Benedict Anderson, an Irish political scientist, described nations as an “imaginary political community.” He noted that even people within a small country often don’t know most of their fellow citizens. I read this when I was younger and thought it made sense. Nations really are just defined physical spaces on the Earth, with set boundaries.
I came to realize that these lines drawn by cartographers are part of our collective imagination, holding significance because we choose to believe in them. Our hometowns are born from a mix of love and intention. In places where you encounter clichés, this shared dream gives life to the nation, no matter its size.
This perspective became crystal clear when I decided to pack my bags and spend two months on an island off the U.S. East Coast.
Exile in Manan
Robinson Crusoe had Mass Tierra, Al Capone had Alcatraz, and Napoleon had Elba. For me, it was Grand Manan. Experiencing isolation on a remote island allows you the chance to reflect on your existence.
Unlike Crusoe, who was shipwrecked, my trip was planned. I booked a flight with British Airways ahead of time. My motivation wasn’t quite philosophical; I was fresh out of a tough breakup and needed a change of scenery, perhaps time to clear my head and regroup.
In the wild
As a Brit, I’ve always felt a pull toward North America. My homeland is known for tidy landscapes with precise hedges lining little roads. The area is characterized by small cars navigating narrow lanes, all neatly kept. Even our wild spots, like Snowdonia in North Wales, show signs of human interaction over centuries.
North America, on the other hand, stretches out with its vast deserts, towering mountains, and awe-inspiring canyons. The sheer scale and untouched wilderness here shape its identity, inspiring countless artists.
This environment also influences its political landscape. As someone from the UK, I never had much appreciation for gun rights, yet they are entwined in the identity of a lot of Americans. Independence seems to be a key element in how they connect with the land.
Serendipity and destiny
The way I made it to Grand Manan was a curious mix of fate and luck. My father bought land on this island after a midlife crisis, drawn to its charm while visiting my sister, who was training for the Olympics in Canada.
One chilly autumn morning, I found myself driving along I-95 towards the New Brunswick border, ready to catch a ferry to the island. Quite weary, having left England just the day before, I was running on adrenaline. The flight had been nerve-wracking; despite soaring through the sky, the cramped feeling inside the plane didn’t help much.
Arriving at the airport, I was greeted by an old Buick that, although not glamorous, was spacious and comfortable. As we drove, I sank into the plush interior, enjoying the ride—though my iPod had died, forcing a monotonous radio tune of the Eagles.
After crossing the St. John River and having a less-than-pleasant encounter at customs, I finally made it onto the ferry, where I could finally enjoy a warm bowl of clam chowder after around 48 hours without proper food. Many of the other passengers were islanders, and when they heard my accent, they had questions. “Are you staying with Pete?” they asked. I responded, somewhat nervously, “I’m his son,” before arriving on the island.
Getting by
Grand Manan is truly a place of solitude. Established by Loyalists after the American Revolution, it spans 58 square miles with a population of about 2,000, most residing on the easier eastern side; the harsh western side is less inhabited due to rocky cliffs and strong winds. When I arrived at midnight, I hugged my dad and decided I should dive into island life.
From my childhood, I remembered learning how to arrange fishing gear from my dad, who often dreamed of teaching me how to catch crabs and lobsters. With Dean, a local fisherman, I embarked on this journey after just a few hours of sleep, waking up at dawn to join him on the shore. This moment turned out to be quite transformational.
Training as a Lobsterman
Learning to bring up a lobster pot takes skill. You need to stabilize yourself against the boat and use a long hook to retrieve the buoy’s rope before pulling it up.
Of course, I was inexperienced. It took a while to adapt, and soon my impatience got the better of me. I tried to lift the pot quickly, but as the tides shifted, I found myself in a precarious situation— it was painful, to say the least. “Put on your gloves, you’re being foolish!” the skipper exclaimed, probably frustrated by a novice who had just added to his troubles.
Thankfully, I had the chance to redeem myself. A task I thought would take a few hours extended into a grueling day filled with camaraderie and music. By the time we were setting our traps under the stars, I had formed friendships, amplifying my respect for the hard work that the fishermen here do.
Somewheres
Tradition helps shape identity. In the UK, a dwindling number of fishermen represent the remnants of a community that once thrived for centuries. From Cornwall to Norfolk, they share notable similarities with their counterparts across North America. This bond stems from shared language and culture, a powerful aspect of their identity.
As author David Goodhart notes, “Somewheres”—people rooted in place—contrast sharply with “Anywheres,” who are more educated and mobile. Many “Somewheres” value familiarity and security, wary of change, while “Anywheres” pursue more progressive paths.
Though traditional lifestyles are fading, in Grand Manan, the old fishing methods are still alive, passed down through generations by locals like Dean. My respect for these people is based not on politics or economics, but on a deep-seated sense of duty and responsibility for both current and future generations.
As Edmund Burke once said, society is a tapestry woven through time—intersecting lives, livelihoods, and relationships yet to be formed.
