The Trouble With Small Worlds
NO man is an island, entire of itself, in the words of Donne’s poem, and not least when the island in question is in Scotland, it seems. You may think you’re the sole owner of a sea-girt piece of Caledonian rock, bog and heather, but it might turn out that a lot of other people believe it should belong to them, too, and not necessarily at a market price.
I dined recently with Jamie Howard, an old friend from school and, for now, owner of the Isle of Ulva off the north-west coast of Mull. He was just back from Greenland, where the pure air had cleared his head for some hard thinking and for reaching the grim conclusion that it was high time to leave Scotland.
Jamie took on the management of Ulva from his mother in 1983 and, since then, has devoted his life and limited capital resources to doing his best for the 5,000-acre island. The place has both happy and very sad memories for him.
His offspring have been raised there, living idyllic Swallows and Amazons childhoods; he’s created a small, but resilient community of five souls, besides his own family; he’s farmed cattle and sheep, increased annual tourism footfall from 0 to 4,500 and started a successful restaurant. Tragically, he has also lost two wives to cancer.
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