What if the boat stops coming?

Today I was blown along my high street by damp gusts of wind that were whipped up with ocean salt that splattered across the shop windows. Sometimes, I have to jog along the pavement, racing the next squall of iron hard rain as it rolls down from the dark mountain glens. A ragged rainbow hangs above the beach, and then fades whilst I take shelter with the other shoppers under the eaves of the co-op. By contrast, in June the sun sparkles on the blue waters lapping the shore, and a breeze playfully ruffles palm trees with moist gulf stream air. Then, an impression of calm settles on our little island, as the shops and cafes wait for the school holidays and the endless bounty of tourists disgorged by the ferry to jubilantly transform our street into a seaside promenade.

Our high street is special and I am reminded every day of how this is so. In the bakers I queue behind plumbers, electricians and handymen, picking up their lunches. This is not unusual, but these people are not random faces in a crowd. They are my friends, colleagues and neighbours. Such familiarity does not breed contempt, but a courteousness that comes from knowing that a good deed will be returned and a friendly face encountered again and again. Our local paper may report the news but also chronicles the daily lives of the island’s inhabitants; the first lambs of the new season… a new chef at the golf club… and the annual conker tournament at the village pub….

Island life presents colossal challenges to the ethical shopper but in many ways is ideally suited to a sustainable way of living. Mainland friends ask me “How do you survive?” “What if you get stranded?” and guests always want to know what essential item of modern living they can bring when they visit.

In fact, our island is served by a vast co-op supermarket and several excellent village shops. In years gone by, the smaller shops were even more numerous, but the co-op has squeezed their business and many have closed down. And yet the islanders have a strong sense of independence, and most will prefer to buy from island businesses where they can. Fashionable ideas such as local produce are a way of life on my high street. On an island where work is seasonal, incomes are low and the cost of living is high, shoppers recognise the wisdom in putting their hard earned cash back into the local economy, rather than let it be leached away across the water. The island’s green meadows produce excellent beef and lamb. The dairy industry has shrunk considerably over the years but the local creamery still manages to produce enough milk to supply virtually everyone and award winning cheeses alongside. Our coastal soils are fertile from centuries of seaweed spread by generations of crofters. Almost everyone I know who has a plot of land grows their own fruit and vegetables.

And yet in this darkening world our little island fears for its very future. On the mainland the jaws of the credit crunch bite hard and local authorities are considering the dire consequences of peak oil and climate change. Here, as the frequency and ferocity of the maritime storms increase, ferries are cancelled and the costs of fuel spiral, we islanders are forced to ask the terrifying question: “What if the boat stops coming?”

Ordinary island citizens feel the consequences of global meltdown as keenly as political leaders because we are living at the frontline of climate change in Britain. We know that we must take our future in to our own hands. Our isolated community has a great gift and a great burden. We have a fantastic wealth of natural resources around us and a population looking to the future. We are used to thinking about self suffiency and naturally plan ahead against shortages. But we will also feel the full force of change when it comes, and bear the brunt of the hardships that may follow.

It is dawning on many of us, that our island community can and must lead the way in developing a new, local, and self reliant way of living. It is ironic that a place treasured by many for its old fashioned serenity and villages unchanged for decades should now find itself at the cutting edge of modern economics. But questions are being asked of local leaders and food producers that may resonate beyond our shores. Why can’t we have a community-run abattoir on the island? How do we support our dairy farmers? Can we pay farmers to start growing vegetables again?

The excitement is growing as we realise that we can truly be a force for positive change in our own community. What the future holds for our little island is undecided, but we know that the recent drop in oil prices is just a blip, and things once taken for granted are no longer to be relied upon. Dependence on the ferry for a ready supply of wealthy tourists and cheap food is dangerous. As an uncertain future hangs over us all, contingency plans for the survival of this island are being put in to place. The question is, will the larger island across the water do the same?