I consider myself incredibly lucky to hail from the Hebrides. Although I’ve now spent half my lifetime elsewhere, nowhere else will ever truly hold the title home.
There comes a time in every teenager’s life when they begin to ponder life beyond school. For an islander, this coming of age feels particularly significant. To leave the islands is a complete lifestyle change no matter where you go.
When all is said and done there are two choices. Stay. Or go.
For those of us that go, the pull of home never leaves. It comes in waves. Ebbs and flows. We have a Gaelic word for it. Cianalas. An intense sense of longing for - or belonging to - a place. A feeling especially associated with a place you’ve been separated from. Just ask the generations of island seafarers, soldiers and wanderers.
For many the Hebrides truly gets under the skin. The pace, the peace, the people. Imagine a lifetime of entwinement. Tales of land and lore are woven into the very fabric of island life.
As an estranged islander one of my favourite things is returning with uninitiated mainland friends in tow. To share their first time visit is to see my home through eyes anew. Those that enjoy the sky-blue, blinding sand Hebridean halcyon days can’t believe they’re not in the Carribean. And those who are treated to more honest weather - moody, heavy, Hebridean - understand how the weather and resulting heavyweight introspection might serve as influences on our rich cultural and musical heritage.
I believe the contrast between my island heritage and adopted city life may show up in my work. I find myself equally drawn to islands, harbours and sea-locked countries as I do to losing myself in cityscapes; seeing how cityfolk live. One thing is certain: the ocean always calls me back.
For now I’ll leave you to take this photographic road trip through Lewis and Harris. Rest assured, this won’t be the last you hear from me on my island home.