Picture it. A small village. Some would say tiny. Right in the north of Scotland, slap bang in the middle of it, sitting quietly on the banks of Loch Shin.
Lairg is where I went on my very first family holidays. I’m talking tiny. Properly small. Up until I was about five years old.
Because that’s where my grandparents lived.
They were originally from Ayrshire, but they had this dream. The crofting dream. Self sufficient living. Chickens, sheep, land, making a life from the ground up. Very much The Good Life energy. You know the one, with Richard Briers and Felicty Kendall. I wasn’t old enough to watch it at the time, but I remember the re-runs, and honestly, that was the vibe.
The reality was a bit different.
The croft they bought was basically a shell. It needed serious work. Not a quick paint job and a new kitchen - full renovation. So while all that was happening, they lived in a caravan.
And that caravan is where my memories live.
We used to go up and stay with them. Long car journeys to get there. The kind that feel endless when you’re small.
Me and my sister shared a bed in that caravan. Head to toe. Feet in each other’s faces. No concept of personal space, just blankets and giggles and the odd argument.
I don’t remember everything. Just flashes.
I remember being bitten on the head by a lamb. I am not exaggerating. Bitten. On the head. By a lamb. Who does that happen to?
I remember my cousin Alexis pushing me over and leaving me with a scar on my left eyebrow that I still have to this day.
I remember a tiny grey cat called Smokey, who I was head over heels in love with. I’m not entirely convinced the feeling was mutual.
I remember my uncles coming and going. My Aunty Rose getting married to a man who never quite became my uncle. That marriage didn’t last long enough but the wedding itself and the thrum of bagpipes vibrating through my entire body gave three year old me a meltdown. I didn’t know then that I was autistic and facing sensory overload.
And I remember the days.
Those long, stretched out Highland summer days where the light just doesn’t seem to leave. Where bedtime feels like a suggestion rather than a rule.
I was there the day Live Aid happened. It is one of my earliest memories, even if I didn’t fully understand what I was watching at the time. I had the sense that something big was happening somewhere else.
But more than anything, I remember my Papa.
He is Lairg to me.
I remember his growly voice. His leathery skin. The smell of Brylcreem and cigarettes. And his body heat. He had this heat like he was carrying his own climate around with him. He was my favourite cuddle source at that age.
I remember his kindness. His laugh. His warmth.
And I’ve been told he could swear. Properly swear. Cleverly. Not just noise, but art.
I wish I had more memories of him.
But the ones I do have are rooted in Lairg, in that caravan, always in long, light-filled, midge bite days at the very beginning of everything.
When I think about my first holidays, that’s what I see.
Not hotels. Not airports. Not itineraries.
Just a croft that wasn’t finished yet, a caravan full of life, and a wee lassie right at the start of her story.
