Islascotia — The Colony that never was… but might have been.

A hundred miles off the coast of North Carolina lies Islascotia — an island that never was, yet might have been. Born of fire and salt, it rose from a volcanic ring whose green slopes cradle valleys of fog and memory. Founded in 1664 by Scottish Covenanters fleeing persecution, Islascotia became a refuge for those cast adrift by history: Welsh Quakers and English dissenters, Portuguese sailors from Tortuga, French Huguenots out of Martinique, and the freeborn and formerly enslaved who sought peace upon its shores.

Separated from the mainland by storms and silence, the island grew in its own strange rhythm — neither wholly Old World nor New. Here, Gaelic met patois, psalm met sea shanty, and a new voice was born in the clang of hammers and hymns. Its people tamed volcanic soil and swamp, carved farms from stone, and built ships that carried salt, sugar, and stories far beyond the horizon.

Over the centuries, Islascotia stood apart — a place of fierce independence, enduring faith, and unspoken legends. Some say the island remembers its founders: a Covenanter’s oath carried still in the wind, the pirate’s laughter tangled in the tides.

Through generations of struggle, love, and survival, the Islascotia novels trace the rise of this imagined nation — a living chronicle of what might have been, had one forgotten island gathered the scattered threads of the Atlantic world and woven them into its own enduring tapestry.