Far Out
It was like a mirror, on that mountain pass
It was a particularly sunny day in the Outer Hebrides of Scotland as I sped towards the summit of the sole mountain pass on that island. Ahead, unbeknownst to me, was the deadline for a decision I was destined to make.
What occurred was one of those rare moments where both instinct and the subconscious take over: we crested the peak and my foot, or rather whatever force now had possession of my foot, pulled that single extremity towards the brake pedal, and then down on the floorboard. Our Skoda lurched. My wife's eyes widened and I, inexplicably but comfortably, relaxed my grip on the wheel.
We were going to stop – no doubt about that – at the white and gray caravan that quickly outgrew a small dot on the horizon, and which soon showed a few legible words ('Isle Coffee Harris') on its side, situated on a cliffs edge pullout.
If I'm honest with you, I am not a coffee drinker. Seeing as though my wife is, I have come to enjoy a cup. But more enticing than that are the moments found en route: the conversations in passing where a suggestion is given on where to go, the uncertainty about a specific place as you approach, and the studying of the attitude of the rare person in this world who interacts with so many.
I also find entertainment in watching that person, the barista, enter a fight as they – almost inevitably if at a place recommended by another human being – soon establish dominance over the hissing and steaming beast which always has some unpronounceable, yet fitting, French or Italian name. I like watching this person transform in seconds into an artist, now behind their enormous easel, meticulously steaming a cup of milk and drawing with foam. And as I reminisce, I notice that I even, in a world which increasingly demands speed, impatience, and shallowness, long for the wait, even if not worthwhile, and the subtle head nod and Thank you that is so often exchanged.
Sometimes, though, there is an opportunity to linger. And that is what I enjoy most of all. Because there is an implied contract between me and my supplier – an understanding that despite the fact that we are in the midst of a financial transaction, we are still both human and have, at the very least, one quite similar craving.
And it is in that context, where Grace and I pulled to the side of the road.
Approaching a single window, generator running in the background, my first instinct was to be puzzled: hunched over in a converted caravan far too small for his stature, on an island about as far as you can get into the North Atlantic, there is middle aged man with a gray beard and purple glasses making espresso shots.
Why?
Why? is a question I often ask myself when I arrive at the far reaches of the world. In fact, it is a curiosity I have come to develop that may drive me to those places: not so much for their merit or acclaim, but rather for their contribution in answering an infinite question.
Why? was what I found repeatedly during my drive to the Arctic Circle last year, where an empty landscape and weeks of isolation brought me to surrender control entirely. That is the question answered by New Zealand, a land so distant it is unfathomable for most to ever visit, yet the place where – against all mathematical possibility – I met my wife. And in choosing to go to the Outer Hebrides, which I continue to write to you about now despite the fact that I am situated firmly on the mainland, I choose once more to pursue that three letter word.
But the desire to learn is often corralled by a lack of courage. Why? is a question that requires a certain amount of confidence to utter, and sometimes I find – to my great dismay – that I lack what is necessary. Maybe because I do not want to come across overbearing, or perhaps because I do not want to intrude. After all, does someone arrive at the end of their Earth to be questioned or to escape the questions?
I only overheard a snippet of a conversation with the lady who ordered before us, where this man mentioned something about Australia. His accent conveyed more than his words, and between the two my single question had promptly subdivided into many more. Australia and the Outer Hebrides are about as far across the Earth as one can possibly go. But now working on that order, he stood with his back to us, facing the beastly machine, and being a master of his craft (as Australians so often are with coffee), he finished that order promptly, and was soon taking ours.
It was only after meeting a friendly face, clear eyes, and a deeply inviting smile that a slight amount of courage, and more importantly the accompanying clarity, returned to me. There are certain tells, I have come to find, in those older than I. Wrinkles on a face often say whether one prefers to worry or smile; roughened hands say whether one prefers the practical to theory; and dress, of course, divides the secure and the humble from the lost. Against all the wishes of the world, in that moment I judged a man based on his looks, and having placed our order, I asked what the gentleman's name was. He replied,
'Sean. How about you?'
There are occasionally moments in life where you find someone on par with you. Perhaps they enjoy the same hobbies, or the same food, or live in the same place. For me, though, there is a deep satisfaction found in someone as puzzled by me as I am by them. Sean was that person.
Every question I asked – 'How long have you been here?' – was promptly returned but with even greater curiosity: 'Six years... what brings you guys out here?' I replied with the truth: we were going to be in London, and so I looked at a map of the UK, and put my finger on the furthest place I could find. Sean's eyes glistened and with a nudge from the gusting wind, I returned the question. He replied with a chuckle,
'The same. I was living in London, and one day... I simply burned out. I looked at a map for whatever place was furthest away.'
But his story had more depth, I was certain, and so I prodded on. What did he do for work all those years ago? – 'I worked in recruitment, what about you guys?' And why did he begin making coffee here? – 'Honestly, my wife and I got here and the coffee was just shit.'
Every single question he answered left me more intrigued than the last. Not only was Sean interesting, he was also interested. The rain was coming in, but we weren't going to be pushed away so easy: Grace and I hid under the small popup window. We asked him about this place: we were by far the youngest people we had seen since the ferry landed days before. 'Yeah, it's all old people. The only people living here, and visiting here, are old.' He said, with a small amount of annoyance.
I hadn't even thought far enough ahead to ask about the locals living here, but now that he mentioned it, I realized Grace and I had not seen a single child during our time in the Outer Hebrides. Sean told us about the last census: in 10 years, the population dropped from 1,750 to 1,250.
'Surely there's opportunity out here ... a tour company, renting bikes, organizing overnight hikes or something?' I asked as my mind started imagining all the possibilities. He chuckled slightly and replied, 'Oh, no doubt. There is infinite opportunity for anybody who wants it out here. But anybody young with any drive,' he continued, 'heads for Edinburgh or Glasgow.'
'What a shame,' I said. On the edge of the North Atlantic, there sits one place Instagram and TikTok have yet to claim. Iceland attracts the crowds, the Faroe Islands attract dancing influencers, and Ireland attracts everyone: there, you can clear American customs and immigration before flying into the States.
But here I had found a place so much more remote. That is the dichotomy: it is the desolation of the Outer Hebrides that slowly enthralled me, yet it is the desolation that is quickly killing this place. Quite literally, actually. Grace asked what life was like out here, 'Is it tight knit?'
Sean sat down in the corner of the caravan, and took off his glasses. He replied, 'Yeah, if you need help, people always help...' and then with a breath that left us both hanging for a moment or two continued, 'but about 70% of this island is one family, and so it's quite difficult to break in... even though we've been here six years, my wife and I don't really have friends, just each other.'
He looked at us in the eyes and said, 'You don't ever really get the chance to have a conversation like this.'
Before long, another customer came up behind us, and we found ourselves shaking hands and exchanging a promise: we'd be back tomorrow, though it was our last day on the islands. And that was a promise we kept.
The next morning, we set off on a familiar route, at lower speeds. The rain had come, and gone, and come again. But by the time we climbed up that pass, the sun had shown her beautiful face, and once again coffee was, as it so often is for me, simply an excuse to experience something more. We spoke about our plans for the day, and perhaps that was for the best.
Because Sean then told us of his favorite beach on the island. Later on, after I asked Sean if he would take a photo with me, Grace and I would go and spend hours walking (and more sitting) across a small channel from the island where a German scientist tried to deliver mail via rockets (twice). And before we departed by ferry, we would visit a lighthouse owned by an elderly couple who stole £100,000 from an Alzheimers patient (they kicked us out for not buying anything).
But since we left, my mind has repeatedly been drawn back up that mountain pass.
In conversation with Grace, I find myself referencing Sean, with a sort of distant admiration that is only possible through a brief but thorough interaction.
I suppose some point after you leave your home looking for a better world, you come to realize that beaches are beaches, mountains are mountains, and seeing more places no longer fulfills. What is left then, is human connection.
And that is what I, after all these years on the road, desire most of all.
