At the pier on Rum, a ferry’s bell becomes a call to community |
On the island of Rum, the pier isn’t just a drop‑off point — it’s where neighbours meet, problems are solved, and everyday life quietly comes together, says Elle Duffy.
On Saturday morning , I can hear a faint bell in the distance.
It’s 11.15am, and though the ferry isn’t due in for another 25 minutes, its presence is unmistakable - and I’m late.
The village sits so quietly, so peacefully in the morning that the tannoy announcements onboard the Calmac ferry can be heard across the bay, up the road, and straight to my front door. Better get the boots on.
The pier is, of course, the first bit of land that many step foot on when they arrive on Rum. We’ve had the odd kayaker mount the island in front of the campsite, but for the majority of visitors, it’s the port that serves as their first welcome. And I didn’t quite expect this to become one of my favourite places in the village.
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It’s not much to look at, mind you. There are a few large yellow skips where we dispose of our rubbish, complete with hefty stones nearby in case the latch gets jammed. There are a few cars that appear well beyond their use by date, waiting for their one way ticket off the island - or to be claimed by the weather. There’s a small waiting area with slates propped outside it, handwritten in colourful chalk to advise visitors of where they should walk to today, and a black and white collie called Paws that stands loyally at the feet of the piermaster.
I make it to the pier as the freight van is driving off the ferry ramp. I’m here alone, having had to resort to hopping in the ATV upon realising my car battery is well and truly dead. As I pull up, there are already three or four cars lined up in front of the boat shed. I know exactly who they belong to, and sure enough, they’re all waiting inside the shed for the freight van to park.
Deliveries work differently here. There is no door-to-door courier service except for the local postie - for things ordered outwith Royal Mail, the pier is their final destination. All our things arrive in a small Ford Transit van, driven by cheery Calmac staff who are always more than happy to help handball items off. There are cardboard boxes of shopping from the mainland, a few Amazon parcels, and a brand new children’s bike in the van today. Our post is organised by the island postie, and stacked neatly into piles on the shed floor. I think he can tell when I’ve been awake with the baby - my pile seems to stack higher than the rest.
But it’s not just the post or my shopping that I’ve come for. I often find myself using the pier as an excuse. An excuse to leave the house, to get some air, to speak to another adult. Sometimes I’ll say I’m going down to check if anything’s arrived, even when I know full well nothing has. Sometimes I’ll go just to see who’s about. I’ve discovered that if you want to catch up with islanders, the pier is the place to do it. Once our shopping is loaded into our cars, we seem to gravitate to a small circle, chatting about anything and everything until we realise that the ferry is long gone. Someone asks about the car. Someone else offers a battery charger. Another promises to come by later with new jump leads, just in case. This is how problems are solved: in passing, with neighbours and friends who truly care.
The pier has been many things to me. When we first moved here, and drove our little white car off the ferry, we saw the quizzical looks of those waiting at the shed before they realised we were their new neighbours. We’ve helped handball cheese and milk and instant noodles for the local village shop, resisting the urge to nick an apple or run away with the box clearly labelled ‘BAKERY: Croissants and Pain Au Chocolats’. When our wooden pellets arrive for our boiler at the Bunkhouse, it’s all hands on deck to help move them off the palette and into our trailer to allow the van to get back on the ferry before it leaves. And, of course, when we walked off the ferry with our newborn son for the first time, it was the crowd at the pier who greeted us for the first time, in the most special ‘welcome home’ we’ve ever experienced.
On the mainland, a pier is something you pass through. You arrive and quickly leave to reach your next destination. Here, it behaves differently. It’s a chance to connect, a chance to slow down. And it insists you stick around.
Elle Duffy lives and works on Rum