Cavan's ‘Castaway’ reflects on show’s legacy

Y2K came and went, Westlife’s medley ‘I have a dream/Islands in the sun’ tops the charts, and the last Pyrenean ibex is found dead, crushed by a tree. Elsewhere, the turn of the century saw the concept of reality television take a sharp evolutionary leap. Pushing the boundaries of human behaviour, it demanded raw unscripted interactions with fleets of cameras beaming back every movement, the essence of reaction in ever-more exaggerated environments. It soon became a benchmark, capturing the imaginations of millions.

Pioneering this new genre was the BBC’s ‘Castaway 2000’, following the lives of 36 men, women, and children tasked with building a community on a remote Scottish island.

It ended up launching the television career of one participant, journalist and presenter Ben Fogle.

But also among this make-shift community on Taransay, a largely uninhabited Outer Hebridean islet off-set by spectacular white beaches and an abundance of wildlife, was Cavan man Padraig Nallen.

“F**k it, it sounds like craic,” is the response Padraig elicits, reflecting on when he first set eyes on the advert seeking willing participants.

“I would have loved to live on a Scottish island. Many wouldn’t,” says the Cullies native of his Robinson Crusoe moment.

At the time Padraig worked for a what was still a fledgling Dublin software start-up, IONA technologies. The company was at the zeitgeist of Irish tech development. In years that followed, it went on to reach a market value of US$1.75 billion, while also operating offices in Boston and Tokyo.

“A lot of my friends worked there. One was a coder, and they’d just bring in their own friends as appropriate, to work in marketing or sales. I spoke German, and because I did I was put on the team to sell into Germany and Switzerland. This was before social media, and we had this internal email group thing. One day somebody forwarded this thing.”

Padraig doesn’t quite remember what the posting said, or what promises of adventure it bestowed other than it was billed as a supposedly ‘bold new experiment for the new millennium’.

More than 4,000 people reportedly applied to take part.

He didn’t see back then, but with the clarity afforded by hindsight, Padraig accepts he “probably was” at a sort of crossroad in his life.

Castaway 2000, he says, was “advertised in many different ways to many different people. If it was survivalism they were looking for, they promised that. Home-schooling for their children possibly, even environmentalism. Whatever it was, they tried to get as many different people on board based on what they individually wanted. They couldn’t possibly provide everything for everybody, but as far as I was concerned it worked out for me.”

Despite the premise of having to cope and survive without modern-day comforts, participants weren’t simply abandoned to fend for themselves like something out of a William Golding novel.

Each member of the group was allowed bring one luxury onto the island for personal use. Padraig negotiated for a crate of whiskey containing 24 bottles of Black Bush, successfully arguing the box was a single item.

“You were never going to end up on your arse in an alleyway,” recalls Padraig. “The whole principle was based on co-dependency.”

To a young quest-hungry Padraig, the chance to live on Taransay was a “one off opportunity” he simply couldn’t turn down.

“I was looking for an alternative to that term,” he laughs when asked about possibly trying disengage from the “rat-race” of city living.

Because production were so short on labour, and were late finalising even what island to select, Padraig was among those drafted in weeks before filming kicked off to help build the community’s accommodation - a set of turf-covered eco pods.

His full involvement however was delayed. Whilst swinging from a “not a very high” rafter with champagne spilling over on New Year’s Eve, Padraig fell badly and broke his ankle. The story spun was he’d tripped over a heather covered hole on a hillside.

But even on crutches for six weeks, Padraig got stuck into island living.

“You can get around a lot if you put your mind to it, and I went all over that place on crutches, for miles.”

Was he ever scared at any point?

“God no. The only thing you could say that was in any way scary was the odd storm, and as long as you were indoors you were grand.”

Did he ever have cause to question his decision?

Again comes a hearty “God no!”

“We liked each other. Thirty-six people, of course there were going to be groupings and disagreements, but we were fairly clear on the fact we all had jobs to do, that there as going to be a relative level of self-sufficiency. It wasn’t really survivalism because you couldn’t possibly put all those men, women and children on a place like that and just expect them to survive. That isn’t possible. People would die. The deal was we’d be given the equivalent to the lowest social welfare in Britain per person, about £30. We’d save that, put the majority towards group necessities, and we had maybe a fiver each for our own stuff. We wouldn’t buy booze, but we’d buy booze kits. We’d stretch it as far as we could. As I’m concerned, it worked out.”

Group meetings were called to discuss “anything important”. One early sticking point was how islanders interacted with the “outside world”, with newspapers and other media outlets starved of content, attempting to sent fresh-faced sea-battered journalists ashore in an attempt to land a scoop.

“Especially in the early days. It happened all the time.”

Division of labour was another point of debate. “In ways it was like an anarchist commune,” says Padraig. “There was nobody in charge. There were prominent personalities, but nobody was a key decision maker. Everything was by a show of hands.”

Islanders had to grow their own vegetables and kill their own animals. They had to survive off environmentally sound infrastructure including a wind turbine, hydro-electric dam, waterless urinals and ‘long drops’. It didn’t suit everybody, and seven left before the year was out.

Those who remained celebrated New Year 2001 departing the island by helicopter.

Only one person really felt publicly aggrieved by their treatment.

Castaway Ron Copsey felt production went too far in attempting to create drama, including manufacturing storylines to portray perceived conflict between himself and other castaways. Copsey later successfully sued the BBC and the Castaway 2000 production company Lion TV for libel. He was eventually awarded £16,000 as restitution.

“He never got on with the production company and, by his own admission, probably wasn’t the right fit for the place. The rest of us were happy to be there, by and large,” suggests Padraig.

“Obviously in a group that size there will be clashes, which the BBC would have hoped for. They wanted drama, but truthfully there was very little. When Big Brother came along, it absolutely blew us out of the water.”

Ratings

Costing £2.4M to make, the first four Castaway 2000 episodes were a hit, attracting audiences of up to eight million viewers. Four more update episodes broadcast at Easter drew ratings of between 6.5–7.5 million; with a third aired in September; and a final batch run in December.

If there was any drama, it was happening behind the scenes, and not within the commune.

The initial idea was for the programme to be filmed in 2000. But because of tabloid pressure, producers started showing this developing microcosm of society “not live, but post-live”.

They didn’t have schedules cleared either, so the show was “shoehorned” where possible, something islanders knew nothing about.

Castaway 2000 differed drastically from its emerging rivals in that there was no competition, no winner to be crowned. In comparison to Channel 4’s Big Brother, all glitz and glam, the goal was effectively an ambitious year-long experiment in satisfactory community building. Ratings slipped.

The final instalment was broadcast in January 2001 as ‘Castaway 2000: the Good, the Bad and the Ugly’. It was watched by 4.9 million viewers.

Last year journalist Kirsty Wark reunited some of the cast, including Padraig, for a short broadcast on BBC Radio 4.”It was an imperfect idea executed imperfectly, but for those of us there, it was absolutely fantastic,” states Padraig.

The son of John and Maura Nallen, Padraig now lives in Pembrokeshire. His mother still lives locally, and he has a sister in Dublin. His late father is a retired bank manager and former inter-county footballer who played with a number of counties including Mayo, Galway, Cavan and Leitrim.

Padraig has lived in south-west Wales since 2003, moving over after visiting Colin and Julie Corrigan, friends he made while on Taransay. That visit was doubly fortuitous in that it introduced Padraig to his future wife Peta too.

Colin, who sadly passed away in April last year, was the appointed Castaway island butcher. He and Padraig were “very close”.

Modern- day reality TV

Unlike the tens of thousands who now apply to take part in modern reality TV, Padraig never viewed his involvement in Castaway 2000 as a potential gateway to fame.

His feelings on modern-day reality TV are shaped by his own experiences.

The people who participated in Castaway had few, if any, preconceptions other than what was set out before them.

“If it had been a competition, I think the majority wouldn’t have gone at all. The reality is that [Castaway 2000] didn’t fit the format of what [reality TV] very quickly became. In fact within the same year. Audiences didn’t want to watch people getting on. They wanted people fighting, that’s what people like about reality TV. I watch The Traitors, I like it a lot, but I’d never go on it. Not a chance, as a ‘Faithful’ or otherwise. I just wouldn’t be interested. I think we were very lucky the format wasn’t fully thought through.”

Because of having to work communal cooking shifts, post island life Padraig became a chef for a while after.

Today Padraig operates a small dog food business with wife Peta. They have a “bit of land” and several dogs. Their home is near the sea, and Padraig states if he learned anything from island living it’s that “this is my speed”.

If the opportunity for a group of people to live on an island for a year came up again, Padraig recommends anyone “to go for it”

He’s proud of the role he played and the legacy the show has left behind.

“It won’t ever be the same as it was for us. We maybe knew it at the time, that this was a one-off, but certainly we know it now. Whatever about reality TV, you’re not going to be given a year away and not be expected to have to fight to the death.”Padraig returned to Taransay in 2003. Others were back in 2010, and there is a plan now to host another reunion of sorts this coming August.

“It’s difficult to get onto the island because it has changed hands a few times, and doesn’t have reliable accommodation any more,” explains Padraig.

“One of the people I’m close with was back last year, on the mainland island directly opposite. He was looking at it, in the summer time. He waited five days, but the weather wasn’t good enough. So there are no guarantees.”Padraig adds that he and his fellow islanders hope to meet on the southern point of the Isle of Harris, three kilometres from the rugged Taransay coastline.

“The plan is to hang out, and if the gods smile, hopefully we can get back over for one night and camp. It’s something there, those of us who are still capable, would really like to do. It’s just nice to see these people. For some I’ve only seen maybe once or twice in the last 25 years, others I’ve seen several times. We have this shared experience, genuinely bonding. No matter who you are in that group, it connects you. We were a lucky bunch, we were given an opportunity, of course we had to take it, but it’s not coming around again any time soon.”