Visiting Eriskay

It might feel like a distant memory now, but May 2025 brought some of the warmest, driest, and sunniest weather ever recorded in the UK, thanks to a persistent area of high pressure that lingered for much of the month. At the end of the month, I spent a week on South Uist, where I soaked up the sunshine while exploring nearby Eriskay – a small Outer Hebridean island that left a lasting impression with its gentle charm, captivating character, and quiet beauty.

To reach Eriskay from South Uist, you drive a mile-long causeway, completed in 2001, which takes you across a shallow, sandy channel dotted with reefs and rocky outcrops. It picks its way across these reefs and outcrops, curving as it does so to create an incredibly striking approach to the island, which I captured from above Rubha na Mòine on South Uist.

​The road to the causeway follows the shore past West and East Kilbride on South Uist, especially beautiful on sunny days. White sands line the coast, and the sea and sky shimmered in vivid blue. I stopped to explore, spotting sea pinks scattered along the shore. An old croft house caught my eye, standing alone on a headland reaching into the sea, with the causeway visible in the distance.

​As I arrived on Eriskay, a welcome sign greeted me where the road bends gently between two grassy hillocks. Just beyond one of them, the rooftop of Saint Michael’s Church came view – my first hint of how deeply rooted the Catholic faith is in the island’s life. Like Benbecula, South Uist, Barra, and Vatersay, Eriskay has a strong Catholic tradition that continues to shape its close-knit community.

The church, known as St Michael’s of the Sea, was built in 1903 thanks to the efforts of the celebrated poet and folklorist Father Allan MacDonald. He served as Parish Priest on Eriskay from 1893 until his death from influenza in 1905, aged 46. Deeply devoted to the islanders, he championed their rights during a time of severe hardship and poverty. His legacy lives on through 11 stone cairns dotted around Eriskay, each telling part of his story – his faith, writing, and enduring influence on the community.

​The church is dedicated to St Michael the Archangel, one of the patron saints of the Western Isles. Above the main doorway, the keystone is inscribed with the Latin phrase “Quis ut Deus”—meaning “Who is like unto God?” This echoes the Hebrew roots of the name Michael: Mi (who), Ka (like), El (God). The connection to St Michael is echoed again in the small statue of the Archangel that stands on one of the stone gateposts at the entrance to the church grounds.

​A short walk along the coast took me to the old cemetery, perched on a gentle rise above a bright blue sea. The scene was both beautiful and moving – dozens of plain, white crosses stood out starkly against the green grass, scattered in no clear pattern. Each cross marked someone lost to time. Now and then, my eyes were drawn from these modest graves to more imposing memorials – tall headstones and delicate statues of the Virgin Mary, their quiet presence standing watch over the rest.

​Leaving the sea and the old cemetery, I made my way high up on to the hillside above the two main crofting settlements of Am Baile and Rubha Bhan to see Saint Michael’s Church standing above all the houses. While standing there, with the past in mind, I found it easy to picture how much this church – and the pastoral care of Father Allan MacDonald – must have meant to the islanders who lived through the harsh poverty and hardship of life at the turn of the twentieth century.

​These two crofting settlements have clearly expanded over time, slowly climbing the hillside away from the shore. Larger, more modern homes now sit higher up, while nearer the sea you’ll find the older, more traditional croft houses – smaller two-storey dwellings with just two rooms up and two down – reflecting the modest way of life of the past.

​Back down by the shore, a flash of red caught my eye – the bright roof of a traditional wee building nestled between two white chimney stacks. It peeked out from behind a rise of boulders and grass, beckoning me to climb up for a closer look.

​Well, the climb was worth it. A quintessentially Highlands and Island croft house had revealed itself.  Its whitewashed stone walls glowing in the bright spring sunshine, topped with the striking red roof I’d caught glimpses of from down below.

​As I turned from the croft house and looked back across the old cemetery towards the sea, my eye caught the rusting tin roof of a weathered byre nestled at the foot of the hill. Seemingly worn and forgotten – something about it compelled me to head back down for a closer look.

​Though it had long since fallen into disrepair, the byre still held that familiar, tumbledown charm so often seen around old crofts in the Highlands and Islands. The tin roof, battered and rusting, was slowly giving way, revealing the bleached, weatherworn beams beneath. A short distance away, a white van sat abandoned, succumbing to the same slow decay—its tyres sinking into the earth as grass and weeds crept higher. Nettles now sprouted from the footwell where the driver’s boots would once have rested.

​Despite a population of fewer than 150, Eriskay has a dedicated football club with its own pitch which can be found on a “flattish” piece of ground to part way up the hill nestled to the south of Am Baile and Rubha Bhan.

​With distractingly breath-taking views of the sea and surrounding islands, the pitch has been recognised by FIFA as one of the eight most remarkable places to play football in the world. It’s hardly surprising that FIFA also shot a film about it for their football museum in Zurich.

​I found it a fascinating spot to picture two teams playing football. On the sunny spring day I visited, it felt almost idyllic, but I could only imagine how tricky it must be to play here – the uneven ground, the wee hill in one corner, and the fierce winds that surely sweep across the field would all bring their own challenges. Still, that’s all part of its charm. As one Eriskay FC manager once said, “You can’t slag the pitch off: it’s recognised from FIFA. If you can’t play football on a wee bumpy pitch, you shouldn’t be playing.”

​Following the western coastline of Eriskay, over the hill from the football pitch, took me to Coilleag a Phrionnsa, which is Gaelic for “the Prince’s cockleshell strand”. Better known as Prince’s Beach, this striking sweep of white coral sand is steeped in history. It’s said to be the very spot where Bonnie Prince Charlie first landed in Scotland. From this quiet shore, he journeyed on to Glenfinnan, where he raised his father’s Standard and sparked the Jacobite Rebellion of 1745.

​I made my way south, along the edge of the beach, following a well-worn path through the marram grass that bound together the soft coral sand. To the west, the smooth, rounded form of Lingeigh – a small, uninhabited island nestled between Barra and South Uist was ever present on the horizon.

​After reaching the southern end of the beach, I turned to walk back towards where I had come from, this time along the soft, white coral sand. Every so often, I stopped to listen as the crystal-clear blue water gently washed against the shore, each gentle wave folding and fading like a breath.

​As I watched and listened to the sea, I was drawn to the changing shades of blue – starting with the pale, almost grey tint of the shallow water near the shore, then gradually deepening into a brilliant cyan farther out. Caused as light passed through the water – the red, orange, and yellow tones absorbed to leave only the blue to rise back from the bright, sandy seabed below.

​As I wandered back along the beach, I found myself tracing the strand line where razor clam and limpet shells lay scattered - gathered by the tide, disintegrating with time to slowly become the bright white coral sand that shone beneath my steps.

​Just as I was leaving the beach, CALMAC’s MV Loch Alainn pulled away from the ferry terminal at its southern end, as if to mark the end of my visit to this quietly beautiful and characterful place. It sailed slowly into the distance, cutting across a shimmering, azure sea – a perfect final image. I paused to capture it, then turned to go, quietly telling myself, “this is a place I’ll definitely come back to”.