Innse Gall: Finding Home on the Isle of Strangers

Mangersta Beach 2025

Innse Gall – Gaelic for “The Island of Strangers.”And yet here on the Isle of Lewis I don’t feel like a stranger at all.

An eclectic mix of people reside here: some with island heritage that spans generations, and others like me who were drawn here and are now interwoven like a rogue colourful thread in a length of tweed. That’s how it is on Lewis — a constant juxtaposition of soft, sweeping landscapes and the harsh reality of the unforgiving sea and weather.

I wasn’t meant to stay here forever, this place where rugged mountains and serene beaches cohabit, where swelling tides smash against the soft machair. I was only ever meant to be passing through, on my way to something else. But somewhere between the stillness and the noise I realised this was where I would live my whole life and one day die. Because there’s a deeper meaning to a place like this. It isn’t all fairytales and whimsical romance — quite the opposite.

Winters here are harsh, with only five hours of daylight and storms that arrive uninvited all year round. Yet there’s a steady emphasis on community, on simply being rather than striving. The people here aren’t impressed by flashy opulence or the mainstream definition of success. They don’t see the point in rushing through life. What’s not done today will be done tomorrow — everything has a season, including us.

There is a constant movement here, always something new that catches my breath and stops me in my tracks. I love the way the haar comes in and cloaks Uig like a shawl. I love the deep turquoise of Pabaigh lagoon where the jellyfish float. I love the way the sea stacks stand at Mangersta, like proud warriors that have faced it all.

Every sense is engaged. Light here is almost tangible. The soft caress of autumn sun, the warming embrace of summer brightness — I value the light so much more for its scarcity. It is a precious resource, treasured because we know it will fade. If I had to attribute a sound to Lewis, it would be the sea — whether lapping gently on the beach or stirring the shale. It’s a constant living thing. And in colder months, the scent of peat smoke drifting through the air is as much a part of home as the landscape itself.

There’s nothing more iconically Lewis than harvesting the bounty of the sea. Mackerel fishing with friends on the boat, or scallop diving — eight metres deep, freediving beside my husband — these are the memories that anchor me here. But the island’s rhythm is not only found in the sea, it is found in the people.

Here, time is made for one another. A ceilidh is not a dance but a gathering — evenings of yarns and stories passed around as freely as the tea. I still remember my first wild weather storm: ferries cancelled, internet and signal gone for a week. Watching the shop shelves empty was frightening, but it reminded me how much we rely on each other.

And always, there is welcome. I am so blessed in how I have been welcomed here. Friends from the villages teach me Gaelic phrases and fragments of folklore, smiles are shared across the post office counter. I never want to take advantage of this place or presume entitlement to it — I am grateful every day for those who share their heritage and allow me to be part of it.

As a seamstress my work is inseparable from this island. Yes, it draws on the textures, shapes, and colours of the landscape, but more than that, it reflects how the island makes me feel. Creating with Harris Tweed, woven in the weavers’ sheds of the Outer Hebrides, feels like both a privilege and a responsibility. I like to think my work honours this place — not only through materials, but by becoming part of a legacy that will outlive me, stitched quietly into the story of Lewis.

If I could speak directly to the island, I would thank it for its bounty, for the story I am now part of. I would thank Lewis for being kind.

I may have come here as a stranger, but I will leave — someday — as part of the fabric of this place.