Painting by Manika Patel

 

My Life on Rathlin

by Manika Patel

It feels like quite a task to sift through memories of my time here so far. Rathlin Island seems to be a sort of Hotel California, where time seems to blur, shift and loop in on itself. I’ve heard more than a few stories of how a couple of months can easily stretch into decades for those living here.
Life on Rathlin is beautiful. The way the sound of Súitú1 is continuously carried by the wind, no matter how loud it howls, is a joy. The feeling of jumping into the shelter of the Landie after a day of battling relentless gales—cheeks stinging and flushed pink from the cold, heater on full blast, and the smell of diesel in the air—is one I’ll never forget.

When I cast my mind back, each day feels simultaneously the same and utterly unique, full of vivid moments that burn like floating embers, swirling before disappearing into the star-strewn sky.

I love the routine of my regular routes and the company of my coastal route partner, Anna. Her Herculean legs have improved my fitness far faster than I could have ever expected. Being part of the Ma3 team, I get to experience the more remote corners of the island and enjoy a breathtaking view both across Church Bay and across to West Scotland. Every Monday as I lunch, I gaze towards the sea cliffs bordering Rue Point, framing the rocky grandeur of Fairhead on the mainland. On a clear day, I can even see nestled amongst the houses, a smudge of blue no bigger than my thumbnail—the Hostel, my home for the past two months.

Most days are relatively uneventful: checking in with our Team Lead, Finn, in the morning, and receiving a set of routes for the day. Packing our bags, made heavy with rodenticide and an unimaginably large number of snacks, and embarking on our routes. Next, one o’clock check-in after lunch. Then, once routes are completed or the sun starts to dip past the horizon—whichever comes first—head back to the shed for a debrief and drive home.

While the occasional torrential shower, soggy bog, or encounter with cows keeps life interesting, most of my days in the field have been filled with great conversation, quiet reflection, and screaming song lyrics, the wind ripping the words from my mouth and hurling them across the sea to Scotland.

Rathlin continues to teach me the rhythm of life in a place untamed: the wind, the waves, and the ever-changing light across the cliffs. Every day in the field feels like a conversation with the island itself, and I am constantly reminded of the delicate balance of its ecosystems—and my own place within them. As I head back to the hostel each evening, I carry with me the stories of the land, the wildlife, and the people who call it home.

1 Súitú is an Irish word that describes the sucking-out sound of the shoreline at night, often heard in springtime when large waves pull the pebbles from the shore and roll them back in.