November 1992. Clamart in the suburbs of Paris.

"Pavé blanc", the voice said on the tape for the visually impaired, as if I didn't already know which stop we had reached. The Number 295 bus came to a halt at the traffic lights just as it did every night. It was gone six o'clock and I could see the staff in the Chinese restaurant sitting down to eat before they opened up. Above them a wizened old lady was leaning out of her dark window. I often saw her. So did a lot of people. The bus always had to wait ages for the lights to change and when they got bored by their immediate surroundings, their eyes turned upwards hungry, like me, for something different. Despite the shawl around her shoulders, the woman looked frozen. She reminded me of an American Indian, living there, as she did, next to a stop called "White stone". It sounded like a tribal name. The early-evening rush hour was probably the high point of her day. I always thought it must have been her entertainment, watching the hustle and bustle of the outside world. Snapshots of other people's lives that to her were worth getting cold for.

The green- and white-painted bus turned onto the busy route nationale 306. Five miles of greyness: offices, flats, a few shops, wasteland. Sometimes I couldn't bear looking at it. I had to shut my eyes, but I still saw it all streaming past in my mind. Once I tried to work out how many times I'd been along there: over a thousand, counting both directions. I'm sure I could list the name of every single stop along the route.

It was better in the mornings: it didn't take so long and when you saw the same people, it was somehow reassuring. There was the young man who got off just before me. I don't think I ever saw him in a coat. He always wore a white knitted pullover and carried an umbrella. There was the middle-aged lady with an Eastern European accent, possibly a teacher, who used to hurriedly brush her untidy, grey-white hair moments before the bus reached her stop. And there was the woman with her nose permanently buried in the latest Stephen King novel, another who often sat next to me reading bilingual classics and the girl in the multi-coloured jacket who used to get off at the hospital, opposite the new drive-in McDonald's. I always wondered where she went. Then there was the pair who used to work near Pavé blanc. Usually they timed it right to meet up on the bus, but sometimes only one of them would be there. The tall lady with dyed hair would listen to her walkman, whereas the older one, who looked to be more of a natural blonde, used to read the paper or study accountancy books. Occasionally, weeks could go by without my seeing them at all and strangely I felt almost as if I missed them. I invented homes and families for them, but I never gave them names.

In the evenings though, everyone came out of work at different times. You didn't see many familiar faces then. Except for the pair who got on at Pavé blanc. They would sit chattering away about the office or whatever. I often felt like saying 'Bonjour', but nobody seemed to want to acknowledge that we were all there together day after day. Only one girl, towards the end. She used to be on the 295, then I'd see her sitting opposite me in the Metro. She only stayed on for one station, but she used to say 'Have a nice evening' before she jumped off onto the platform. Quite a rare species - a civilised Parisian.

From the bus I could see the giant illuminated sign on top of the CEGELEC office block. Recently acquired by the Japanese, the company was my major client at the time. I was spending ten hours a day on their software manuals, translating, correcting, 'phoning, faxing, organising my team. And every night on my way home, already working out a plan of action for the next day, I had to go past their offices. As if I needed reminding. Sometimes I even sat re-reading work in the bus. I must have taken bits of it home with me almost every weekend for two months. It was like a never-ending nightmare.

If I could do anything in the world, what would I do? That evening when I sat there and this sudden, desperate thought came into my mind, the answer was easy enough: go around Scotland. That was the one place I really wanted to be. For years I'd felt that something was drawing me back there and I longed to return to where my grandmother was born. I ached to be able to touch the land, breathe the air and feel the history, to see the sea, the mountains and the islands.

I'd said it to myself almost as a joke. But why not? I thought. See everything, go everywhere, if that's what I really want to do. There's nothing to stop me when the only thing in my life I know for certain is that I don't want to carry on where I am, caught up in this pointless rat-race.

And there, in my despair, from the nightmare grew the dream. I finally had something to look forward to, something to plan.

Once I'd amassed a few brochures and guide books, I started to plan my route. I remember spending hours on the floor of my flat in Paris pouring over the map and consulting the ferry timetable. I had to decide which islands I wanted to visit and how to manage it without retracing my steps. It was one of the most enjoyable things I'd done in years. Celtic music on, sun coming through the window, brochures scattered everywhere.

When I'd worked out my schedule, the long-distance 'phone calls began. I remember the Sunday afternoon when I rang to book my accommodation on Arran. It felt exciting to talk to someone in Scotland when I was so far away. I got in easily enough at the first place on my list, but finding somewhere on the next island proved more of a problem. By the Friday night though, I had already booked seven different places. Then I reached the difficult part of my schedule - the Outer Hebrides. Due to the limited number of buses and ferries, there was no possibility of juggling the dates at any of my five bases or the two overnight stops I'd need. I spent most of Saturday afternoon on the 'phone with my fingers crossed. I was so relieved and elated that it had all fitted together, I think I did actually jump for joy. With a final call on Monday, everything was booked from May 27th to August 16th. At that point I thought I'd decide what I'd do next once I got that far. I tried so hard to imagine what it would be like. I would read the guide books over and over again, looking at the pictures. I'd dream about it at night. I'd walk around in the street with my eyes focused on some inner scene, as if I was already there. And soon the time to leave drew closer.

When I was staying in Compton MacKenzie's old house on Barra, one of the other guests asked me if I had thought of living on the island. I told her that it was a question I asked myself on every island I visited. She was surprised, but to me it seemed only natural. I almost said that perhaps in order to like islands, you have to be one yourself. Then she started talking about materialism and how a trip like mine showed that you don't need many possessions. It was an interesting point which I hadn't really thought about until then. I realised that I didn't need any more than what I carried in my two bags. I felt that I could go on for ever and ever, just moving on to a new place after six or seven days. Always an outsider, but never a tourist. I had become a traveller.

This book is the story of my journey. The pace of the narrative mirrors the unhurried nature of island life and reflects the leisurely way in which I travelled around on public transport and on foot. Although I know that other people may read it, I wrote it primarily for myself, so that I could always remember.

I wonder if the old lady is still there leaning out of her window watching the rest of the world go by.