At cock-a-doodle-doo-o-clock, in my very own remote part of the Isle of Skye, I peer through the curtains with sleepy eyes … to find the Cuillins have turned up overnight!
As has the blue sky, and the 14 black sheep, and the magic light, and the bent-over-backwards tree.
They’re all clinging onto slightly different variations of life, in a daylight bid to prove their existence.
Shocked at the sight of a smiling sun, and the dark jagged peaks of faraway mountains, I eat hot porridge outside in the fresh morning air, while the black sheep munch away at the scenery in front of me.
Funny how we’re all here together, by a loch, on an Autumn morning. Sheep psychology is cheap psychology.
Following a reluctant departure from my idyllic loch-side retreat, I turn up at the bakery on the square in Portree, where I’m surrounded – by cakes and postmen and tourists and moderately glum shop assistants.
I buy a stuffed barm, because why wouldn’t I? And some 27p shortbread. Yeah I’ve conquered this island, alright.
Lealt Falls is a roadside layby filled with rental cars, with a waterfall next to it. And another waterfall, and some sheep, and the diatomite works which the flock have razed.
Bloody sheep mafia, they’re everywhere.
And cats! I have no idea how they get here, but they look like they’re having a good time.
Over at Kilmuir, Macurdie has deserted me – he’s nowhere to be seen. Possibly went a step too far with all of his exhibitionism, and he’s been evicted without question or trial.
There is an iron-age larder buried in the ground nearby. I peer in and realise it’s tricky to get in and out, unless you have arm bands and a solid escape plan.
Heading around the unpredictable coastline and eventually down the steep hill to Uig, in front of the freewheeling cyclist who I follow for the last mile.
Here is a ferry queue of sheep and people and heavy goods vehicles and unknown objects. We all make appropriate noises for the time of day.
Beyond the waiting lines of vehicles for the Outer Hebrides is the Skye Brewery, where a beaming man with a big beard is waiting to sell me a box of beer and a bottle-opener.
And all the while, all I can think of is the cheerful ship steward who greeted me, who has no concept of time – and worse, doesn’t know what a boat looks like (it’s behind you, I wanted to say … but I thought that was too obvious).
I end up in dialogue with lorries, who like me end up weighed down and tied down, water sloshing on deck all around them.
Land takes a long time to disappear, only to reappear at the other end of the ship – why this surprises me I don’t know.
The meringuey peaks of Harris, the drowned lands of North Uist.
This boat is a battleground, if you believe the paintings. Someone won, someone lost … the same old story rendered in oil and gouache.
Everyone looks bored, or is otherwise asleep, or is otherwise talking about cars, or is otherwise pouring cups of tea.
I have no idea where all these people on this ferry are going, mainly because I don’t ask them, and they also tend not to volunteer this information unprompted.
Luckily for us passengers the captain appears to be awake, and sober enough to guide his cargo of unlikely humans into the most unlikeliest of parts.
Rock slaloms, shark-fin protrusions.
Approaching land, the wild deer keep a close eye on us as we drift in … eyebrows raised at the luminous and expensive wet-weather gear most of the human cargo are wrapped up in.
When the time comes to disembark, I walk the plank … and almost immediately I’m underwater, forcing me to reconsider everything I thought I knew.
Before long I’m not so much walking on water, as driving on it.
Thankfully no-one is following me; yet for the folk coming towards me, I raise a cheerful wave, on the hope that I’m not actually drowning – which is a distinct possibility here on Uist.
The MOD range with a golf ball conundrum is around the corner from the St Kilda lookout; to get there is to swim, or to car-snorkel it.
I become privy to the Official Secrets Act in the middle of a three-point turn, which is something I wasn’t warned about on my driving test.
When Scottish mist swiftly descends, suddenly I can’t see shit – except for the gunshot excretions liberally sprayed all over the road, by the sheep.
It’s difficult to know who’s defending who here … the MOD or the local sheep.
I drive away and once again find myself continually waving at people, which I’ve fast discovered seems to be either the law here, or at least a part of the Highlands & Islands Highway Code.
I figure the friendly greeting is to congratulate each other that we’ve not yet fallen into the drink.
And I dread to think of all the ghostly goings-on underwater around here.
I check in, alone, to a remote house with rooms, on the moors, near the isolated road.
My host the young father is pining for his newborn, yet welcomes me with open arms and most importantly pours me a beer.
Light fades as I eat my salmon main, washing it down with a few bottles of strong Scots ale … like a shit warrior, who seeks out hot dinners and central heating and a solid wi-fi signal.
When the time arrives, I wrap myself in the tartan duvet and, within seconds, a deep sleep descends.
An Outside World 