A Love Letter to a Special Place: longlisted for the Wild Muse Nature Writing Prize 2024

The quiet, life-defining wisdom of returning to where you belong

Last year, the Wild Muse Nature Writing Prize welcomed a deeply moving range of voices, each offering a unique encounter with the natural world. I’ve been sharing a selection of the longlisted and shortlisted pieces – essays that lingered, that made me pause, reflect, and feel something elemental shift inside. Each is accompanied by a brief Q&A with the author.

If you find yourself inspired, remember: submissions for the 2025 prize are now open. I’d love for you to be part of it.

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This week, I’m honoured to share A Love Letter to a Special Place by Jacqui Hitt, longlisted for the 2024 Wild Muse Prize.

In this tender and reflective piece, Jacqui writes of a cherished Scottish headland that has shaped her over decades – a place of wild solitude, transformation, and deep listening. Her language evokes the quiet rituals of return, the sensory wisdom of landscape, and the shifting tides of a life witnessed by land, sea, and sky.

It’s a reminder that certain places don’t just ground us – they grow us. They speak to who we’ve been and who we’re becoming.

I hope you enjoy this beautiful meditation on belonging, memory, and the sacred nature of home, as well as Jacqui’s Q&A.

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A Love Letter to a Special Place

by Jacqui Hitt

Tonight the bay is full to its brim. So full that there is only a fine smudge of sand between the dunes and the lapping curve of the sea’s edge. Bar the slip slap of water, and the gentle ruffle of breeze through bracken leaves, there is little sound. No bleating ewes, or peeping oystercatchers, because the spot where the sheep like to sleep, and the rocky outcrop where the birds roost, are submerged in millions of gallons of deep blue seawater.

Despite having spent most summers here over the past fifty years, I’ve never seen the tide this high. The inrush of so much water is altering the landscape and my sense of this place. Fascinated by the swirling power of the sea, I watch the tide spirit away long familiar features. The three peat brown rivers that carve curved courses across the soft sand are gone and with them the constant chatter of water. The pink and blue-grey jumble of boulders which protect the bay’s far edges have disappeared too. All of the layered rock formations that mark the beach’s distinctive sections have also been swallowed, as has the elliptical tidal lagoon to the east. And in the mounting darkness, the water is still rising.

*

This place is my touchstone. I sometimes ponder what my life would have been like if in the summer of 1975, my parents had decided to head northeast instead of turning northwest to follow a winding single track road to its end. Could we have ended up somewhere less wild and elemental? I frown at the thought of what that would have meant for me. Would I have been the same or a quite different person?

Just as the weather has sculpted this landscape, this thumb-shaped promontory of Wester Ross has profoundly shaped me. The result is a beautiful internal tapestry of gathered moments, in hues of bracken and gorse green, deep heathery purple, the golds of deer grass and sphagnum moss, and the teal blues of flat calm summer seas. Together they bind the various chapters of my life – from childhood, through to adulthood, parenthood and beyond. A kaleidoscope of episodes and experiences, each one influencing who I have become.

*

For a shy, self-contained child, a remote place like this was a sanctuary. Somewhere to escape and wander free.

Staying for the summer in a Sprite caravan with few facilities (no fridge, a large blue bucket for a toilet, and daily sponge down in the sink) wasn’t easy especially during my teenage years. But the upside was that I could do and be who I wanted. And that meant I could be me, untrammelled by other people’s needs or expectations. I read books, meandered in my imagination and devoted hours to exploring every nook of the nearby headland and beach. It was a lesson in relishing my own company as well as being immersed in something bigger and wilder. And I got to do this year after year, each time revelling in the magical freedom to roam and explore. I fantasised about all sorts of possibilities in this time alone. Saw myself adventuring to exotic lands and discovering amazing people and locales. Being in a place both small and vast, enabled me to envision new and broader horizons. Anything was possible from this wild and unspoilt spot.

There were encounters and adventures too – ones that would deeply shape me as a person even if each time I had no way of knowing how or why. My annual visits became bookends for the start and end of each year. September, rather than January, my renewal point.

*

My first glimpse is always from a distance – from the road from Ullapool as it descends down towards the wide pinkish red sands of Gruinard Bay. When the sun is shining, and the sky is cloud free, it as if the radiant strip of sand I know so well is calling out to me. “You’ve made it, well done, you can breathe again. Not much further to go now.”

The next time I see it twenty or so minutes have passed, and I am parked, momentarily, in a passing place at the top of a steep hill. This gives me an eagle-eye view of what used to be a thriving crofting community – a short semicircular necklace of white and grey roofed houses perched above a patchwork of green grass, biscuit beige sand and swirling sapphire blue sea. In the distance, Sutherland unfolds all the way to Ben Hope. This is breathtaking in itself, but the distinctive charm of this place becomes even more apparent when I take the ancient fisherman’s track up behind the old schoolhouse and walk to the summit of the nearby headland. At its peak is a large cairn built by hundreds of people carrying a stone and leaving it as a gift. It is not a high summit – scarcely a hundred meters above sea level – so the stone is not a tribute to the climb, but more a ‘thank you’ for the reward you get when you get there. That reward is a remarkable perspective: a full 360 degree view of the surrounding land and seascape. The skies are high, the land vast, the sea endless and this creates a sense of a sacred, timeless space. It always makes me feel both on top of the world and at the centre of the universe. Above as well as within.

A panorama of the distinctive mountains of Sutherland stretches to the north from west to east. Canisp, Suilven, Stac Pollaidh, Cul Mor and Ben More Coigach are arranged in an unbroken, undulating line until finally reaching the dominating curves, crags and ridges of An Teallach and behind it, Britain’s last true wilderness: the Fisher Fields. Varying in height, these mountains are all old and time has worn them into distinctive shapes – all craggy edges, domed summits and pointed peaks.

In the foreground are foothills, heather covered, gneiss encrusted, and a scattering of low slung isles – Priest, Summer and Gruinard – each with different tales to tell (of millionaire’s dreams, of seeking solitude and sanctuary and of the horrors we will go to in the name of war). And holding the whole scene together is the sea – whether rough and steel-grey on a tempestuous day or smooth as silken jelly on a calm one.

Passing the 180 degree point, the faint blue outline of the Outer Hebrides floats on the horizon. Below that is a strip of fertile but boggy crofting land. In dips between the hills, sunlight glitters on the surface of shallow lochans, the blankets of cotton grass around their edges blowing back and forth in the whimsies of the wind. And then I have come full circle and am back where I started looking at the mountains to the north. I stop, stand, and breathe. My nose fills and my lungs expand with a heady mix of molecules, of marine and peaty moorland air. It is invigorating. Enlivening. Mind-altering. This is as close to a spiritual experience that I can get.

There is so much – too much – for any mind to take in and understand but in trying, wonder and awe flood in. The boundaries between my mind, body and the rest of the universe dissolve. I don’t so much feel lifted up but rather held and entwined. It is different from standing on the summit of a mountain where the air is rarefied and the distances immense. What I experience here is more grounded, anchored and down to earth. I like to think of this being what writer Thomas Berry called ‘inscendence’ – the impulse not to rise above the world but to climb into it.

Grief, joy, excitement and fear have all had their moments here. Sitting on this headland, I have held numerous silent conversations with the land, the sky and the sea, hoping their combined wisdom will provide me with whatever guidance I seek. It is a form of deep listening to my own needs and the world around me. And whenever I cast my thoughts to the wind or water, I get a response. One that calms and provides clarity of thought. This place is a spirit guide of sorts, its sagacity bound deep and tight by its history and ecology. I swear it knows me better than I know myself.

*

The summers I spend here are also the reason I love the natural world so deeply. This coastline is where I first saw a wild otter as young child – it emerged, suddenly, from behind a rock only feet away from where I was sat – and there continue to be otters to this day.

Other wildlife inhabits this landscape. Common seals sun themselves on rocks revealed at low tide. On a warm night, knots of toads come out from their cool, damp hiding places to hunt for midges. Black and gold striped furry caterpillars of the Fox and North Eggar moths can be spotted, with a keen eye, crawling along stony tracks, or hiding in the heather. The rock pools at either side of the beach are full of transparent shrimps, young edible crabs and blenny fish. Herring and black back gulls strut along the seashore as if they own it and plovers dance a cèilidh back and forth around them. Wagtails dip and prance while rabbits dart and dive in and out of bracken thickets. And there are bats and insects galore – moths, beetles, horseflies and spiders – thriving among the dampness of bog plants.

I have a ritual that I perform on each visit: a daily search for elusive tiny peach white cowrie shells. Cast up by the tide, there is a knack and patience to finding one. Each is a tiny smiley miracle that I hope will bring me luck.

*

On my wedding finger, I wear several rings, all given to me by my husband. The first is the gold band of my wedding ring. The second is in two halves of silver. These are connected by another unbroken, undulating line but this time of the coastline here rather than the mountains, cleverly carved and flattened out to create a loop. Wearing the ring reminds me of just how much I care about and am married to this place. That I don’t have to be here to feel its power.

My sister-in-law asked me recently if I want to retire here one day. I surprised her with the strength of my answer ‘no’. This is a special place because we come to visit for one or two weeks each year, I explained. A ‘step out of the rest of your life’ place. Its magic lies in the way it resets and recalibrates my body, mind and spirit. I am always sad to leave it yet over the moon to know I will return. Living here would turn it from extraordinary to ordinary.

*

Looking out across the water-filled bay, I sense my relationship with this place is shifting – from being somewhere to escape the pressures of life to becoming a harbinger of change. It is reminding me to finally have the courage to let what it has taught me truly define my life.

The tide turns and begins to ebb. As the water recedes, I hear the waves whispering. Slow down, they say. Be curious. Pay attention. Focus on what matters most. Look after those you love and your health. Walk. Walk some more. Swim if the water is warm enough. Learn, grow, explore. Fill your life with joy, wonder, possibilities and awe.

I allow the particular power of this tide to sweep away the old and usher in the new.

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‘Place, Grief, and Nature as a Creative Partner’ a short Q&Q with Jacqui Hitt

What inspired you to write your piece, and how did you approach capturing the interplay between the human experience and the natural world in your narrative?

Many things inspired me to write this piece, but the most significant was caring for my mother through the last 12 months of her life. Just as I was losing her, I came to realise that in many ways this remote corner of Scotland has also mothered me – and that I love it fiercely as a result. I guess it was written in a state of anticipatory grief. Something to take comfort from in dark as well as bright times.

I see the relationship between the human and natural world as very much being a dialogue. Being in nature is a safe space to share and project our fears and hopes – sometimes providing powerful inspiration and answers. The opening to my piece expresses such a shared interplay – one where the tide is at its highest and I was facing one of the most challenging times of my life. The synchronicity of that moment was powerful.

What challenges did you face in crafting your entry, and how did you overcome them to create such a vivid and evocative piece?

My biggest challenge was what to leave in or out. I have a very long relationship with this place. I began by revisiting old holiday journals and photos that I’d used to capture precious memories. Reading those revealed the impact this place had had on me psychologically over time. The next tricky bit was framing that, as it was multifaceted – even straying into being a bit ‘magical’. To keep things grounded, I opted to focus on the physicality of what I experienced and how that then linked to other aspects of my life.

“Being in nature is a safe space to project our fears and hopes – sometimes providing powerful inspiration and answers.”

What role does nature play in your life and creative process, and how do you think immersing oneself in nature can influence storytelling?

Nature is integral to how I live my life – it's where I start from and return to on most days. I carry a small notebook that I use to capture my ‘field notes’ – daily observations and experiences about life, nature, art, creativity, landscape, etc. But most of all, I just enjoy walking and being in nature on my own, 100% immersed in the place that I am in with the freedom to explore and let my mind wander and ponder. That freedom is a really powerful way to begin to craft stories – first in your head and then on paper. Nature is the ultimate thinking and creativity partner. It's inventive, collaborative and never stops giving.

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What stays with you?

Have you ever returned to a place that felt like it knew you – a wild companion through grief, change, or growth?

We’d be honoured if you shared your reflections below.