# 6 — Zero Tech Holiday
Personal journal from a wifi-free week on the tiny island of Enlli, North Wales
“You who are in the traffic of the world: Can you guess the thoughts of an islander?”
— Brenda Chamberlain, Artist and Poet, who spent large parts of her life on Enlli
Every day on Enlli begins the same way — with a look out the window. This is to see what weather we might be responding to today – for the weather dictates most things.
Today it is sunny, and the trees are still, which tells me there’s little wind. It also tells me that the sea will probably, but not necessarily, be calm, which means the boat will come today from the mainland, and also that it should be safe enough to swim down by the seal colony.
I get out of bed, putting on two layers of thick socks before my bare feet touch the stone floor, for even on these fair September days it can be chilly inside. I pick up my woollen cardigan from the back of the bedroom door, put it on, leave my room and walk downstairs. The house is quiet, no music or chatter, which could mean everyone is already out wandering the island, or could mean everyone is quietly writing in the dining room, or could mean that everyone is still in bed. It’s 8am, and the absence of electricity means we went to sleep with the sunset last night, so any of these things are possible.
First things first – the toilet. I put on my black walking boots and open the front door to our cottage, my body coming alive with the sun in my eyes and the warm air on my skin. I step across the cobbles, to outdoor compost loo. Outside the loo there is a large water container, and I wash my hands here, the water running off my skin and onto the muddy ground below. While I’m there, I look out over the fields dotted with fluffy white sheep, towards the sea that flows as far as Ireland. Wavey, but not choppy. We’ll swim today.
Next, cooking. I take a large bucket from the house and fill it with water from the tap; using some to refill the filter tanks in the kitchen, and some put aside to bathe with later. Next, I take the kettle and fill the filters to the top in case my storytelling housemates a want a tea later too. I fiddle with the matches and the gas dial on the stove, getting a blue flame going after a couple of attempts, and put the metal kettle onto the flame and wait for it to whistle.
While waiting, I start to make my breakfast. Blackberries from the bush in laneway, damsons from the tree outside, granola brought over from Tesco on the mainland. A splash of oat milk. Some sunflower seeds. After a time the kettle begins to whistle, and so I pour it over an Earl Grey teabag, and then take my bowl of fruit and my mug outside the door that faces the sea. I sit on the doorstep, pulling my cardigan closer for its colder than I expected, and watch the waves dance as I enjoy my breakfast. It feels like an immense privilege to begin the day this way — not at speed, not with convenience, but purposefully, and with a panorama of nature to join me.
Once dressed, it’s time to write. We have no wifi or phone reception, and so my brain feels uncharacteristically clear and focused. As my laptop is disconnected from all input, sitting down to write takes no cajoling at all, and I can keep going for around an hour and a half before my body tells me it’s time for tea and a biscuit. Four days in, and I have already sorted out three of the chapters from my book – adding sections, reshaping other. The task of developing the second draft, which felt herculean back on the mainland, feels straightforward here. I’ve printed out the full first draft, which right now comes to 162 pages, that’s 62549 words. Today I do what I’ve done most days, which is sit down on the sofa with the physical pages and a light blue pen, make notes on what’s missing and what needs to change, and then sit at my laptop and let the words come.
I find myself being more honest in my writing while I’m here. I’ve included sections on late 30s loneliness, on being told I couldn’t have children, on baby ache. I’ve written my experience from the heart, without the nagging voice of my inner 21st century critic telling me I’m being too self-indulgent, or over-sharing. I’m writing a memoir, after all. Over-sharing is literally my job right now. On the page, the story seems more understandable and relatable than it seems in my head before I write it, where without physical form it feels shocking and private. I trust that the writing of my experiences makes them easier to digest, and so I keep going.
As the clock approaches midday, I look out to sea again and sense that that’s probably enough ‘work’ for one day. And so I make some tuna and pepper sandwiches, choose an banana and a satsuma from the fruit bowl, and pack them in my backpack for a day of wandering. I walk out the front door, leaving it open as there are no locks on the houses here. I approach the sign which tells me what landmarks are in which directions. It’s in Welsh. I find the word that most looks like Mountain and follow that path.
That day I hike up the mountain, to the far side where the island faces the mainland of Wales. Across the Sound, I can make out farmers’ fields, some small housing settlements, some sheep. In the distance, the shadows of mountains. I wonder how it might have been for the Romans or the Vikings or the Irish ferrymen to have spotting Britain for the first time. From here, it’s impossible to see how big it is, and how deep it goes. You could never imagine that most of the population is concentrated far to the South East, far from view.
My phone starts buzzing. Up here it catches a tiny bit of phone signal, 4G with two bars, and a cascade of messages are pouring into whatsapp groups of varying interest and relevance to me. I notice how my heart leaps a little from the feeling of being connected with, and also a reluctance to indulge, not wanting to waste the preciousness of this time protected from all that.
I can’t help myself. I sit on a rock, getting increasingly battered by the wind, and scroll through the messages. A friend trying to organise a weekend trip for a group of us. Another telling me she’s not going to be in North Wales when I drive back through this weekend. Various events being plugged in groups with names like ‘ELW Women’ and ‘Let’s Dance!’. A romantic interest asking me how it’s going up here. I wonder how much of my life I spend cycling through these groups, keeping on top of the latest news, worrying a little when they go quiet.
I send one message — to the Family group on Facebook Messenger. I tell them it’s amazing, and that I’ve swum with seals and watched dolphins and laid down under the Milky Way. The highlights reel. I notice the main thing I want them to know is the Enlli exists, and it’s majestic, and it’s right here off the coast of Britain. I want to make the point that we don’t have to jump on a plane to tropical worlds to find wilderness. I notice how this sudden shock of digital connection makes me strident, like I have to express an opinion in order to participate.
I start to walk down the mountain. My phone loses signal, and once again I feel that door close inside me that’s always where I have one foot outside of myself. I resettle inside again. I look for the trail downward, a track where the grass is a little more squashed than it is elsewhere. I dodge a couple of sheep. I decide to head towards the seal colony on the southwest side of the island. It’s not so choppy, so I’ll swim today.
Enlli / Bardsey Island is an island off the West coast of Wales which has been a site of pilgrimage and retreat for many hundreds of years. It has a handful of permanent residents, and a collection of cottages which can be booked around year in advance. It also has the best restaurant in the world serving fresh lobster with a bit of notice…but don’t tell anyone. Discover more here: https://www.bardsey.org/