Lord of the isles

WE COULD hear the familiar 'crex, crex' call of the corncrakes as we stepped off the Clansman at the pier just outside Arinagour. Forty feet below us the sea lapped at the stern of CalMac's finest as we drove off the boat that had carried us for two and a half hours since we left Oban. There was a stiff breeze blowing in off the water as the boat set sail for its next stop on the neighbouring island of Tiree.

It was good to be back on dry land. More to the point, it was good to be back on Coll. Our friends Rob and Romayne had come down to the boat to pick us up. We'd visited them several times in the ten years since they bought a farm on this remote 13-mile-long slab of Hebridean rock, but this was the first time our arrival had coincided with the Coll Show and we were already running behind time.

Agricultural shows aren't my forte, so I'd planned to stay in the background and soak it all in. But as we zipped along the road towards the community centre where the show was being held, Rob did what Rob often does and dropped a small incendiary device into the conversation.

"Richard, hope you don't mind, but I've got a job for you to do today," he said, staring straight ahead.

"Uh-huh," I replied. "So it's to be a working holiday, then."

"More like a busman's holiday, actually. I told the show's organising committee that you're a food reviewer and we unanimously agreed that you'd be the right man to judge the produce at the show. Hope you don't mind."

"Er, right you are…"

A word of advice for anyone who has never judged the Coll Show: don't eat on the journey over. What transpired was two hours of speed-munching that left me in little doubt as to how King Henry felt between the point where he finished the surfeit of lampreys and the time when he finally expired. In all, there were 38 categories, each with up to half a dozen entrants. There were fairy cakes, banana loaves, jars of lemon curd, mountains of empire biscuits and a veritable tsunami of cherry cake – not to mention the bread, eggs and 'most outrageous vegetable' category. I sampled more than 200 exhibits in two hours: unforgettable. Yet the most memorable moment of the afternoon was when I emerged blinking into the sunlight. The show was under way and I soon spotted my kids having the time of their lives. They gawped at the timed sheep shearing, they screamed encouragement as the men of Coll took on their rivals from Tiree in the tug-of-war, and they begged to be allowed to take part in the kids' road race. For once, there were no desperate attempts to sneak off and play on their Nintendos. They were enraptured.

The island's entire population was present until the early hours of the morning, when the ceilidh finally ran out of steam and whisky.

While many island communities have been dwindling, Coll has bucked the trend by experiencing a rush of incomers that has allowed the island to regenerate itself in a way that bodes well for its long-term future.

Although the nearby islands of Gigha and Eigg have also notched up small increases, they have experienced nothing like the rapid expansion seen on Coll. Since 1981, the population of the island has increased by almost 70%, and since Rob and Romayne arrived in 1999, the number of inhabitants has gone up from a little over 120 to around 230, almost doubling in under a decade.

More to the point, rather than retirees fleeing the metropolis and using the proceeds of selling their house to enjoy the sea views, these are families, many with very young children. And they're here to stay.

The Project Trust is central to the island's renaissance. Started 40 years ago by Nicholas Maclean-Bristol (who also restored the island's oldest castle, Breachacha), the organisation is like a hard-core version of Operation Raleigh, which sends teenagers abroad for a year. Before they head off to the Third World to do good works, they come to Coll for training; at any one time there are 18 part-time staff on the island along with the prospective young travellers.

"The Project Trust means that there's a constant trickle of outgoing, intelligent and self-motivated people coming to the island," says Alexander Maclean-Bristol, Nicholas's son. The former army officer moved back to his childhood home with his family four years ago, after running the charity's London office. "Many of them end up staying, marrying locals, and it means that there's a whole lot of people on the island who have something to say for themselves. That's perhaps why people here are so outgoing and friendly: many of them have experienced the work of the Project Trust, which is all about getting out and meeting new people."

Darren and Paula Jamieson and their four children moved to Coll from Lewes in Sussex just under a year ago. Paula's semi-retired parents had bought the café in the island's only village, Arinagour, but soon discovered they couldn't cope with the unexpectedly heavy workload. All it took was a couple of visits to convince the Jamiesons that this was a life worth ditching the rat race for.

"Paula and I worked in catering and were fed up," says Darren, "and one day we just said, 'Right, that's it, we've had enough.' It has been brilliant and we wouldn't change it for the world. We've never regretted one moment of it. Back in Lewes, we had to worry about the kids all the time and we didn't feel safe letting them out on the streets. Here they can do whatever they want and go wherever they like.

"We're easy-going people but we were very surprised at how welcoming and friendly the people here have been. We can't believe our luck: there's no crime, no unemployment, no worries. Everything we need is here. Sure, the kids get bored sometimes, but that forces them to find things to do – and you tend to find that means the youngsters here are very bright and independent. They're comfortable mixing across the age groups and tend to be high achievers."

Even if Darren insists that "there's nothing about the place I don't like", a shortage of housing means that he and his family have to live in a caravan for at least part of the year. And, like all small communities, Coll has its share of animosities and infighting. But it has an openness that is in part due to the fact that since the early 1990s the island has belonged not to one or two landowners but to a wide selection of farmers, home owners and crofters. "Everyone has a stake," says Romayne. Nor, as is the case in much of the Hebrides, is it necessary to speak Gaelic.

The sense of community grew strongly during the recent campaign to raise funds for a new community centre in Arinagour. It will be called An Cridhe (the name is Gaelic for 'the heart' and was chosen by the island's schoolchildren).

Built more than 50 years ago, the present hall has served the community well, but the steadily increasing population has meant the building can no longer cope with the demand. And while the Village Hall Committee has worked hard to maintain and upgrade the facilities, the building is not easy to heat, meaning that those most vulnerable to the cold (young and old) can no longer use it unless it is the height of summer.

The new building will provide a space for sporting and social events. The project also includes plans for landscaped areas for outdoor activities and a revenue-generating hostel for visitors that will ensure the building is sustainable for years to come in this remote area.

One of the island's development officers, Emma Grant, is typical of many on the island: a returnee. Originally from Barra and Eigg, she lived briefly on Coll as a child and came back to the island ten years ago after living in New York and London, where she worked as a theatre lighting engineer. "I'd just had enough one day, so I put my motorbike in the back of a van and here I am," she says.

She has been heartened by the way the whole community has joined forces to try to raise £200,000 of the £2.5m needed to pay for the construction of An Cridhe. Among other endeavours, the island has recently hosted a half-marathon, a sponsored skydive and various quiz nights, and organised a ceilidh in Glasgow that was attended by 400 friends and relatives of the islanders.

It's a campaign that encapsulates what island living is all about, says Grant. "When I came up here, my friends thought I was running away. But to live in a place like this you have to be so grounded and willing to deal with life's realities. You have to engage with other people but you also become very self-reliant: there's no wee man to ring when things go wrong."

While there's certainly less to do on an average night than you'd find in Glasgow or Edinburgh, the islanders really do support local events. When carpenter Olvin Smith set up wood-turning classes, for example, he was soon fully subscribed. The remote-learning classes and pottery lessons are ridiculously well attended, while the Coll Show, the island's half-marathon, golf matches, annual shinty challenge and clay-pigeon shooting club all draw a crowd.

There is a huge emphasis on joining in, which starts at the island's crowded two-room school. All 28 pupils eat together each day, for instance, and virtually every child on the island spends the summer taking sailing lessons. In winter, meanwhile, an outdoor youth group called Stramash teaches them kayaking, windsurfing, orienteering, climbing and canyoning. Each year, the youngsters form part of the chorus for Scottish National Opera's two-night performance on Easdale, off Seil. The concept of playing together and working together doesn't stop at school either: many of the island's men join the coastguard and fire service.

That sense of community shines through in the work of one of Coll's many artists, the celebrated writer and illustrator Mairi Hedderwick. Her fabulously rich tales recounting the adventures of ten-year-old Katie Morag on the island of Struay are based on the adventures of her own daughter Tammy on Coll when she was a child.

"It's a fascinating community," says Tammy, Coll's resident potter, from her studio on the pier. "It's no longer feudal and there's plenty of new blood here. One farming family came here 20 years ago with four kids, all of whom have returned and married on the island, so that that family of six has now mushroomed to 21 people. But alongside that are the old people, and through them you can tap into a world that doesn't exist anywhere else. There are people here who in living memory walked barefoot to school and who helped the blacksmith shoe horses every day. That's an incredibly valuable resource."

Yet if Coll has much to offer artists such as Tammy, not everything is rosy in the garden. As she sits in the sun waiting for the boat to arrive from Oban, Tammy is contemplating leaving the island. Oban High is the nearest secondary school, meaning that from the age of 12 pupils have to board on the mainland during term time. They generally love the experience but Tammy, whose son is in his first year at Oban, doesn't do "remote parenting" and plans to take a six-year sabbatical from Coll.

As she exits temporarily, however, the influx looks set to continue. With the recession biting and families facing growing pressures, such oases of stability are becoming increasingly enticing, not least because unemployment is unheard of here. In fact, the spread of home-working via computer (notwithstanding problems getting broadband on the island) and the bewildering variety of jobs on offer means that there are few idle hands. As well as the usual island occupations such as farming, running B&Bs, fishing and the lobster boats, posties, piermen, medics and being the shopkeeper, there's also the award-winning Coll Hotel and a smattering of artists.

"It's impossible to do nothing here," says Pete Wilson, a cheery 34-year-old Scouser who moved to the island when his wife Ingrid got a job with the Project Trust. He is a qualified youth worker but had decided to take some time off to look after his young sons. That has proved an impossible – and in some ways unnecessary – dream.

"I'm the sort who mucks in, so in no time at all I was ending up doing things. Now I'm the relief postie, I'm in the fire service, a member of the coastguard and I do general maintenance at Ballyhaugh (the Trust headquarters], replacing slates and the like. And there are loads of builders on the island who always need help, so I'm never idle.

"But, actually, that works out fine because I don't need to be with the kids all the time. They can just run around outside all day long, and if they're any bother someone will tell me – everyone keeps an eye on the kids. It's exactly the sort of childhood we wanted for them, so I don't need to be there every minute of every day trying to stimulate them – they're automatically becoming the self-reliant, well-rounded kids I want them to be and which I saw so rarely when I was a youth worker."

The Project Trust's office has expanded recently as the building of an airstrip and the advent of twice-weekly flights from Oban (on a little seven-seater plane) has allowed people to get to and from the island far more quickly. "It has revolutionised things for us," says Maclean-Bristol. "We can get people on and off the island in a day for an interview, and it has allowed us to close down our London office and move the three jobs there to the island."

Despite the new flights, the transport infrastructure remains problematic. The daily boat leaves Oban at 6.40am and takes two and a half hours to make the crossing, although during January there was a five-day period when it was too windy for the ferry or the plane to make the crossing.

Tourists generally arrive by ferry so they can bring their cars. Although there are relatively few places to stay, tents can be pitched near any of the island's 12 huge white beaches, with virtually no danger of meeting anyone else, save a seal or one of the basking sharks which linger around the shoreline. Many visitors come to see the island's unique collection of birdlife (the RSPB owns about 3,000 acres of the island) and rare flowers, such as the Irish lady tress orchids or pipewort.

Many also stay at the Coll Hotel, which last year won the Scottish Island Hotel of the Year award. It has been run for 25 years by Kevin and Julie Oliphant and has built a good reputation for serving fresh seafood straight off the boat. But the Oliphants are already looking ahead to their retirement. That leaves their 19-year-old daughter Laura with some decisions to make: they have given the Napier hospitality student eight years to go off and have a good time before she must decide whether she wants to move back to Coll. It is, she says, a decision she has already taken.

"It's an easy choice," she says. "Half my friends who were born and brought up on the island can't wait to get away, but all that the others want to do is come back here, and that's definitely how it feels for me. I want to go and work abroad and see a bit of the world, but the older I get the more I realise how much I want to end up coming back here. When you're at school, the island is just the place where you live, where you come from. But the more of the world you see the more you realise it's bigger than that: it's home."