About Iain
ABOUT THE AUHTOR
IAIN M. MACLEOD
After my accident in 2017, life changed in many ways. I now live in a sheltered housing complex with 24-hour care, but that hasn’t stopped me from living life to the fullest. If anything, I’m more determined than ever to make the most of every day.
One of the things I miss most is driving-I used to love being behind the wheel. These days, my car has been swapped for an electric wheelchair. And while it’s not quite the same, it’s become my ticket to adventure. On those rare sunny days in Scotland, there’s
nothing better than setting off to see how far I can go, just me and my chair, exploring the world around me.
I keep myself busy with hobbies like playing chess and listening to music, from soothing classical pieces to heavy metal riffs. I’ve always enjoyed learning, and I love a good academic challenge. In fact, I’ve even taken on the switch from biological sciences to sociology-because why not? Life’s too short not to keep growing and discovering new things.
I was born in Stornoway, on the Isle of Lewis, which lies in the Outer Hebrides off the
rugged west coast of Scotland. Though my time living there was brief, the island left an
indelible mark on my identity. I am proud to be a Gael. The island, with its rich traditions,
distinct language, and strong sense of place, forms the bedrock of who I am. Its cultural rhythms-rooted in oral storytelling, music, land, and sea-continue to shape my values, voice, and perspective. It was this connection that inspired the poem Stornoway Gael, a tribute to the land and lineage from which I come.
I lived on the island until I was three years old, when I contracted Asian flu during the
outbreak that swept across parts of the UK in the mid-1960s. In the wake of that illness, my family made the difficult decision to leave the island and relocate to mainland
Scotland, seeking greater access to healthcare and opportunities. Though I was young, the departure felt like a quiet rupture—one that would be softened only by our enduring
return each summer.
My memories of those summer visits to Lewis remain among the most vivid of my
childhood. We would stay at my granny’s croft, a modest but warm home surrounded by
the quiet resilience of island life. I remember the joy of exploring the croft land-
wandering between fence posts, running through the long grasses, and tasting the
crystal-clear water drawn straight from the well. That water, so pure and cold, seemed to me a kind of elixir—untainted, alive, a reflection of the land itself.
The days were long and unhurried. Much of the time was spent at the peats—cutting, stacking, and turning the heavy blocks of earth that would later fuel the fire through
winter. The peat banks overlooked the loch, and the smelling of wet earth. We would drink tea brewed from well water, rich and slightly peaty, poured from a dented kettle blackened by fire. We sat on upturned buckets or makeshift seats, swatting away
midges that swarmed thick in the summer air, biting at every inch of exposed skin.
Evenings brought a different kind of quiet. Inside the croft, the kitchen would fill with the
unmistakable scent of peaty smoke curling from the hearth-a fragrance unlike any other,
earthy and comforting. It seemed to settle in the very walls of the house, a part of its
breath. I remember lying on the sofa bed by the window, watching the ships on the
horizon as they passed slowly across the frame of the four-paned glass. There was
something timeless in their movement, as if the sea and sky were speaking in their own
language, echoing the rhythms of the island.
These memories are not just recollections; they are foundational. They ground me in a cultural identity that values storytelling, connection to land, and endurance through hardship. Though I left the island as a child, it never left me. The values I absorbed there-community, resilience, and respect for the natural world-form an essential part of my worldview and continue to shape how I understand care, independence, and dignity.