Just last week I was pondering what would happen when I left Alderney. Where would I live, and where would I work? Despite missing the grand echo of an art gallery or the intricate cabinetry of museums, very little can tempt me back to London, not even the prospect of reuniting with my estranged family: my mother, who threatens to move to Bourgogne anyway, and my younger brother, still jobless and hopeless.

Devon would be easier. The land is cheaper, the living simpler, and I still have friends there. I still have furniture and books there, tucked away in the vast attic space of Edwin’s old house, the house I once thought we’d share for a lifetime. If you need somewhere to stay, he always says, during these sparse, nostalgic conversations I often sniffle my way through.



Above is the South Lighthouse at Fair Isle, the remotest inhabited place in the UK. Some of you might remember how I spent a few weeks there last summer, working with crofters (small-scale tenant farmers) and their sheep. It took me months to purge the memory of this glorious place, and to detach myself from the deep affection I had for its community of 60 of the kindest hearts.

How one email can change so much.

A friend on the island is now offering me an 18-month rental on his house, whilst he is away having major surgery (and aftercare) in Germany. Sheep, cows and chickens included, he says, as is Klebb, the friendly stray cat who sleeps on top of the fridge. When he mentioned availability from autumn, I drew a sharp breath. I leave Alderney in autumn.

My body’s been shaking so hard today that bottling milk at the dairy became a little more messy than usual. But though I’m ecstatic at the offer, I’d rather my friend did not have to rent it out, as it would mean he was well enough to continue living on Fair Isle. The fact that he won’t tell me (and he hasn’t even told the community) what’s wrong sets alarm bells ringing.



Providing there’s enough work going round, that will be all the reason I need to say yes. The bitterly cold conditions, the unavoidable isolation, the lack of facilities, the archaic way of living—of course I am scared. But I spent too much of my childhood being afraid. I lost too many hours to playing it safe.

It would be unwise of me to get over-excited just yet, especially being only three months into living on Alderney, and still very much in love with my current island status. Yet if there’s a way I can make this next adventure happen, I will. The hardest part has already been resolved, though: finding a roof for my head on a Scottish archipelago of only 25 homes.