, but I am touched by the care he has taken. However skilled the shearer, sharp blades occasionally wound soft skin. Tar spray covers the bleeding gash and stops blowflies sucking the blood and laying white eggs in the open flesh wound.

  Catching a ewe under the chin, I steer her into the central pen. ‘Ready?’ I ask. The farmer nods and then, gently, he crocks her, swiftly turning her neck and pushing down her rear end, so she sits on the rubber shearing mat. ‘All right, lass,’ he says quietly to the ewe. ‘Let’s get this heavy weight off you.’ I watch as he settles her, tenderly stroking her face.

  ‘What?’ he laughs, as he catches my surprised expression. ‘They notice when you are good to them. They behave sensible.’ I am encouraged to see how the sheep are responding to his quiet handling. It is one of a few welcome signs lately of how the island is slowly changing. ‘Pull!’ he calls. I tug the cord and instantly the engine starts whirring. It makes a low, purring sound. And then I relax, looking on, mesmerised, as the thick wool spills like water away from the skin. I give my full attention to this important ritual of stripping the fleece from a breathing animal. Watching that wool tumbling on to the shearing mat, I can feel all the months and years falling away.

  Shearing is always an eagerly anticipated date in the farming calendar. The ewes struggle to carry their fleeces in the heat, especially this year. My legs are weary and aching from walking the croft four times a day to check for any tipped over, or ‘cowped’, on their backs. Counting sheep is not just for children or for trying to get to sleep. I count mine diligently to be sure none are unaccounted for.

  I am glad to see those thick fleeces shorn and the ewes spared the risk of heat exhaustion. It is a release for us all from a sense of heaviness, and it heralds a spell of rest before the lambing sales. I have no tup, but, to my surprise, I still have six lambs. Although no gates have been left open or fences breached, somebody else’s ram somehow found its way on to the croft. I keep quiet and simply integrate the lambs into the flock. My sheep are no longer sold for meat. I long ago stepped off that track. These days, the shearing supplies me with raw wool for handicrafts. There have been criticisms that I am wasting the croft by not lambing, which does not seem to me entirely coincidental to the arrival of the lambs, but I show by doing, not talking. Change takes time to be accepted, but I am confident that one day acceptance will come.

  Shearing is an old dance. It tests stamina, skill and resolve. The ewe rests back into the shearer’s body, carefully braced against his legs and arms, her four legs raised above the ground. The soft, close curls that fall from the belly, shorter, denser than the main fleece, are discarded. Once the abdomen and haunches are clipped, her head is tipped back and the cutters whirr smoothly upwards from the sternum to the neck. A quick flick lifts her arm, so that it is braced by the shearer’s elbow. The clippers nestle deep into the fleece above the soft skin of the armpits. I hold my breath, tar spray at the ready, but this ewe is rolled smoothly on to her back without incident. The shearer is adept and methodical. Sweat is dripping off his brow as he runs the cutters in long, single strokes from the rear flank to the head. The wool smells delicious. It is a rich, dense, ripe scent. Burying my nose in it, I think of how many hard frosts it has seen.

  There is an art to throwing a fleece. As it is cast aside, I lift it and lay it clean side down, trying not to tear its soft, unmarked edges, while working quickly to clear it of dirt and muck. My hands dive into its weight, fingers picking away at the dags – matted, dung-encrusted locks of wool – as I untangle other debris from the main fleece. I remove the sweat fribs and other less desirable pieces of the fleece, with grass burrs, seeds, dried leaves and small twigs snared into the wool. A small, dusty pile will be used later to wrap around strawberry plants, to mulch my vegetable beds and stop up cold draughts in my cottage walls.

  Once the main fleece is skirted, I fold its outer edges inwards, from both sides, towards its centre. Then the fleece is rolled, from the britch end to the neck, the neck wool is carefully parted and tucked into the fleece, and it is tied. After rolling the fleece, I dig a smooth stick into a pot of blue resin and mark the croft’s signature on to the newly shorn ewe. A single dab positioned between the right shoulder and backbone enables the ewe to be identified at a glance, so that you don’t have to catch her to check her ear tag and flock mark. There were times when it was used as a deterrent to the problem of stray sheep being appropriated into other flocks. I have heard tales of fistfights over sheep and one story of an entire flock disappearing off a hill, only to be found six miles down the road. These days the island is quiet and the sheep do not wander. Farming is no longer the mainstay of the island, nor does it dominate the community as it used to. The population is gradually increasing, its demographic is changing and the fights that so often used to take place over each blade of grass are becoming a thing of the past.

  The fleeces are heavy and huge. The wool is usually simply packed into a large bag and carted away on a lorry for only a few pounds and pence from the Wool Board. There is an old saying that the Wool Board owns the wool on a sheep’s back before it is shorn. This year, I have decided not to sell all my wool to the Wool Board. It barely covers the cost of the shearing. Instead I pack two-thirds of the clip separately and cover them. These are the best fleeces. I will comb through them again meticulously with my fingers and wash them in fresh rainwater. Then I will lie them flat outside to dry in the wind.

  I will card the wool, pulling tufts and working it gently until it is finely combed. Once it is rolled into a ball, I will tease it into strands. Over the winter, I will meet with others to spin the wool. It is relaxing spinning yarn on to a wheel, the click of the treadle working rhythmically. From some of the fleeces I will make soft woollen throws, blankets and rugs. I am slowly learning these traditional crafts. Sometimes, I offer a basic exchange whereby artisans come to stay in the cottage and teach me. It is a lovely way to meet others and it opens a different gate to the crofting year, filled with softer voices, laughter, bright threads and stories.

  As the gleaming, low early mornings lift, burning off the mist into a burnished brilliance that rises into a fragile trailing arc of sun, I pick tiny, fresh leaves from the hawthorn spires and sharp blackthorn, which are clustered with tight buds. Their barbs tear at my sleeves. It is amazing how much wear and tear the croft inflicts on work clothes. Sewing is a daily chore, but it is more than that. It is a meditative practice. I am not a good sewer but I find it relaxing. It is a metaphor for life: each type of stitch teaches you a different lesson with its flowing dive into the fabric. You learn, for example, that when using running stitch, it is often sensible to secure that loose row of thread by backstitching it. It keeps it from unravelling, helps each stitch to withstand the hard brunt of daily life. It anchors your effort so that each stitch counts.

  These days, with a new generation reaching adulthood, an influx of international volunteers coming to work on the crofts and farms, and the emergence of a quiet yet burgeoning tourism, the island is changing. It wears its face differently. It matters less if you do not have kin of your own here. I live freely, without seeking others’ permission, and on my own terms. I am making my own traditions and friendships that are st
eadfast, trustworthy and dependable.

  When I think back to those early years on the croft, I wonder how we coped. That time was free in many ways, but it was emotionally arduous and physically gruelling. There was so much to learn, and so much that was invisible and difficult to navigate. The effort demanded by some of those harder years was punishing, but they also developed vital skills and brought the first inkling of the endurance required to thrive here. Those years alone have taught me all that is valuable in my life.

  It helps to feel the seasons changing, to feel your hands chap and your cheeks roughen. I am still learning. In nature there are no hard edges. Perhaps this is why I seek out the wilds before I seek people. The natural world offers a peace like none other I know.

  I do not worry now what each day will bring. I deal with times of hardship and plenty as they come. Worry is draining. It depletes and diminishes your vision and strength. I try to be open and adaptable. It allows each day to run smoothly when you live close to the soil. It enables you to work instinctively and proactively with nature. So long as you are attuned to your raw instincts, each day will unfold as it is meant to.

  I am practising to be like earth. If I am cold, I light a fire. If I am hurt, I breathe and allow my tears to flow. If I am fearful, I step closer to the source of my fear. If I am alone, I go outside into the wilds for their solace and company.

  Once the shearing is finished I kick off my boots and peel off my socks. The sun dapples my feet. I lie in the grass and watch the white clouds scudding over the hills.

  Sometimes I dream that one day, when I become too old to work, I will offer this land to a young family with a child. I dream of sharing the beauty of this soil in a kinship of trust. My hands have been shoring up for the future. Planting seeds, acorns, birch feather and sycamore wings. I have been planting trees for the next generation: for wildlife to find shelter. I understand now that as long as you know where to go to find sanctuary, inspiration and protection, the land is a beautiful and forgiving place.

  5

  Air

  It is mid-morning. The corrugated-iron roof of the old lambing barn is straining in a blast of northeasterly wind, unusual for the late summer. The yard dust lifts, whirling in gusts; the heavy air is laden, saturated with the thick scent of rain. But aside from a bullet-grey sheen, the skies remain clear. It is unsettling when you look to the skies to find the weather is at odds with itself. It makes your instinct more alert and on edge. I know a full-blown storm is imminent, scudding in from the horizon, not just from watching the gulls huddled against the feeders, or because the sheep are sheltering in the woods on the southwesterly aspect of the croft, or simply by watching the mercury sink low in the glass. I know it by all of this, but most of all I know it from the dull, leaden tang in my mouth, which stimulates saliva to spring to my tastebuds. I lift my face to scent and taste the air more keenly. That blunt-edged taste is a harbinger of either trouble or change.

  These days my instinct is hard-wired to an internal library of nature’s clues, so I listen and take heed of the small signals that my body absorbs. Sometimes I feel like litmus paper, soaking up atmospheric moisture and pressure. Today a wire thread of adrenaline is twitching, strung taut inside. I listen as the thin sheeting of the barn roof hums and shivers, trembling violently against its fixings, twisting and writhing, seeking to set itself free. Every few minutes it moans and shudders, before rippling in a belching spasm. It is terrifying to see that old, frayed, metal structure tearing itself apart. The perished, rusted metal is disintegrating, tiny flakes frittering away before my eyes as tiny, ragged shards splinter. It has been threatening to self-destruct for years. It is not a huge barn, maybe twenty foot high, yet with each gust the roof clatters, banging violently against the crumbling wall heads. And every few minutes an immense blast lifts the sheeting like two great wings. It has been like this for hours. I have despaired of trying to secure it.

  My faithful hosepipe, whipping and coiling itself into sickening snakelike motions, has been a trusted friend and has given its all over the years. It has anchored the trusses, its ends laid out and tied to enormous rocks, an old rusting tractor axle and a thousand-kilogram solid-steel cattle crush, tensioning the entire roof down. I have salvaged all the debris from the croft to make this haphazard safety provision in the absence of funds to re-roof the barn. It is a strange affinity to have, but I am deeply attached to that section of hosepipe. It has saved me from disaster more times than I can remember. We have slogged it out together, battling extremes of gruelling weather over the last fourteen years.

  As I watch with my heart in my mouth, trying to fathom what on earth to do, a momentous thought lands. There is nothing else I can do. And that is so absolute it is strangely calming and gives me strength. There is always a point of no return when you suddenly step beyond your own fatigue, hesitation or sense of failure – to embrace your fear. And finally the roof shears over the walls, crumpling to the ground, and the barrelling wind tears into the hollow structure inside. I reach into my pocket, take out a sharp blade and, as that heavy tin sheeting clamours, I cut it free. I can’t quite believe this is happening. All I feel is a euphoric relief. The weight of that roof has been pressing down on me all these years. There is a sense of freedom in letting it go. It is one less thing to waste my energy holding on to.

  The roof is shuddering off the wall heads in convulsive gasps. I am frozen, unsure if more is to come. Its sharp, serrated edges, whirring like ragged disc blades through the air, carry the risk of inflicting serious damage or a hideous injury. Don’t break up, I will it, as the separate panels start quivering. The roof will be impossible to control if it dismembers itself. Each sheet risks slicing or severing a limb in seconds. Thank goodness the livestock are safe, sheltering in the woods, well out of harm’s way.

  Hours later, I sweep up ripped metal and branches with a wire brush. The yard is eerily quiet in the radiant light soaking through a spattering rain. The wind-torn clouds are away, revealing the destruction and debris left behind. A tree is down, its trunk fissured in half and obstructing a gate. The barn, a desolate, drenched carcass of stone, looks more ancient and starkly beautiful. It is as if the years have been rolled back, hewing its bare structure to its origins. Inside, buckets splash with the sound of dripping water, and straw lies bedraggled and sodden in the yard. Fortunately, the hay is protected by a heavy tarpaulin cover. What now? I wonder, dismayed and appalled at the wreckage. As if in answer, a noise overhead startles me. A small bevy of swans is flying, their wings rhythmically strumming the sky like a lyre. The air through their wingtips oscillates and hums. It is a dreamlike moment. Visions of swans traditionally signify prosperity, luck and love, so I wonder if seeing a group in the air has the same portent. Take me with you, I think, as I watch them go. It is an extraordinary sight, seeing those heavy bodies so graceful and weightless.

  I know not to worry. The wind is symbolic to me of the breath of change. It has stripped the barn of its past, and forced me, in the space of three hours, to envisage life on the croft differently. Sometimes the universe invites us to work according to its principle of destruction and alteration. To empty a space, discard an outworn routine or simply let go, so that a different future may fill that emptiness. The sight of the swans reminds me that if you can rise above the chaos, the mysterious flow of the wind offers a source of strength and renewal.

  I slam on the brakes and lean heavily on the truck door with my shoulder. Leaving the key in the ignition and the engine running, I scour the verge, backtracking quickly but quietly. Did I really see it? I wonder, my eyes combing the steep bank. Suddenly, there it is, black wet feathers in a crumpled heap against the low stone dyke. As I crouch down, its ruffled head tilts and looks up at me. At first I think it is a baby rook, with the most beautiful milk-blue eyes. His wing is torn and his leg and foot damaged. He does not move as I gently fan out his wings. He is barely feathered, all downy fluff, neck hunched down into his shoulders. I try to stand h
im up but he falls over on to his side. It is then that I feel how cold and emaciated his body is. I fold my jumper into a cradle, gently scoop him into it and put him in the truck. I don’t think twice. The bird is sick and he needs help. As I drive the six miles back to the croft, he stares up at me without taking his eyes off my face. I fall in love that day.

  As soon as I get home, I fill a saucepan with water to hard-boil a fresh egg. When it is cool, I peel off the shell and feed small pieces, one by one, deep into the bird’s gaping gullet. For some reason, the appreciative gargling sound he makes as he swallows melts my heart. His beak is long, contoured with a pointed tip, yet it is soft, delicate, hesitant. It is only then that I notice a greying ruff of feathers emerging at his crown, neck and back. A flicker of doubt creeps into my mind. I look at him closely, and in my heart I know he is not a rook, but a hooded crow.

  On the island, hooded crows are notorious for maiming newborn lambs and are shot on sight. I wonder what I will do when he is well. Without a mother, he will be dependent on me and unable to fend for himself. And if he becomes tame, he will be insufficiently wary of humans and likely to be injured or killed. ‘Don’t worry,’ I reassure him. ‘Let’s get you well before we work out the rest of it.’ I keep hoping those greying feathers will somehow vanish. I stroke the bristly black ones at the brow of his beak. ‘Rooks have those,’ I tell myself hopefully. But when a farmer knocks on the door to borrow a syringe of penicillin for a sick lamb, he takes one look at the bird and asks suspiciously, ‘Why the fuck is a hoodie in here?’

  ‘It’s a rook,’ I say casually and then I wrap an old towel protectively around him, covering his emerging grey apron. My bird winks at me and leans into my arms. I take the medication from the fridge. When animals are sick, and the island veterinary box is low on supplies, it is good to be able to call on your neighbours. It is a bridging time when help becomes of far greater value than older hostilities.