“The ferry to Coll? I’m sorry, but you just missed it. It left five minutes ago,” said the man in the ticket booth. It was still early morning in Oban, a charming coastal town in the West Highlands, when I received this disappointing news. I had driven a hundred miles from Glasgow and slept in my camper van overnight just to catch this ferry.
I asked, already knowing the answer, “When is the next one?”
“Tomorrow, same time,” he replied.
I hadn’t anticipated that my journey to the Isle of Coll would involve me shedding a few tears of frustration in the ferry terminal car park before sunrise. Maybe I should have. This trip had a lot of moving parts, mostly involving various modes of transportation. There was the ferry, of course, and the camper van I rented. We also took the Caledonian Sleeper train overnight to get to Glasgow in the first place. Plus, there was the campsite in Oban where we had initially planned to stay, until they informed us at the last minute that their barriers wouldn’t allow us to leave before 7am, which would have ruined our chances of catching the ferry anyway. Getting to Coll was no easy feat.
As my boyfriend and I sat at the campsite, munching on self-pity shortbread, I pondered our predicament. At least this mishap was in line with the theme of our trip. We were headed to an event called Detour Discotheque. The clue was in the name.
Jonny Ensall, the founder of Detour Discotheque, was once the editorial director of a publishing company in London, but he had always been involved in organizing club nights alongside his day job. He told me, “I’m fascinated by New York in the late ’70s when disco first emerged.” Disco, for him, represented community. “The earliest discos were inclusive spaces where people who felt like outsiders could find a home and dance all night.”
A few years ago, Ensall went to Iceland and found himself in a small fishing village called Þingyeri in the Westfjords. His flight back home got canceled due to heavy snow, and he ended up staying for the annual Þingeyri Hjónaball, a couples’ dance held in their village hall. He listened to the songs about the fjords and witnessed the strong sense of community among the locals. This experience made him think about the community aspect of early discos, and something clicked. “What if I could combine this idea of community with that disco concept? Maybe we can create a portal to take people back to 1979 New York, right here in a village hall in the middle of nowhere.”
The first Detour Discotheque took place in Þingyeri in 2022, with 250 attendees. After that, Ensall wanted to host the event in another remote location. Coll, an island home to only 170 people, located near the westernmost point of Britain, was chosen. Coll is best known as the setting for the Katie Morag books, where the most exciting thing that happens is the occasional missing parcel from the island post office. It was here that Ensall organized a two-day disco music festival, in a place where a gathering of three puffins next to a rock pool could be considered a party.
Despite the initial setbacks, we had a great day in Oban. We indulged in fresh seafood from a shack by the harbor, keeping an eye out for thieving seagulls. We also joined a group of knowledgeable Americans on a tour of Oban’s whisky distillery. The following morning, bright and early, we managed to catch the ferry, although we had to leave the camper behind due to weight restrictions caused by a herd of cattle headed to the livestock market on the Isle of Tiree. As I enjoyed a sausage sandwich in the ferry café, I watched a beautiful sunrise stretch across the mainland through the salt-sprayed windows. But the clear weather wouldn’t last. I overheard people whispering about an approaching storm that might prevent us from leaving Coll the next day.
We arrived on the island by 9am. Coll is a thirteen-mile stretch of flat land surrounded by dark stone hills and pristine white beaches. The landscape was shaped by a glacier millions of years ago, and now rolling sand dunes covered in marram grass and the occasional sheep droppings dominate the island. Streets are few, and streetlights are nonexistent because Coll is designated a dark sky island, offering unparalleled stargazing opportunities. The tranquility is almost surreal.
We booked a holiday home owned by a local woman named Lesley. Apparently, the locals fully embraced the festival. Instagram footage showed Lesley dancing on the bar of the island’s only hotel during the welcome party, and she was tearing up the dance floor at last night’s official Detour Discotheque event as well. We mentioned that we were attending a whisky tasting organized by Ballantine’s, one of the festival sponsors, and she grimaced, “Oh god, Ballantine’s. Just what I need.”
Coll’s village hall, called An Cridhe, is surprisingly modern and well-equipped for serving such a small community. They hold a Saturday market there, and this week was no different, except for the large disco ball hanging from the ceiling, silver streamers adorning the walls, and a lively atmosphere. I needed some cash to purchase a crochet prawn, which led me to the post office. I ended up waiting behind two women as they bought postcards and engaged in a chat with the staff for a good twenty minutes. Things move slowly in this part of the world, if they move at all. Fuel is available on the island for only two hours, three days a week. If you miss it, tough luck.
Organizing a small-scale music festival in a place like Coll proves to be a logistical challenge. Coll doesn’t even have a resident police officer. Security staff for the event were brought over from the mainland, along with a team of medics. A twelve-ton truck carrying sound and lighting equipment had to be transported on the ferry, and ensuring that performers could travel to the island was another concern. Daisybelle Ferreira, a DJ from Peckham, London, was one of the performers on Friday night. When Ensall first called her about the unique opportunity, she found it unusual to have a five-day commitment for a two-day event. However, she embraced the challenge and was rewarded with a conga line formed by enthusiastic festival-goers in the middle of her set.
On a guided wildlife walk through Coll’s sand dunes, I got a glimpse of how close-knit the Coll community truly is. Our guide, Greg Smith, an infectiously passionate man wearing a raincoat and one of those unfashionable bucket hats, moved to Coll three years ago from Essex. He realized the tight community bond when he walked along one of the island’s roads and was offered rides by multiple people. One woman even stopped just to apologize for not being able to give him a lift because her car was already full.
Ensall explained that while remoteness isn’t necessarily crucial for the festival’s location, a close-knit community is essential. These communities are often found in…
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