In the conservatory of my remote Outer Hebrides hideaway, after shovelling in a full breakfast, my host the young father asks me with utmost seriousness and directness if I’m a bird-watcher.
I pretend not to be taken aback by such a direct line of questioning, fired at me so soon after my morning ablutions.
The truth is I wouldn’t know one bird from the next, I admit to my host; although I’ll enjoy any swooping displays or vibrant colours as much as the next passer-by.
I can tell he was secretly hoping I was a full-on twitcher … the dull look of disappointment gives it away.
Yet in reviving the conversation, he cheerily advises me to keep an eye out on my aimless travels today for otters, deer, wild ponies and golden eagles.
Oh, and test missiles.
Quarter past five was the time last Sunday when everyone ran for cover. Or otherwise secretly filmed it on their smartphones, and uploaded the footage to social media.
My thought is: Bonfire Night must be a blast around here.
Down by the cemetery gates, at Ardivachar Point, is a very long beach that’s been here since kelp was invented.
There are sudden heavy bursts of rain ready to drop at any given moment, and I jog on away from them the best I can – with limited success, and a comedy bent.
I head to Howmore, otherwise known as Tobha Mor, for a church service singalong, which I enjoy wholeheartedly … if only because I stand outside and can barely hear a note of it.
Just beyond the turning circle, there is a grown man in a flat cap trying to awkwardly climb over a barbed-wire fence, and I don’t know why.
Stranger still, he acknowledges me with a tip of the cap, as if this is a perfectly acceptable thing to be engaging in, on a morning.
Further out, the ruins of Ormicleit Castle provide proof that it doesn’t pay to be economical with the roof.
Subsequently I find the joint is now under the direct control of the local cattle, who will menacingly moo at you for daring to gaze in their general direction.
It’s an eerie place in the incessant early-morning Uist mist.
When the clouds burst open again, the rain is not so much cats and dogs, as giraffes and elephants.
Through the watery onslaught, the route to Loch Aineort is a twisted one-track road. I arrive to find a friendly dog trying to tell me something important, down by the old pier.
Said dog then leads me up the quarry path.
It’s the weirdest thing, but I find myself following, wondering if I’m being led to where those elusive eagles are.
Alas I see nothing, and we part in much the same way as I always do with a newfound acquaintance – awkwardly, with minimal words and no eye contact.
Kildonan Museum is a building next to an enormous centuries-old boat, which arrived here sometime before I did; it’s an impressive artefact, and my imagination runs riot.
Through the car park is the iron age, the square cairn, the laughing matter – all of them can be found at the entrance to Barbara’s Cafe.
Storm grey clouds continue to intermittently rain down abandoned cars and sidelined bathtubs, right near to where Flora was born.
It’s believed her birth took place in a house which no-one can see, mainly because it’s not there anymore. It didn’t just happen next to the commemorative plaque, oh no.
And sure enough, her followers like a wee dram – like a whole freaking mile of the stuff, if the story of the funeral is to be believed.
Heading south, Eriskay is an island with a cause. It has wild ponies roaming the joint.
I find more of them at the waterlogged football pitch, looking to play a derby with the local crofters’ sheep.
The crowd is somewhat thin. Or non-existent, you might say.
Yet folk are forward-thinking around here … the referee is female.
I move on, with sodden earth underneath my ill-prepared feet, such that my brave attempt to reach the island peak goes unrewarded – except, that is, in panoramic views that no-one else will see today (if you don’t count sheep, that is).
When the clouds part, the sun hits the water in shards of light; simultaneously, the wind breaks out into song.
Rolling down to the beach, I walk along it as a Calmac ferry docks and approximately three people get off – or disembark, to be clearer.
As my mind drifts away with the lapping shoreline, I ensure I can always see the pub from here.
Near the island causeway is St Michaels Church: an EU project, a Spanish-Scottish mash-up, with a touch of the Germans thrown in for good measure – for whom the bell tolls.
A religious acceptance of war is never very comforting, and I’m conflicted by the ill-gotten gains from a WW1 battle cruiser proudly on display at the church entrance.
Although … I might be guilty of waking up a few locals when I ring that big German bell.
Inside I follow my nose into the nave, to check out the Boaty McBoatface altarpiece. Proof that everything was invented here years before anywhere else, including recycling.
I much prefer the brutalist minimalism and concrete angles of the other place of worship that sits a few miles up the road, back on the Uist main; an unforgettable assault on sore eyes.
By 5pm I’m checking in at the Polochar Inn, where – lo and behold – here is an old stone.
It’s seen a few things, by the looks of it. Possibly dinosaurs, although I can’t be sure … it’s not giving much up today.
Next to the old stone is a deserted miles-long sandy beach, with a drifting view into the wild Atlantic.
I walk briskly along the perfect sands, stumbling across a dead seal or a dead porpoise or a dead something.
I suspect this is an aquatic crime scene, and quite frankly it stinks.
All I can do is retreat backwards the few miles to the pub, and with a fresh pint and inquisitive eyes I find myself sat across the bar from two youthful locals who bizarrely are on the Aftershocks and listening to early 90s rave tunes.
It turns out they’re enjoying the last few hours of a brief holiday, which took in a 48 hour drinking session with friends from Lochinver of all places.
By all accounts, it was a shambles of a meet-up, with chaos the overriding factor; right now it’s in danger of becoming a right old shipwreck.
Talk about a mess on a mission.
And there is a pissed-off moggie sitting next to me. This is Bob. He’s not impressed.
I think Bob knew I was going to order the last haddock, and now he’s pissed.
My two friends at the bar implore me to not pay any attention to the moody tabby.
When full darkness falls, I eagerly head outside to take in the stars and the bracing ocean air.
Yet it’s a cloudy night with no breeze, and I find my plan dead in the water, floating.
Wandering back into the isolated inn, the two party-starters now slumped at the bar and the sulky cat’s eyes fixed on me, I head to bed content that at least I had both the last laugh and the last fish.
An Outside World 