Sometimes I feel alone, and then I push that feeling away, as though I shouldn't feel it. As soon as I landed on Orkney, I knew I didn’t want to be alone. And yet I pitched my tent in an empty pasture, walked to Neolithic cairns and stones, and crossed over to an island even further away, even more alone. From there I walked on till I could walk no further. Now I sit here on a hillock in the setting sun, watching a cliff that could mark the end of the world. And I wonder why I'm not enjoying the silence.

It’s a norm I’ve given myself, through stories of muscled men bivouacking on mountains, power women sailing around the world, solo backpackers and broken hearts who swear they’re better off on their own. They tell me; you’re strongest alone.

And I too felt strong when I crossed countries on my own, camped in the wild, found my way. It’s a beautiful thing, to rely on yourself. And often my own company is enough. But not today.
Today I am woven, fused, chained. Entwined with all the encounters I’ve had. With the people I hoped to grow old with. They all hold a piece of me.

I cannot be unbound. For I am conncected to all that’s living. I am a root in the ground. I am a dandelion in the wind. I am a starling in murmuration. But I’ve lost my flock. Now I’m a shoot in a forest without trees.

Scattered across the bay are a couple of farms. Their lights are out. Some are crumbling down, empty hulls that once were homes to crofters and fishermen. Bunnetoon, Quholme, Mucklehouse, Crowsnest – each has a name. An echo of the human life that was here.

Life isn't easy to find here. I see no sheep graze or deer trot; no seals or otters in the water; even the fulmars are keeping quiet. Maybe winter has driven them away to a place more sheltered than here. Only algae and beadlet anemones remain. They lie anchored to slick rocks, their red knobs exposed.

I keep looking for tracks, hoping to hear voices.

Rackwick, you wild beauty. I see your vast bay and your red cliffs. I can see why they moved poets and composers. There’s melancholy in the solitude.

That evening I try to make connection. But the muffled voices in my wired box cannot fill my void. I want to be touched…clasped, squeezed, carried, shaken.

But tonight I am only caressed by black walls.

The croft nearest the sea is my bothy. From my dark nest I see afternoon turn into evening, evening into night, and night into morning. I have slept in a bothy before, but always with company. On my own, the wind is a little louder, and the stones are colder still. I swallow up every spark of heat the hearth gives me.

Left: Old Man of Hoy (137 m), right: on the ferry from Stromness to Moaness

In the morning I climb Moor Fea, as the sun breaks through after a long sleep. The island Hoy has an incredible coastline, perhaps the most spectacular one you can find in Scotland. A massive wall of red sandstone, sculpted over millions of years by the force of the Atlantic.

I stand before the famous Old Man of Hoy. I brave the wind to gaze upon him. Here are the fulmars at last, circling, swarming around my ears. Once, the Old Man had two legs, till one of them was washed away by a storm.

Other walkers appear. All eyes on the sea stack off the coast. I continue along the headland. No one follows behind me. There’s a strong wind, but my steps are sure on the narrow path along the cliff edge. Hidden behind is St John’s Head. With 350 meters it’s the highest sea cliff in Britain.

If I am to be alone, then let me do what I dare not do in the presence of others. Let me pause as much as I please, and then dance on the clifftops. Let me whistle like the birds. Let me roll through the grass and roar with laughter.

Back in Rackwick, day trippers have filled up the bothy. They’re having their lunch break in the shelter of the hut. When I enter, they hardly notice me. I am married to the stones that are tethered to the ground.

Perhaps it’s just illusion, the jubilation of solitude. Even the greatest hermits feel it. I once knew one of them.

When I was up north that time, I was so tired of being alone, he'd told me.

I thought back of that afternoon on Conic Hill, when I’d just come to Scotland. How I’d longed for someone to share it with.

And then we'd found each other.

All that time I’d looked up to him, to how he braved the world on his own. But I was just like him. I had come to this land unbeknownst. And I’d build a life here out of nothing. I’d slept by the wild sea, conquered snow-covered peaks, carried my world on my shoulders. I could do it all on my own. But just because I could, didn't mean I wanted to. In the end we’re all human, craving connection. Our dependence on others isn’t a weakness. It’s what makes us human. The greatest joy is in the reflection of a smile, a hand helping you up, a warm body next to you on a cold night.

So I pack my back prematurely, and walk back to the human world. When a car stops by and offers me a ride, I take it, gladly. And when Mrs. Brown opens her warm doors to me, I smile, for what a privilege it is, to be taken care of by someone.

Photos shot on Kodak Portra 400 with my Nikon f801.