Bothy life ain’t what it used to be. I take my organic tea outside on the block-paved porch, surrounded by a flock of sheep – the assembled field high on grass, smirking amongst themselves, occasionally breaking out into woolly giggling and bleating laughter.
We gaze down on a type of civilisation below which I’ve been trying to forget about.
The whole scene gives me the munchies, so I fry up some local eggs for breakfast, while a military helicopter brings in the weather overhead (heavy showers).
I head to Holm Point and a stone memorial, to discover the 1919 tragedy of the Iolaire; it is not a good story. I attempt to stand still in an attempt to understand. Yet it’s difficult to comprehend, even though a similar disaster could happen today, tomorrow, next week.
Boats drift in to Stornoway harbour past this sombre scene, mere yards away.
Over the peat moors to the Westside, and gangster-ridden communities run by farm animals – mainly sheep. I get fair warning of this, on triangular road signs.
Up to Ness Point, where everything quickly conspires in falling down to the harbour, including the sky.
The Fishery Memorial has a fantastic outlook to the sea, but sobers the mind with heartbreaking details of the lives lost out there in a series of fishing disasters between 1835 and 1900 … 96 in total.
We are not masters of all that we survey.
Down on the beach is a young couple in love, walking hand-in-hand and barefoot, despite the freezing breeze and constant threat of heavy showers.
Europie is the result of a fallout from the Butt of Lewis … however the mess was soon cleared up, and folk seemed to settle down quickly enough.
The Stevensons have left their trademark lighthouse colours on the Butt, as have the birds gathered on the rocks below for elevenses.
If you’re anything around here, you’re a large rock, with vast swathes of knowledge.
I can’t compete, so instead I visit the church for the insane, if only because someone has to.
St Moluag was good enough to build this temple of worship in between the sheep runs, near the bus stop, sometime in the 12th century. Or maybe the 16th century. It’s becoming quickly apparent that dating techniques are a little out of the ordinary up here on the Western Isles.
I take a raincheck on my insanity check, with no seven circuits of the church, no being bound by the hands and feet, and no free overnight stay.
Accordingly, I declare myself fit for purpose. If only that purpose would make itself known!
Bizarrely, at that precise moment I find a pair of shoes – hidden underneath the pedestal which is holding aloft the visitor book.
Is this a sign?
I wonder if someone has been healed, or is it simply a pair of lost soles.
I briefly contemplate re-appropriation in the darkness of the sanctuary, stealing away those abandoned trainers. They won’t find me … I signed a false name in the visitor book!
Before allowing the thought to develop further, I find myself turning my back on the strange scene and skipping away under bright blue skies, in between the fenced-off sheep runs, pleased with my choice not to jog off with someone else’s footwear.
Down the road, the Turshail Stone is taller than me, it can see further than me, and it knows more than me – all things considered, this ancient, mysterious and awkwardly-leaning rock is better than me.
Yet one of us arrived here in an air-conditioned Volvo!
Local birds are swooping all around me, darting this way and that … nothing changes up here. They tweet me, telling me I need to get a hurry-on if I’m to catch the 2pm ferry back to the Scottish main.
It’s a race to Stornoway, and a sprint around town to buy a very expensive sandwich which obviously comes stringed-up, in a brown paper bag. They saw me coming, so I pay extra to have my lunch stringed up, along with the extra pickle, and a supersized slab of homemade cake (tricky to ignore when it’s giving you the look).
Joining the multiple ferry queues, I spy some heavy weather right next to the ship, also waiting to board.
A falling ramp allows me to slip between the cracks, although shortly afterwards I turn up on the mezzanine, and finally I’m allowed out of my car when things around me stop moving.
At which point, everyone scrambles up the stairs in an ill-judged race to obtain a winning view.
Reassuringly, I find the sea is out the window. In my lofty position, I am a captain of the ocean.
Behind me, a group of gannets are gathered, predominantly from the South East and possibly Essex.
This is migration in action, living the dream on a Calmac Hopscotch ticket, feasting on scraps and playing louder and louder games of snap.
The waters are alive to the sound of rough swells – as are some stomachs, by all accounts.
Calm descends on approach to Ullapool, where it’s finally time for a cold one at the bar.
Glancing out to the approaching loch, to see dolphins or possibly porpoises welcoming us, briefly swimming in front and diving around.
Suddenly, more heavy weather, so I go and sit in my car and sulk for half an hour because a voice told me to, over the tannoy.
When the boat docks at Ullapool, a song for departure announces the drawbridge being lowered.
And when everyone turns right, I turn left … never more so now than ever. I drive the few yards to the Arch Inn, for a room with a view, for tea and biscuits.
With bursts of rain falling once more, I then find myself sprinting along the waterfront, past the whitewashed cottages, to check in with the FBI; where everyone and everything has turned Cornish for some strange reason, which is never fully explained to my satisfaction.
Bizarrely, the chalkboard menu states that they hand-raise pork pies.
That ferry ride has done for me.
It sure is a bit loopy around here, so I follow the advice in the guidebook and head for the pub at the Argyll.
Although by some quirk of reality, it turns out I’m not heading for the Argyll, I’m heading directly to the Caberfeidh Place for a pint and a wee dram with friendly Cameron and his flat cap, gentle burr / local lilt and permanently-loaded Scottish grin.
Around us are crowds of people, with many elevated voices behind me who are loudly crowing about having just moved here from somewhere far away (a place where people don’t talk to each other … which could be anywhere).
Everyone seems to be asking each other if they’re here to see Shappi Khorsandi.
I’m really starting to doubt myself, again.
When Cameron leaves his perch at the bar, his place is quickly taken by Joanna, who introduces herself as “the rich bitch from London”, presently living around the coast in Achiltibuie.
On the other side of Joanna is James, over for a few days from Stirling … however he seems to have lost his wife in the busy pub throng.
After some entertaining stories and tall tales, I make my excuses … which in reality aren’t needed because I’m not here to see Shappi Khorsandi and I won’t be seeing Shappi Khorsandi because her show is sold out.
Down at the Arch, I take my fresh-caught scallops and salmon on a plate, along with a very decent local ale, a pint of An Teallach.
Unfortunately, the background noise is loud chatter, football and Ed-fecking-Sheeran.
The sensible man in a Gant shirt next to me has had enough as well … he’s buried himself shoulder-deep in the Guardian.
Difficult to find a quiet corner in the Scottish Highlands, sometimes.
An Outside World 