How a Tiny Scottish Town Took Back Its Canal

This urban studies project details the futures of thousands of cities across the globe as though they've somehow overcome all social and environmental and political challenges to become super-ecofriendly "Green Utopias". This month, we highlight the future of the Scottish town of Crinan.

In the sleepy, salt-sprayed village of Crinan on Scotland’s rugged west coast, something quietly revolutionary unfolded. For years, the Crinan Canal—once the lifeblood of local fisherfolk and seaweed-gatherers—had been overtaken by a parade of posh yachts, sleek diesel cruisers, and visiting multimillionaires who thought tartan trousers and a weekend mooring made them “authentically Highland.”

But in 2039, the tide turned—quite literally. Locals, fed up with diesel fumes, champagne litter, and the canal-side air smelling more like motor oil than mussels, launched the “Crinan for the Locals!” campaign. At its heart was a simple idea: the canal and estuary belonged to everyone—but especially to those who cared for it.

Crinan, Scotland, in the Future

It began with Civic Conservation Crews, made up of local schoolkids, retired mariners, and one spirited librarian named Moira. They removed invasive species, restored wild eelgrass beds, and rebuilt old wooden piers with sea-washed driftwood and community elbow grease. The estuary started breathing again.

Next came the Eco Toll: visiting boaters arriving with polluting diesel engines were charged sky-high mooring fees—unless they volunteered to spend a day planting reeds, cleaning rubbish from the locks, or giving a talk at the local school. (Few took that option, but one baron from Kent tried to explain “the stock market” to a group of unimpressed 10-year-olds. He was never seen again.)

But the most charming twist of all? Schoolboat Commutes. Instead of sitting in traffic or hiking long coastal paths, local children now paddle to school in hand-painted rowboats or solar-powered skiffs, weaving between ducks and otters like eco-pirates. Each boat flies a little flag—some with clan tartans, others with dragons, and one featuring a seagull eating chips.

Crinan’s canal, once a background for selfie-snapping tourists, had become a working waterway of joy and justice. And as the sunsets blazed over the Argyll hills, the sound of laughter and oar strokes echoed along the water once more—not the drone of diesel engines.

Crinan, the locals like to say now, is back in the hands of those who love it most.