The Star on the Sea, by Matt Taylor

Two sister stars loved to dance. Sometimes, they would dance all night long and all the animals on Earth could see them twinkling the brightest in the sky. As they grew older, they started to dance in competition with each other and this only made them dance even harder and even brighter. This was all well and good until one day, one of the stars danced so hard she fell over the edge of the sky and down onto the top of the ocean.

Being a star, she had never touched water and never learned to swim. Swallowed by the ocean's cold grip, she began to sink toward the bottom. The deeper and deeper she sank the more her light faded from sight, as her sister peered over the edge of the sky weeping and crying out her fallen sister’s name: “Tinker Bell! Tinker Bell!”

But Tinker Bell could not hear her sister. She could hardly keep her eyes open to see her either and even if she could, all her fellow stars were fading out of sight behind the wall of water.

It was then that a great basking shark – dark and spotted white like the night sky – swam up and caught Tinker Bell on the tip of his back. He carried her all the way back up on top of the ocean where she coughed and spluttered salty sea water all over his shiny back. With each cough and splutter, Tinker Bell’s light gradually flickered back to brightness until soon her sister could see her again; she smiled and sighed with relief.

The basking shark continued swimming onwards, eager to take the star to safety. He swam north to the closest rock of dry land he knew. As he swam north through the ocean with Tinker Bell shining on his back, other basking sharks started to follow him until almost all the basking sharks in the northern hemisphere travelled in convoy following the northbound star. Soon, other sharks, whales, dolphins, and fish joined the group; more and more sea creatures started to follow the star and the basking shark, even creatures from so deep down they have no name. 

Eventually, this great shivering school of the sea came to the edge of land in what is now northern Scotland. Here on the tip of a headland, the shining basking shark who had been leading the way gently tipped Tinker Bell off his back onto a small grey stoney beach.

Tinker Bell was only just regaining full consciousness, but she knew deep down that she had been carried to a new life by an angel from another dark but glistening world. With her eyesight fully back, she saw all the creatures of the sea staring up at her from the water. Tinker Bell didn’t know what to do.

“Thank you for saving me! Thank you. Thank you!” She cried.

But they all stayed still staring up at her, their eyes beamed out of the dark sea like many sister stars in the night sky, twinkling.

That’s when Tinker Bell had an idea; she could dance for them all to say thank you. Right away, she began to move her feet but they hurt on the stones and the pebbles. She was used to dancing in the sky and dancing in space is perfect with bare feet. She tried again but the pain was even worse. Desperate for an answer, she looked around until she saw behind her a high hilltop at the peak of the headland. Up the hillside, glistening in the moonlight, was the hair of the Earth, swaying from side to side in the wind.

She ran up the hill to where the waving long grass began. Carefully cutting some off, she quickly wove the grass, strong as hair, into two small ballet shoes.

They fit perfectly. They were so light and springy that she felt like she could fly. Back down on the grey stoney beach again, she started to dance. This time Tinker Bell found herself dancing so hard and so bright she flew up high above the seaside with her flowing motion. She flipped and pirouetted, ducked and dived – twinkling brighter than ever before. Each time she spun around, bright white dust burst out of her twinkles and fell down onto the grey beach, coating it forever with white sand.

Her sister gasped. Animals for miles thought the night had become day. The basking sharks and other sea creatures looked up in amazement, barely able to believe their eyes. The basking sharks' giant mouths have been wide open in awe ever since.

After a crescendo of tinkling light and dust, Tinker Bell eventually fluttered down. There was a brief moment of silence. And then all the sea creatures started jumping and splashing up high out of the water in applause. They jumped and crashed so hard that they broke a small corner of the high headland off from the mainland. The sea gushed around behind it, forming a small island among many others. But this time, an island made by the creatures of the sea. That’s where it got its name ‘Eielan Shona’ meaning Sea Island. Or the island made of the sea.

The sea creatures eventually all swam back into the depths of the faraway ocean, leaving Tinker Bell safely dry on her white beach on the tip of the new island. Here, Tinker Bell has stayed ever since, surrounded by the waters of the night sky.

But every year, the basking sharks return on the longest day of the summer to watch Tinker Bell dance for them, when the night is at its brightest. And, if you look up at the sky from Scotland on a clear night that day, look for the star that is twinkling the brightest. That’s Tinker Bell’s sister dancing with her still. 

Art Residency, March 2024 by Robin Tarbet

A month of off-grid residency time living alone in Red Cottage up in the woods on Eilean Shona - a stunningly beautiful car free wilderness island on the west coast of Scotland. This opportunity was awarded by the Royal Society of Sculptors, and kindly supported by Vanessa Branson. Thank you! 

For my residency on Eilean Shona I took with me boxes of old photographic paper and cyanotype solution, a sculpture kit of mould-making and casting supplies, my camera and a large roll of bright orange gaffer tape. After cramming a months worth of food supplies from Fort William Morrisons into the car, the drive to Eilean Shona was a spectacular and scenic introduction to what was in store. Boe and Ali who manage the Island met me at the jetty, we loaded all my stuff into the boat and they delivered me to my temporary home in Red Cottage...  and then I didn’t see them or anyone again for at least a week!

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Conduit, by Lee Mackenzie

I have stood in two woods where I have lost my sense of up and down, left and right, forwards and back.

The first, Moseley Bog, is a fifteen-minute walk from my home, and one of the most frenetic woodlands around. A place where ivy and blackthorn vie for any frond of light, where calamitous trees fall, bridging muddy streams, then lie deathly for weeks before exploding in new growth. It is home to quick-eyed crows, to fingernail shrimp that sprint silently beneath the waterline. An ever-fracturing, ever-changing, morphous world that consumes its visitors, spins them around, then spits them out onto the B-roads.

The second is the opposite; that wood is the pine woodland on the hillside of the tidal island, Eilean Shona.

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What Joy Is, by Karishma Jobanputra

When I arrive, I think the water is wine. It is tinted a very pale brown, but looks brilliantly gold because of the light shining through the large windows. The water goes through the peat, Vanessa tells me, pouring me some. By the end of the week I will find it strange to drink or bathe in water that isn’t ochre. Clear water will suddenly seem unnatural, an unfortunately wan iteration of something that could be golden.

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Walk Across the Sea, by Anna Watson

The view from the dining room is a lesson in painting perspective. In the foreground, the damp grass and incomplete hedgerow are a brilliant lime flecked with lemon yellow. The towering trees that spread down the hill to the shoreline (whose names I must collect in a list) are a deep, appropriately forest green; a combination of pine needles, moss grey leaves and mint lichen set against the bold brushstrokes of their trunks. The water is grey; a white grey not dissimilar to the sky above. Both are calm today. The trees atop the island in the middle distance are less defined. Their greens, much like their branches, weave together to form a soft brown. Behind them lies the mainland. Were you to take all the colours of the foreground and the mid-ground and combine them on a palette board, you’d surely recreate the marbling of those hills. I know that the purple of the heather, the white of the rocks, the brown of grasses past and the electric green of new growth are all present. For now they merge in a backdrop perfectly coordinated to the scene. I understand why my grandfather liked to write in green ink.

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Voices of Shona, by Florence Devereux

In the summer of 2016, the stars aligned and I was lucky enough to stay on Eilean Shona for two months. As anyone who has visited Shona could imagine, my time during holidays and study periods that I had spent on the island while growing up, seeped into my soul and the magical ‘look out’ isle stole my heart.

Spending time on Shona as the daughter of the temporary guardians in the long line of eccentrics that have taken helm of the island, has been the greatest joy of my life. My love of nature lead me to write my masters thesis on environmental philosophy and I developed a strong sense that the island could help humanity during this period of alienation and reconnect with the earth. Her gentle wilderness seemed to speak through me and say, ‘I can help here.’

With this sense reverberating through me, I headed to Schumacher College, a center of ecological studies in Devon to learn with indigenous teachers from around the world. I felt the responsibility of being a guardian of wilderness and wanted to learn from cultures that lived symbiotically with Nature for countless generations. During my time at the college, I learnt some of the magic ways of living with the natural cycles.

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