Muckle Flugga: The Brink and Back

 

 

MUCKLE FLUGGA (2026)

By Michael Pederson

Faber, 303 pages

★★★★

 

Muckle Flugga is one of the summer’s most-anticipated novels. Written by Michael Pederson, it qualifies as his debut as his well-reviewed Boyfriends is viewed as autobiographical, as it deals with real people and Pederson is a major character.

 

Before going any further, let’s deal with the title. It’s Old Scottish by way of Norn, the ancestor of numerous Scandinavian languages. It’s the name of a real lighthouse island 3km north of Unst and is part of the Shetlands, though some maps skip it as it’s been uninhabited since 1995. This part of the world is better understood by looking at a globe. You’ll notice that Norway is closer to the Shetlands than Scotland’s capital of Edinburgh. Shetlandic culture features a mix of Scandinavian and Scottish. In Scots, “muckle” (or “mickle”) means large or much. Flugga, on the other hand, could mean insect, a craze, a fishing lure, or a bowtie! For reasons beyond my linguistic understanding, put together they mean “big steep-sided island.”

 

The waters surrounding Muckle Flugga are treacherous; they are where the North Atlantic and North Sea collide. In 1854, a lighthouse was built by engineers David and Thomas Stevenson to guide sailing ships and avoid tragic accidents. Thomas was the father of author Robert Louis Stevenson. Until it was automated, a lighthouse keeper and his family lived on Muckle Flugga, a lonely existence, especially in winter when the weather dictated supply boat schedules. Pederson employs a few novelistic embellishments in Muckle Flugga: a mysterious castle-like complex slowly going to ruin and a guest house for the occasional birdwatcher.  For the most part, Muckle Flugga and the nearby Outstack are home to puffins, otters, seals, guillemots, fulmars, and the occasional fox.

 

In the novel, it is the home of a character known simply as “The Father” and his 19-year-old son Ouse (rhymes with booze). The Father is a strict disciplinarian and hopes that Ouse will be a “wickie” (lighthouse keeper) someday, just as his father and grandfather had done. “The Mother,” as she’s known, died years ago and The Father has not recovered from his loss. Ouse is educated (homeschooling and occasional trips off island), but there are gaps in what he learned. Although Robert Louis Stevenson died in 1894, but Ouse religiously reads Stevenson and carries on a dialogue with him. A ghost? Vivid imagination? “Figgie” is the only other regular on the island. She is quite pretty and captains the supply ship. She’s attracted to The Father, but he’s too blind to see it.

 

Muckle Flugga is thrown into a stramash (chaos, upheaval) with the arrival of 25-year-old Firth, a putative birdwatcher from Edinburgh, but actually a depressed young man who plans to brood at the end of the world and then kill himself. The Father takes an instant dislike to Firth, who becomes the foil for some of the novel’s funniest sequences. They are essentially Scottish versions of the old jokes about city slickers and (perceived) bumpkins. One incident involves Firth’s first encounter with Cullen skink (a fish bread bowl), and that’s enough for Father to dismiss Firth as a fool.

 

Ouse does not. Firth is a font of information about his travels and a companion to whom Ouse can show off the islands. Ouse indirectly gives Firth a reason to live. Firth detects Ouse’s inner brilliance, his painting skills, and his seldom-spoken desire to see more of the world. Given that Muckle Flugga uses this Stevenson epigraph– “…to be what we are and to become what we are capable of becoming, is the only end of life.”–you can see where this is going. But the novel’s mystery lies in what is not said or explained. There is homoerotic frisson between Ouse and Firth, but is this a love affair without sex? A paean to wildness? A middle finger to Father’s stern Calvinism? Manipulative opportunism? Motives are left to the reader, which can be frustrating.

 

Muckle Flugga has gathered some heavy-hitter endorsements. Author Ian Rankin called it a “fever dream,” former First Minister for Scotland Nicola Sturgeon thinks it’s an important book, and filmmaker Alan Cumming praised its “rococo prose.” There’s no doubt that Pedersen can write; though just over 300 pages Muckle Flugga has an epic feel. Pedersen is a heralded poet and brings those skills to bear in gorgeous prose salted with Scottish dialect. As in all dreams, the open question is: whose dream?

 

Rob Weir