Erikka Askeland: The joys of (not too much) tranquility

AT FIRST it was the silence. As I stood on the rolling hillside looking out over Loch Indaal, the lack of traffic noise, sirens, ringing office telephones and the occasional yowling of the grumpy neighbourhood cat had left some unaccustomed space in my head. Even the twittering of the swallows – or some such birds, not being particularly adept at twitching – only played at the edges of my hearing.

I felt my shoulders widen and spread a little. Ahh, peace, quiet, the breeze, the sea. I could relate to those guys standing next to Keats’ stout Cortez who were keeping their traps shut.

Don’t get me wrong. Most times I’m a city girl through and through. I’ve bagged a few Munros and slept in tents in my time, but if I can’t buy a lemon after 6pm from the shop within striking distance of my front door I start to get tetchy.

But a quick weekend away to Islay was just the trick to start shaking some of the city grime out of my life’s well-trod-upon carpet. And whenever I go out to somewhere spectacular in Scotland – it is mainly here, as I’m tempering my tendency towards indulgence with some austerity-style staycationing – I feel so much better.

And then there is always the moment – once my mind has quieted and my shoulders have retreated a little from my ears, – should I live here? Could I live here?

I won’t leave you hanging on. Inevitably, the answer is no. I love the ferry, but if I had to pay £88 to get my car there and back to shop in a supermarket every now and then I’d probably find it a much less amusing journey.

Or me running a B&B? Inevitably I’d be flinging a cooked Scottish breakfast in the face of the guest that got on my nerves with her incessant demands for fresh towels.

Life for most people living in the Hebrides, or further afield, seems to require a mix of an enviable self-reliance and an ability to let time meander on by while trying to get anything done.

Our B&B landlady, who served but did not fling my lovely breakfast anywhere, told of how she had moved to the island recently from Lancashire and was getting accustomed to the slower pace of the queue at the till as each customer lingered to gossip a little. But while in my darker moments I suspect the convenience of a strong 3G signal and curry delivery in half an hour is a fragile luxury of a declining Western economy, I’m not prepared to give it up.

But nor will I give up the great outdoors and the life it allows me to lead, if only briefly. I like to think it is because of the way I was raised. My memory of childhood is filled with long summers camping by lakes and nights sat by the campfire.

And my mum still has the pictures to prove it. In fact, if the collective noun for pictures of yourself as a child is an embarrassment, then I still blush when she shows the one of me in my wellies proudly kissing the trout I caught.

But the answer to why I need to breathe in the smells of earth and water – if not kiss dead fish – landed in my inbox just this week.

A study examined how people felt after walking to a destination through some concrete tunnels while others ended up in the same place, but walked a different route through a tree-filled park.

The weather was dry but autumnal, and no one would likely be surprised by the finding that the park walkers reported greater feelings of wellbeing. What did provide a bit of surprise was that most participants had underestimated just how much the walk through the park would lift their spirits.

The authors of the report argued that even a little green space was beneficial – an important consideration for policy-makers considering relaxing planning laws to let builders run amok. It is easy to fall into the thinking that we need faster roads, more housing, a nice bistro nearby, and an Apple store. But the danger lies in thinking we don’t actually need it, that feeling of wild surmise on finding a near deserted beach and the giant sky, and being silent.