Jack Anderson is a PhD candidate in the Department of Film & Television at the University of Glasgow. He is currently doing doctoral research on ‘Bodies of Water and the Geographies of (Un)dead Childhood in Contemporary British Cinema’. He is the author of ‘Return, Remembrance and Redemption: Hauntology and the Topography of Trauma in This is England ‘88 and The Virtues’, which was published in the Journal of British Cinema and Television. He is also the author of the book chapters: ‘It’s just one of them things innit, there’s nothing you can do about it’: The Specter of Thatcherism in This is England ’86-’90’ and Performing the Political: ‘Cool Britannia’ and the Facade of New Labour Leftism in The Office and Extras’. His forthcoming works include the article ‘‘Always already dead’: Losing the lost in Anderi Zvyagintsev’s The Return’, which is due for publication in theJournal of Children in Popular Culture in the fall of 2024 and a forthcoming book chapter ”That canal gees me the creeps”: Haunted Bodies of Water and Geographies of Dead Childhood in the Cinema of Lynne Ramsay’ which was released earlier this year on Routledge.
Jack’s blog post documents his time on the Isle of Eigg as part of a PhD Civic Engagement Residency offered in collaboration between Bothy Project and Thinking Culture, School of Culture & Creative Arts at the University of Glasgow. This opportunity was part of Bothy Project’s Fieldwork Residency strand.
Bad Habits. We all have them. A particularly bad one of mine is with my email inbox: we’ve all been there, when you’ve let life admin slip a little too much and you come across an inbox that is veritably packed to the rafters. After a quick skim and deciding what lies therein is either spam mail or just downright irrelevant, I employ a wee trick to clear the air and clean the inbox ‘select all’ > ‘delete’.
One such morning in much more innocent times of 2023, I was teetering on the edge of such a cop out, but for whatever reason, I thought I’d have a quick second glance to make sure nothing important had slipped through the net. I spotted an email from my PhD supervisor (which as a rule of thumb should never be deleted), contained within was information about Bothy Project. After 10 minutes of research, I was sold. Not thinking much would come of it, I decided to throw my hat that in the ring. It was an amazing opportunity to visit a place that not only looked beautiful but also had an amazing story. And (whisper it!) as a Scot, much to my embarrassment, I’d never been to the highlands and islands, not properly. Bothy Project and the Isle of Eigg also lined up surprisingly well with my research – childhood memories and the experience(s) of the child around water. So, to cut a long story short: a proposal and a few zoom meetings later, I was on my way to Eigg.
Notes from the Edges
This piece was written between 29th March – 5 April on the Isle of Eigg, Scotland, during the author’s artist residency at Sweeney’s Bothy
You, again!
We spend most of our lives alone – having conversations in our heads, making plans and drawing up from the thickets of our imagination the idea of a life. As a dogmatist who rattles the sabre of ‘time-to-myself, I arrived on Eigg excited to get back to it (whatever it is, was or could be). And for all my yearnings for the ol’ get away, as the cool air of the island gave me a veritable slap in the puss I realised: I’ve never been out on my own, not really. To cut a long story short: I was a wee bit afraid, usually I can combat boredom with a bit of a headlong dive into the always-already admin of the daily grind: emails, letters, applications, overdue direct-debits. And in these minor chores of mundanity, I found a quiet solace that when I got a wee golden hour on my tod, I was well across it. But what a cruel anaesthetic. On occasion I’d love nothing more than to light the candle at both ends; burn the midnight oil and try if the wheels allowed to retreat into a wee pocket of twilight time where I’d think about writing, family and the memories that keep me warm. So, ‘nae excuses’ is the mantra and so far – given that I’ve penned this out in between some free-wheeling lumber jacketing Jack Torrance style and a wee jaunt around my new sticks – so good.
The Long and Short of It
When I was a teenager, I could be a little shit. One of my misadventures involved a semi accidental fire in the neighbouring town. It was by all any yardstick silly and big news. How easy that fire seemed compared to my initial attempts at getting the wood burning stove at the Bothy to bear any fruit. Here on Eigg, without sounding a bit Game of Thrones, life really is regulated by fire and water – light and dark, dry and damp, warmth and cold. After spending hours going hell for leather chopping wood, it is all too easy to waste logs if you don’t take care of the fire and man the station. Without a fire, there is no [hot] water and given that I’m not yer Wim Hoff kinda fella, looking after your fire is pretty much eins numero up at Sweeny’s Bothy.
In a massive stroke of luck my residency here fell on Easter and here that meant one thing – the Easter Ceilidh. A veritable knees-up: a traditional jig, a (re)union for old friends and a chance to welcome new folk. The Ceilidh on Eigg is a particularly special affair, doubling as an occasion for the islanders to celebrate how far they have come; their battle for independence and community ownership. For decades Eigg was owned by barren laird – an absentee landlord and the all-round neglectful not-so-nice businessman – Keith Schellenberg. A contemptuous fellow who saw the folk of Eigg as nothing more than “drunken hippies and drop-outs”, he ran the island into the ground: plummeting nature and wildlife and treating it more as a bourgeoisie toy for him and his celebrity mates. On 12 June 1997, after years of hard graft, digging in the heels and taking the fight to Schellenberg – a not-so-wee miracle occurred: the islanders were able to buy him out with the help from a still unknown anonymous donation of £750,000.
As I waited for one of the Island cult heroes, Charlie, Eigg’s only taxi driver to pick me up at 8:30PM, a rush of memory kicked in: sweaty palms, high school crushes and the familiar limber of the Gay Gordon. In Scotland, highland dancing is taught as a compulsory part of the Physical Education curriculum, though little enjoyed by the teenagers (what do we ever appreciate at that age?), I was suddenly thankful for those afternoons in the Broxburn Academy assembly hall and gymnasium. I knew that like some sleeper agent or cult member, that deep down in the recesses of ma subconscious was that old mantra – one two three four, back two three four. The night would be an expansive substratum of intimacy and small worlds wrought large. Charlie, of course, knew Broxburn and had worked close by many moons ago in Bathgate. On our drive down we picked up a lovely couple from Wetherby who warmly invited me to join them. A few drams in, it so happened that one of them, Roy, shared the same birthday as me, the unforgettable 11 November; Remembrance Day. Later, by the fire, I bumped into some fellow students from Glasgow University, one of them was from the island and he had brought his friends to Eigg to celebrate for the Easter weekend. In another slice of uncanny convergence, it turned out his girlfriend was also studying Film & TV at Glasgow and whose supervisor was my own – and yes Karen, we only had lovely things to say, gushing by the barrel as the sharp sun cut trails of light over the town hall as Easter Sunday broke.
Arriving at the Ceilidh, it’s not going until all sorts of folk are regaling me with their own stories of water. One of the residents tells me: “I arrived on fucking canoe, twenty years ago – and that’s it basically”. The character of the Island is punctuated by this kind of dry, warm and free-wheeling humour. Speaking to another woman, she tells me that she ended up traversing the sea leaving the mainland to come to Eigg, for an old flame who she jokingly admits to stalking, didn’t work out in the end, but she’s been coming back here ever since. These wee tales seem to be a rule of thumb. Chance encounters with paradise. Like the landscape, there is a purity to the islanders – tapping into something deeper and ancient with a deep love – they are sheer embodiments of that wry sense of whimsical metaphysical wit; Scots (it’s not where you came from, it’s where you are). The people are hardcore slices clipped straight from the fundament: familial, a little bit feral, cut from the cloth of harder stuff, but above all else masters of the age-old highland hospitality.
Underneath it all is a communal socialism where everyone looks out for each other. These people are steeped in stories, hard won battles mean they know how to cut loose. To my surprise, many people were on their third and fourth wind as the Ceilidh kicked off and they embraced the traditional love-in. The characters are kaleidoscopic; they have the energy and lore of those that populate the writing of Alan Warner, and their tales are pure as first snow; David Keenan’s This is Memorial Device’s Airdrie transplanted to the edge of the earth. Acute, affecting, aphoristic, hallucinatory and haunting – if these were books and characters I wanted to live in, then the Isle of Eigg is their actualisation. The real Mccoy: A cast of artists, crofters, misfits, drop-outs, small-time visionaries, eco-warriors and musicians all stepped on their own mythology. Rolling up their sleeves and mucking in for themselves, each other and the island.
I spent all my night with a young resident of the island, a charming wee fella who kept the fire pit ablaze all night as he cooked me some fresh garlic. Rare, medium rare and most frequently well done. After an hour of his fine cookery – he was duly convinced that I wasn’t a vampire. Eventually, I had to slip away as I didn’t have the stomach to eat any more fresh garlic. The wee man was left semi to his own devices, I had no clue who his parents were, but it seemed like everyone was family as they all dutifully took their mouthfuls of garlic and kept an eye on him. The kids here know the score, they are trusted to be aware of their environment and at points the boundaries between adult, child and all the in-betweens dissipate – they all have a sincere care for each other and a heart on the sleeve compassion for their fellow folk.
It goes without saying that the Ceilidh went on all night and the kids out lasted us all. There is something special in seeing adults cut loose and enjoy a few drams and a dance in the company of their children – it feels right that in an island where everything is shared then so should the good times. For young and old. The traditional highland song naturally morphed into a DJ Set and more specifically The Prodigy’s ‘Outer Space’ as rules of thumb goes, nothing captures the Isle of Eigg more than this.
After the Ceilidh bled into a packed caravan for an aux cable after party and one last dram, I slipped away with the gulf stream out into my long walk back to the Bothy. Chapped lips and all chatted out, I pursed myself with what was left in my wee hip flask, no battery and my mind racing with ideas and the freshly lingering nostalgia already enveloping what was left my battered brain-cells – I walked into the morning sky to what felt like a new home.