The Blue Pig gives great advice

Rain in Scotland is consistent. It is the most consistent thing I have ever encountered. There was a slight murmuring in the ferry parking lot about a cancellation due to incoming weather: the winds were developing, the seas were getting rowdy. But between us and the gale, the sky was a beautiful deep blue. And that is what concerned me most: do the Scots know what to do with good weather? I eavesdropped a bit longer, until three raindrops landed on my forehead. Suddenly, I knew: we were going to sail.

And sail we did, right out to Na h-Eileanan Siar, or the Outer Hebrides. Grace and I were on an expedition: the Outer Hebrides are the furthest you can really get from the beautiful city of London. What intrigues me most about a remote place is not necessarily the place, but the people. What are their names? What do they wear? When they go somewhere, where do they go? Do they enjoy the edge of the Earth or were they forced here?

We wouldn't find out quite yet: this is one of the last places that strictly holds the Sabbath. The only place open was Tesco – a chain grocer. So we moved quick: I had booked us a true mixture of accommodations, starting with a B&B at the northernmost point of the islands. Here we met a 60-some-year old German landscape architect and his wif– no, not his wife. I assumed it was his wife. Never, ever assume she is his wife. It was his girlfriend of three years, I immediately learned. Unfortunately, the learning continued. They met on Tinder. Grace whispered to me that I should've checked for a wedding band.

And then they kissed – just as a small piece of toast covered in black pudding entered my mouth. Black pudding, by the way, is a delicacy. It is made of cow's blood, onion, and oats. 

I had also booked us a few nights in a shed. The shed was a tipping point for Grace and I. 100 yards from our car, this glampsite was equipped with two cots and no bedding. Pillows, but no bedding. A fridge, but no bedding. Sleeping bags and showers were extra: £5. How can you justify that? Not to mention the sideways rain: most of the time, we simply sat in the red shed. There was nowhere to be, and nothing to do. 

It was in those moments when I saw the despair in my wife’s eyes. As far as I imagine the Outer Hebrides to be from London, the Outer Hebrides are probably much farther from New Zealand. And all that way from home, out of everywhere we could've been – Alicante, Spain is beautiful, cheap, and has no tourists this time of year – I took her there. These fierce moments of doubt were only destroyed by the gusts of wind which brought rain through the cracks around the door.

But as we left our final night there, we slowly made way along those dogged Scottish roads.  Scottish roads exist to kill you. It is as simple as that. On the mainland, there is no other explanation for two lane roundabouts, crosswalks, traffic lights, and entire highways – with zero road markings of any kind. When that attitude strikes the middle of nowhere, what then? 

One lane. A speed limit so high we never hit it. And gravel pullouts every few hundred yards for passing. That is it. We spent the rest of our trip on roads like this – even the main highway shrinks down to one car width in the most questionable of positions. The beauty in such a narrow road, though, is how it bobs and weaves. 

Between two massive stones, through a narrow canyon, alongside a riverbank, or a cliff. The roads, much like the rain, were initially considered a problem. As time went on, I became less deluded. The roads and the rain and the wind and even the peat bogs were not a downside. They are the proof that I had arrived at the right place: a place where you would only live if you had a very good reason.

And no one has a better reason than Peter and Jane Harlington.

It is difficult to describe what happens when we stepped into The Blue Pig, a small roadside gallery attached to a home. Through a narrow entrance under a red roof, it was as though we stepped through the closet of Narnia. Colors came at us from every direction: paper birds soared across the ceiling, a sort of collage scrap book sat prominently next to the door, and between those two was the most vast array of original, incredible, beautiful art I have seen in a long time. Postcards and prints dominated. We met a young man who was the son of the owners, Peter and Jane. (Who, by the way, did not meet on Tinder.) And every single piece in here was original to Jane.

As is so often the case with a small transaction, here too I pushed for a conversation. Peter was happy to oblige. How did you end up here? What did you do before? What do you do in the winter? His answer to the last one still comes vividly to mind:

'Well, I love winter! I do all the things I never have the time to do the rest of the year. I bake sourdough, I write sermons for the church, I draw...'

I was stumped. All my life I have hated winter. But not once had my idea been challenged so thoroughly. How many winters have I missed in the last few years? How many hours in the dark, hunched over a wooden table with a single fluorescent bulb flickering, had I lost in pursuit of... warmth? The pattern of my entire life might have changed, if only I had learned to view something from another perspective.

But all was not lost at The Blue Pig. There was hope. When Peter asked what Grace and I did for work, I mustered the courage and said I was a writer. It was slightly easier to say it than I expected. Surrounded by true artists, and on the edge of the North Atlantic, it is almost pleasant to cast fear to the wind.

Thank God I found the courage, because only once I opened that window did the breeze blow through: 'Ah! He's a fellow writer, honey!' said Peter, followed by Jane's, 'That's amazing! What sort of stuff do you write about?'

'About you' could've been an answer. But I don't think it would have gotten me any closer to the place I have been pursuing. I told her that I was a carpenter by trade, but now I do this. Their enthusiasm was consuming me.

I asked Jane if she had any advice for a younger writer, and she fired off sentence after sentence:

'If you dont start doing it now you never will. If I didn’t paint the pictures no one could buy them. And you just have to start. You can’t wait until it’s perfect.

Grace and I walked back to our car and I was stoked. I could not believe what we had stumbled into – only because she told me to pull into a small driveway, down some little lane, on some island, so far from anywhere either of us found comfortable.

Our trip continued onwards, and we visited a few of the most beautiful beaches I have ever seen. So tucked away this far north, and with wind gusting, I did my best to imagine what a beautifully relaxed summer day might look like here. But no matter where my feet were, my head was dead set on that moment at The Blue Pig, and meeting Sean.

There is something incomprehensible that happens when you step out of routine and notice the little things. When you go somewhere curious, who knows what there is to find? Year after year, trip after trip, so often I continue to sit in shock at the people I meet and the stories they have. The world is such a beautiful place, full of beautiful people.

And if you want to see proof, you rarely have to go as far as the Outer Hebrides.

See you out there,
Bryce