NORTH UIST - Water, water everywhere

Saturday 10th July 1993 - Day 45

Having sat up writing late into the night trying to finish off some letters, I realised that there was someone else staying at the B+B. At breakfast, I met a man from the Forestry Commission along with two women. As the conversation wore on, I realised that one was Moira Kerr who sung a catchy number called "The Cuillins of Skye" on the video I watched in the Oban Experience exhibition. I can still remember the tune now. In fact I recall suddenly starting to hum it on the Small Isles cruise when we were going down the coast of Skye. It was her and her friend who I'd heard last night returning from a performance in one of the local village halls. Apparently she is quite well-known and has participated in shows for both Scottish and Canadian television. Coming from Glasgow, she was surprised to hear that I'd found any accommodation near Alexandra Parade. I didn't go into the gory details. As she has several other engagements lined up on the island over the next few days, they were moving on and kindly offered me a lift into town. Needless to say, it was absolutely pouring with rain.

After buying a sandwich and some food to take with me on the journey, I killed as much time as I could in the tourist shops. I bought seven pounds' worth of postcards and managed to send off some with the letters I wrote yesterday, secreting the rest into my inside coat pocket to keep them dry. On the off chance of being able to get a quick trim, I went into a hairdressing salon, but was too late for an appointment before midday. There was little more I could do, so I decided to take a taxi back to the B+B to collect my luggage, then sit and wait for the 1.15pm bus to Uig. The tiny bus shelter was largely taken up by a stack of newspapers and a load of backpacks with no visible owners. Although the rain had eased off by now and the wind was whipping under the sides of the shelter, I resolved to stay put. Minutes before the departure of the Skye-Ways bus, a bunch of German teenagers appeared to claim their baggage and shortly afterwards we all piled on.

The rain began again as we headed out of Portree across the desolate, flat land I saw on the bus trip only the other day, but which now seems much further back in time. Today we continued northwards fifteen miles to Uig, depositing the Germans at the Youth Hostel before swinging round the bay and down to the pier. The driver stopped at the CalMac building for those who had to buy tickets. Many of the other passengers were locals returning home from shopping expeditions and so few needed to brave the elements on the dash into the office. As we waited, I suddenly realised that I had forgotten to get a stone for my collection. With the rain lashing against the windows and the wind buffeting the bus, it was too late to do anything about it. All the more reason to come back to Skye I thought.

We drove down the long pier and, helped by the ferry staff in their luminous yellow jackets, backed into a slot near the waiting room in a well-rehearsed manoeuvre. Word came through that the ferry was running late due to the weather. We sat tight, secure in the warmth of the bus, wondering just how bad it was out there. A CityLink coach turned up and parked in front of us. I was glad to be in the vehicle nearest to where the ferry would dock.

Finally the Hebridean Isles arrived and we queued up as the foot-passengers came down the gangway and trundled onto our buses. Before we were let onboard, several men carried on metallic cases containing photographic or sound equipment. Another struggled with a huge washing machine-sized cardboard box. When our time came, we all impatiently raced up the gangway to be handed boarding cards and then set about finding seats. Looking for somewhere quieter than the bar and cafeteria, I settled myself down in the television lounge. The TV obstinately refused to show more than fuzz and a constantly moving vertical line on one side of the screen. Many were mesmerised into submission by it, whilst others optimistically saw it as a sign that something would eventually happen. Nothing ever did.

We left at 2.30pm, only half an hour later than the scheduled sailing time. Fortunately the ship was large enough to absorb the brunt of the weather without passing it on to us. Since I could see little out of the portholes, even distinguishing the grey sea from the grey sky was hard, I decided to catch up on my correspondence using all the postcards I had bought. After a good hour and a half, I began to see rocky, greenish land. The wind was still fierce, but the rain had eased off, so I went for a walk around the deck. I soon realised my mistake and was lucky to find a door I could manage to pull open before being blown overboard. A disappointingly swift end to my first proper look at the Western Isles (apparently they're no longer called the Outer Hebrides). As all the children became increasingly excited, I packed away my writing things and donned my waterproofs to queue up outside.

Yet more rain greeted our arrival in Lochmaddy. The pier was awash with islanders either sending off or welcoming back relatives and friends. Amongst the quiet goodbyes and joyful reunions, I found it hard to know who to approach for directions to The Old Courthouse. In the end, I managed to ask a man on the edge of the crowd. In the general commotion, I think he said "First on the right". There was only one road leading away from the pier and into the village, so I knew it had to be up there somewhere. I thought I would recognise it from the picture in the brochure which I remembered well with its little symbol indicating that it was "a building of historic interest".

Walking face downwards into the wind and rain, I had to stop for a rest twice before seeing anyone else foolish enough to be out on foot. Given the weather, I wondered if it would be fair to stop the approaching figure to ask for confirmation of the man's directions. With little on the right but sea, I was beginning to worry. I had to shout my question to be heard above the roaring wind. A hand shot out from under the umbrella to point to some houses further up on the right. The white one she said. It wasn't white in the brochure I thought to myself, but at least it was apparently in sight.

Cars were driving past, some local, some from the dozen or so I'd seen drive onto the ferry. I could feel that my rucksack was completely soaked and just hoped that the camcorder wasn't getting wet. The trip to Glasgow could have all been a waste of time. Wisely, as it turned out, I had wrapped it in three plastic bags. I forced myself up the road in a running battle with the elements, although running was far beyond my capability by this time. The severity of their onslaught made it so dramatic as to be strangely bearable. In such extreme conditions, it felt like the end of the world had come and frankly I wouldn't have minded, as long as there wasn't a lingering encore.

Eventually, I reached the turn-off by the Post Office. The house was further than I thought. The road dipped down past the Youth Hostel and I dragged myself up the other side, trampling over grass to cut corners. I rang the bell and wondered if I should knock, as it looked too old to be still working. Mrs. Johnson duly appeared and I squeezed in through the half-door she held open. Unmoved by my waterlogged state, she showed me straight up the narrow stairway to a tiny room. The bathroom, she told me, was down the hall and the shower was further round. With that she beat a hasty retreat. I tried the heater, but it wouldn't work and on closer inspection looked to have been disabled (for the summer I presume). The other facilities are the ubiquitous electric kettle and selection of tea bags on the windowsill and a washbasin which I was impressed to see with two thick towels. Only Mrs. Watt ever afforded me that luxury in the past. Opposite is the television lounge with a three-bar fire, some old mementos and a few tourist leaflets. In all there are four guest rooms, plus another door with no number. I can see the sea from the landing window, but disappointingly not from mine which looks up the road towards some buildings.

Mrs. Johnson had said nothing to me about meals, so later I went downstairs to check if she was planning to give me dinner as I had requested when I booked, having explained in my letter that I don't eat meat or poultry. I knocked on the only likely looking door and eventually a scruffy sort of chap appeared. I said that I didn't want to put her to any trouble over providing me with meat-free food and he assured me that Mrs. Johnson would have sorted something out. The way he spoke of her made it sound as though he could be a lodger. Perhaps he sleeps in the unmarked room.

After listening out for signs of life to no avail, I went down to the dining room at 7 o'clock on the dot. A single place was neatly set on a table in the middle of the room from where I could see part of a walled garden. Next to the glass door, with its English and Gaelic "No smoking" sticker is a noticeboard bearing bus timetables and a poster giving advice to walkers about the deer stalking season. I sat for a while reading what I could from a distance. Suddenly Mrs. Johnson swept in like the gales that had now abated, muttering that she hadn't heard me come down. Dinner turned out to be unexpectedly lavish thanks to her generous servings and colourful presentation.

On the menu:

Cottage cheese salad with yellow peppers, cucumber, tomato and crisp lettuce

Two fillets of smoked mackerel with a dish of potatoes, carrots, courgettes, mushrooms, onion, celery

Ice cream with strawberries

She briskly whisked the dishes in and out, seemingly not wanting to enter into any form of conversation for fear of spoiling the meal. I could hear her emerging from the kitchen next door when she thought she'd given me enough time to finish each course. If I'd eaten some of the bread and butter on the table with the salad starter, my tiny stomach would have considered it a perfectly substantial meal. By the end I desperately needed to lie down and rapidly disappeared in case she brought any cheese and biscuits. Not used to consuming such vast quantities, I couldn't move for over an hour.

When I did, it was to locate the telephone box I vaguely remember passing in the main street. It was one of those new BT ones, but the door seemed to have been wrenched off by the wind long ago. The view was magnificent. Even though the clouds were still low, the rain had stopped and there was the sea weaving its way through a myriad of islands. Dark hills stood opposite in the distance. Not a soul to be seen or heard, just the cool wind for company. After waiting so long for this wilderness, I find it hard to believe that I'm finally here. Without doubt, it is all I ever wished for.

Sunday 11th July 1993 - Day 46

This morning I couldn't for the life of me fathom how to work the shower. All I got was a trickle of cold water, so I took my chances in the equally icy bathroom, a place where few would dare undress completely. At least there the water was hot. I went down to breakfast at 9 o'clock after being told by Mrs. Johnson last night that Sundays were her only chance of a lie-in. The other guests were already there. My place was laid at the corner table with a rather strange girl who looked like she'd just got straight out of bed, but could have done with sleeping for a week. She seemed very fatigued, stressed and was oddly cagey as I hazarded remarks and questions, feeling it my duty to make polite conversation. Eventually, as the coffee flowed, she both opened up and woke up a little, saying she was flying back to some unspecified job in London tomorrow.

Mrs. Johnson left me to peruse the menu card in all its detail from kippers to porridge and fried breakfasts with black pudding, white pudding or fruit pudding. Never have I been offered such a comprehensive list of choices. Before I could murmur "Just toast and marmalade please", she had disappeared into the kitchen to get fish for one of the two couples. I soon realised that she treated the others just as she did me last night. Coming and going swiftly and efficiently, not stopping to talk, she isn't unfriendly, more indisposed to idle chit-chat. Economical of words, but definitely not victuals. After a string of gregarious landladies, it's a little unsettling to find someone as unforthcoming as I usually am myself.

The weather seemed fine, if blustery, so I set off around 10am, eager to explore the area around Lochmaddy. Once past the school and the last few houses, I came to a turning. As the main road arched around, a single-track road led northwards past a tumbled-down barn and a couple of new houses. I walked for a mile or so towards hills I could see far in the distance. The terrain was uneven and visibly boggy. Glinting in the sunlight, dozens of tiny lochs lay on both sides of the road. Water, water everywhere, as though the land was more liquid than solid. This was the Uists of my childhood memories. Twenty years have passed since I last set foot here. I would have loved to strike out across the moors, but the road was lined with wire fences, bristling with captured wool, like tattered messages dispersed by the winds. I felt that I had truly arrived in the islands. This was the freedom I'd been waiting for.

The clouds were scurrying away out to sea. I stopped to look skywards into the blueness and there was a perfect half-moon. It seemed the ideal shot to begin filming with the camcorder; the first time I have been able to use it for over a week. Surveying the lunar landscape and seeing the road stretch endlessly on, I retraced my steps. Having been passed by only two cars and two cyclists in over an hour, I returned to the junction.

The Gaelic signpost pointed right to Loch Baghasdail (Lochboisdale) and left to Loch nam Madadh (Lochmaddy). This is Frontierland, the fringes of the English-speaking world where East meets West, tourist meets crofter, fast car meets slow sheep on single-track roads. Lochmaddy appeared as a ghost town. I half-expected to see tumbleweed rolling eerily down the main street. I had visions of a film with a gunslinger leaving the hotel bar proclaiming "this town ain't big enough for both of us" or whatever its Gaelic equivalent would be. Perhaps Spielberg would be interested in my video. How about The Western Isles meet the Wild West or All Quiet on the Western Front?

For all was indeed very quiet. There were no children playing, no husbands mowing lawns, no noises or movement. The only sign of life was in the middle of the town where seemingly all the cars on North Uist had congregated outside the church, having transported what must have been the entire population of the island to the morning service.

After yesterday's cataclysmic arrival, I wanted to investigate the way down to the pier. It was all a grey blur in my mind. There seems to be no real harbour as such, just an extended pier built for the ro-ro ferry and sheltered by hills across the water. Rows of sheep pens stand at the back of the office building next to the vehicle queuing area.

Just up from the ferry point, the tiny Tourist Office is set off the road, its windows plastered with bus timetables and posters advertising local events. I remember ringing them up from Paris one Saturday afternoon to check how I could get to Lochboisdale. Next to it stands the island's main hotel, patronised mainly by anglers from what I've heard.

Further up are houses, the bank and a shop called "Weehavitt". The commercial centre of Lochmaddy is the combined grocery and Post Office, next door to a discreet craft shop. Three petrol pumps stand alone on the opposite side of the road like some memorial to desolation. This is the turn-off point to the Youth Hostel and the Old Courthouse. A new bench has been placed by the corner, near two old ambulances. In the distance I could make out the cliffs of Skye.

After sitting a while, I returned to the B+B to make myself a sandwich using my provisions from Portree. Tethered in front of the house were two white ponies grazing on the muddy grass. I noticed a sign above the door stating that it dates from 1827.

I left again around 2pm and walked up the back way out of town, past the cottage hospital, on a road I correctly guessed would lead me to the junction I reached this morning. In so doing, I realised that there is a proper red telephone box (with door) on the other side of the New Courthouse. I needn't have struggled back to the main road with an over-extended stomach last night after all.

I decided to explore the way south to Lochboisdale. This is a newly resurfaced stretch of road recently widened to two lanes judging by some of the rock that has not long been blasted away. I began looking for a stone representative of North Uist and soon had a collection of pretty pink pyramids. I continued along a little way and was faced with fences lining the road. Open moorland stretched out peppered with a hundred thousand pools. As car after car hurtled past me rushing for the ferry, I crossed the road and turned back.

I had intended to be back to film the ferry leaving at 4.10pm, but it was already heading out to sea by the time I returned. Convoys of cars had passed me, all charging south down the islands, but when I arrived the place was just as deserted as before. It reminded me of a line in one of Mairi Hedderwick's books about her travels around Scotland: "There's nothing more silent than an island pier after the boat has called".

I had company at dinner: a cycling couple who I spotted on the road to Sollas. They were the only people I saw this morning. After discussing the pictures of the clans on the wall and the group of odd flags (which I suspect represent the world's Celtic nations), we turned the conversation to more personal matters. They have cycled up from Barra with the weather apparently going from bad to worse, culminating in yesterday's storms. On Tuesday they sail to Harris and Lewis. They were particularly interested to hear about Islay as they have always wanted to go there. I recommended the B+B at Nerabus which made me feel rather like a seasoned traveller. It was then that I remembered someone had told me how good the food was here. I seem to recall that it was in fact the Welsh couple who took me to Jura with them. How right they were. After telling me about a vegetarian café in Ullapool, the meat-eating cyclists tucked into soup and lamb chops, whilst Mrs. Johnson brought me another of her inventive feasts.

Tonight's menu:

Melon and prawns

Green and white tagliatelle in cheese sauce with cashew nuts, broccoli, cauliflower, peas, celery, yellow, green and red peppers

Hot pain au chocolat with cream

After another much-needed lie-down, I went into the lounge to watch the television. Reception is extremely poor to say the least. Any unfamiliar programmes become guessing games as to the plot and characters. Particularly hard to follow are the weather forecasts with chart symbols which could easily be indicating bright sunshine or hurricanes for all I know, though the latter is probably the more likely of the two. At least the sound works, which is more than can be said of the radio. Having used my limited contortionist skills to place myself and the walkman into a position where I can actually pick something up, it inevitably turns out to be all in Gaelic.

Monday 12th July 1993 - Day 47

Breakfast was slightly more relaxed this morning. The strange girl told me she had spent yesterday hill-walking with a friend, returning late to be scared witless by the sudden apparition of the two white ponies standing silently in front of the house.

I went into the Tourist Information Centre to buy a map and a few postcards. There was a better selection in "Weehavitt" which, as the name suggests, sells a bit of everything. Away from the tourist trinkets, buckets and spades, fishing nets, knitted sweaters, seed packets, biscuits and books, was a separate section where I managed to find some padded envelopes for sending my videotapes and stones back home. They also sell cheap writing paper, so I snapped some up, as I've nearly run out.

The grocer's shop was pretty bare with no fresh food on the shelves or in the fridge. I bought a packet of biscuits and a jar of peanut butter, thankful that I had just enough bread left over to make myself a sandwich. By 11 o'clock, the general level of activity had increased dramatically. Car loads of holidaymakers were heading down to queue at the pier. A lady arrived to open the unpretentious craft shop, placing her sign on the opposite side of the road to attract custom from any passing motorists.

I sat in the sun on the bench at the corner and watched the ferry come in from Skye at 11.25am. The advance guard of tourists sailed straight through in their cars without stopping. Later came a trickle of cyclists and hikers heading for the Youth Hostel. Three lorries turned up with supplies for the grocer, then carried on south to make other deliveries. The ferry left for Harris on its never-ending triangular journey and Lochmaddy returned to its peaceful self.

At 2pm the shop re-opened full of fresh bread, cheese and newspapers. I bought a wholemeal loaf and a bag of locally-made scones. The mother and children in front of me chatted away in Gaelic to the shop assistant, spreading family photographs all over the counter. I smiled and gestured that I was in no rush when they suddenly realised I was waiting to pay and lapsed into apologetic English. I didn't want to intrude on their world.

The day was becoming increasingly brighter, so I decided to make the most of it by walking further up the single-track road to Sollas. Was that only yesterday? It already seems to belong to a more distant past, as though I've been here a lot longer. Passing occasional houses and barking dogs, I looked out over the speckled landscape. It was hard to tell whether the moorland was sprinkled with lochs or the sea dotted with islands.

Followed at a distance of a few hundred metres by two walkers who never seemed to want to overtake me, I carried on, as if alone, for three miles to Blashaval. As the road climbed, they turned back and I pushed on to the top, lured by the promise of a panoramic view. Below lay a heather carpet of peatbogs weaving their way through the sea in a rich tapestry of colours blending from yellowy greens to earthy browns. To the south-east were the buildings of Lochmaddy and its backdrop of hills, then over the open sea to Skye where, like a three-dimensional snapshot, through the binoculars I felt I could see the very texture of the steep cliffs streaked by dark gullies.

For me, the most spectacular sight was confirmation that the hills I had been looking at in the northern distance belonged to Harris, the island where my grandmother was born. The place I've longed to return to for so many years. I'd always worried that it might not live up to my memories and youthful impressions. Had I romanticised it all in my imagination? I often thought of the old saying about never being able to go back somewhere and find it the same. Thinking about it hundreds of miles away, I used to wonder if returning might tarnish the sort of dream island that I'd built up in my mind over the years. Perhaps it would all come crashing down around me, when I got there and realised it was nothing special.

And there it was at last, my precious island: the southern tip of Harris with its mountains rising straight out of the sea, their summits dappled with pale moonrock. A string of white houses was clearly visible running along the coast. I knew then that it would live up to all my expectations. It was still drawing me ever closer. I felt as though I wanted to go straight away. Forget Barra and South Uist, I could go tomorrow I thought. Patience, patience, I've waited so long, I can wait a little longer. Suddenly realising how close I was in both space and time to fulfilling my wish, I wanted to reach out and touch it.

A cloud passed overhead, accentuating the chromatic differences between the shadowy foreground and the sunlit landscape beyond. The road ahead was illuminated, inviting me on. I chose to return. I wanted the next two weeks to pass quickly.

However, it was all nearly not to be. With the wind whistling around my ears on the way back, I was plagued by speeding vehicles, notably a building contractor's van whose sole purpose seemed to be to run me over. Even with the element of surprise on his side, he failed three consecutive attempts on my life. Having approached me from behind the first time, he came back to try again once I had turned around. His last-minute blast on the horn came a split-second after I'd heard the engine and was already stepping off the road. On the third occasion I should have had the advantage, but his skilful art of concealment in the dips in the road combined with my desire to gawp at the scenery almost proved fatal.

Despite the maniac's homicidal driving, I reached Lochmaddy around 6pm and decided to explore the road past the Police station. My knees wished I hadn't when I saw the gradient of the slope leading down to the Uist Outdoor Centre. Today has been the first proper walk I've done in weeks. I carried on in the hope of having a good view over to Skye. The things I force myself to do just for the sake of another shot with the camcorder! As it was, grey clouds cluttered the southern skyline and it was turning too dull to be picturesque. I rounded the corner at the end of the road and I was surprised to see a bridge spanning one of the sea lochs. A derelict house stood on the other side and a couple of youngsters looked to be returning to some unseen home. Wary of being late for dinner, I turned back to find a boy had suddenly appeared by the side of the path. Completely absorbed in sketching, he sat on a huge stone which looked to all intents and purposes as though it had been created purely for use as an artist's seat.

The cyclists had cycled off somewhere for a meal, so I had to put up with a rather posh elderly threesome who Mrs. Johnson conveniently seated as far away from me as possible. They were given chicken, whilst I had fresh fish.

Tonight's menu:

Soup and croutons

Fish in breadcrumbs with a slice of lemon, boiled potatoes, roast potatoes, peas and sweetcorn, served with a side salad of lettuce, tomato, cucumber, onion, celery and mayonnaise

Fruit salad topped with ice cream, cream, decorated with a strawberry and a biscuit

Tuesday 13th July 1993 - Day 48

After another fruitless attempt to work the shower yesterday, I'm getting used to my morning ritual of half-closing the Venetian blinds in the bathroom to thwart any unlikely onlookers in the New Courthouse adjacent to the B+B or in the Police station 150 metres up the road, but allowing just enough light through to be able to see what I'm doing. It seems extravagant to actually switch the light on. I am not alone in my ablutions though, being accompanied by the cackling and quacking of a collection of ducks, hens and geese which live at the side of the house.

After breakfast, I returned to the bridge to see what lay on the other side. According to the map, I'd noticed that a track from there loops round to meet the Sollas road. It seemed a good way of getting closer to the moorland and lochs. Since my exploratory visit last night, two goats had been fenced in nearby. The bridge itself, with animal-proof gates at either end, wasn't as rickety as I'd expected. Standing halfway across, I could see sheep grazing on one of the tiny islands out in the harbour.

I walked up to the derelict house and saw canoes in the garage. Perhaps the outward bound people use it as a starting point for their expeditions. Old tyres and rusting metal were strewn in a dip overlooked by another house. From the shore I heard shouting and the noise of a machine. All I could see was smoke. Maybe this is where the fishermen land their catches. As I passed by, the track became a little more road-like and started to climb again. Pitted with potholes, it wound its way up and down, twisting across the moorland, seemingly forever. Of the Sollas road and the houses scattered along it there was no sign. Alone, I found myself walking onwards, around the next corner, over the next little hill, eager to see what lay beyond, following the track as you go through life, waiting to see what will happen next. This image has come to me before, but not as strongly as today. My daily excursions seem like a microcosm of my whole trip, this quest of mine which in turn mirrors my journey through life.

After a while I came to an abandoned bike and later glimpsed two boys fishing. The ever-present sheep eyed me nervously. One group ran ahead of me on the track as if I was driving them to market. I kept stopping in the hope that it would dawn on them to simply move to the side. Eventually, the track led back to the Sollas road. I sat and rested on a stone facing the patchwork of lochs.

Another peanut butter sandwich at the B+B and I was ready for my afternoon trip to Benbecula. The sky had cleared by now and the sun was shining. Children were learning to swim in the sea with pink floats and ropes. I waited down at the pier for the 2 o'clock bus which I think must have been sneakily hiding in the vehicle queuing section behind the ferry building when I arrived. Fortunately it came round to the front and a few backpackers went into the office, just as I was beginning to wonder if it would ever turn up. Having not seen it yesterday afternoon, I even thought it might no longer exist except on outdated timetables at the Tourist Office. I explained to the driver that I wanted to go to Balivanich and asked him how long I would have there before he came back from Lochboisdale. Reluctantly accepting my money as we waited for the backpackers' return, he said he'd pick me up at the Post Office around 5.10pm.

The front seats were occupied by a local lady and her daughter who chatted to the driver in Gaelic, whilst I sat towards the rear cushioning the camcorder in my rucksack on my knees and the campers spread themselves around the rest of the minibus. The smooth, wide road I walked along on Sunday afternoon soon gave way to potholes and passing places. Parallel to it, mechanical diggers were excavating the foundations of a new road. After eight or nine miles of bumping across the open moorland, we reached the junction at Clachan-a-Luib, marked by a shop and a few houses. Continuing south to Carinish, we were treated to a typical example of the islanders' inherent resourcefulness. An old coach had been filled with plants and turned into a permanent feature of someone's back garden. There in the sun, it was the perfect greenhouse. Next we crossed the narrow stone causeway which touches on the island of Grimsay and links North Uist to Benbecula.

It was around 2.45pm when the driver dropped me off at the Post Office, seeking assurance from me that I would definitely be there upon his return. Balivanich is the administrative centre of the islands. In terms of population and commerce, it is probably second only to Stornoway, the capital of the Western Isles. Its size is due to the presence of the Army base which supports the Royal Artillery rocket range.

I began by walking down to the airport to see what it was like. A couple of military training aircraft were just coming in to land. The terminal building was small, but busy with both civilian passengers waiting for their flights and Army personnel. As I made my way back to the main road, guards were patrolling inside the perimeter fence of the barracks next door. Their presence put paid to any thoughts of getting out the camcorder.

Keen to film something of Balivanich for the friends we stayed with here twenty years ago and who have now retired to Inverness, I went through the town in the hope of finding where they used to live. On the outskirts, MacDonald's bunker-type shop proclaimed its wares to cover DIY, electrical and household goods. Three shiny green wheelbarrows stood lined up outside. To the rear were half a dozen Highland cattle. Across the flat fields I could see a ridge of hills to the south, whilst back towards Lochmaddy was the distinctive shape of Mount Eaval. I returned into town, passing the school, NAAFI shop and petrol station to find a sign for the Western Isles Electronic Services (TV Satellite Video Audio). All I could see was a caravan parked off the road. I'm glad I didn't have to rely on them to fix my camcorder.

Opposite is the longest beach I've ever seen. I remember walking along it all those years ago when I was only seven or eight. Today, the golden sand was mottled with seaweed. Looking down from the roadside, the water appeared as intermingling patches of turquoise and aquamarine. The beach stretches for just over a mile, but as the western coast of North Uist arcs round in the distance, it seemed to carry on forever as one unbroken, yellow line on the horizon. Spread with a thin topping of fertile green, it lay sandwiched between sea and sky, both equally vivid in colour.

I watched a light aircraft taking off from the runway above the beach before clambering down the dunes. Given the weather, I was surprised how few people there were about. After sitting for a while, I began searching for pebbles. I found a smooth grey one for myself and a larger whale- or island-shaped stone to send to our friends as a souvenir. Together with yesterday's pure sunshine, it felt like the best day I've had in weeks.

I made my way back to the road and came to Tuzo Close. I recognised the semi-detached brick houses as being where I had stayed and filmed a general view. As I waited for the bus, I suddenly thought I'd take a shot of the signpost to the airport with the Army barracks in the background so that Ken could see what it was like now. It had crossed my mind earlier, but the guards' presence by the fence had deterred me. Standing by the local bank at a distance, little did I expect to have one of the soldiers march up to me and request I accompany him to the base entrance. I began to explain why I was filming, but he insisted I told my story to his colleague in the guardroom. Knowing that the bus was due back any minute to pick me up, I rushed through my explanation about an old friend who was stationed there as a Captain and would never be able to return to see any of it again due to ill-health. I offered to erase what I had just filmed (hoping that he wouldn't take me up on it, as it would be a bit time-consuming), but he accepted my explanation saying that if he hadn't made sure of my motives then he wouldn't have been doing his duty. Thankful that I hadn't been arrested by the military police (how would I have explained that to Mrs. Johnson?), I realised that to them I suppose I could have been a terrorist. After all, few tourists would have any reason to want to take pictures around there. Not having been anywhere security-conscious with the camcorder before, I hadn't really thought about it like that.

The ride back on the bus was just as bumpy as before. I wonder how I will fare on Thursday when I have to go all the way down to Lochboisdale. By the time we reached Lochmaddy at 6pm, I was the only one left on the bus. I asked the driver to drop me at the junction leading to the Old Courthouse. "What do you think of the islands?", he asked and I explained how I'd been here twenty years ago. Not wanting to seem a complete outsider, I told him of my Harris ancestry and said I would see him again on Thursday when I start my journey to Barra.

At dinner, I finally managed to say something to Mrs. Johnson about her culinary expertise and just for a second she stopped with a strange mixture of surprise, amusement and modest embarrassment as if no-one had ever told her before what a good cook she is.

Tonight's menu:

Corn on the cob

Wholemeal quiche containing tomato, onion, leeks and celery with boiled potatoes, green beans and broccoli

Crème caramel with cream, kiwi fruit and peach

Wednesday 14th July 1993 - Day 49

It was a dull day and I didn't feel like going anywhere on the bus. Instead, I had another saunter around the town. First I went to the Tourist Office to double-check the times of the bus and ferry I'll be taking to get me to Barra on Friday. It's just as well I did since the ferry times change with the tide and I'd scribbled down the wrong day. Now I realise that I'll have to wait four hours rather than walk straight on as I'd previously thought, there being only one early-morning bus to the harbour.

When the Skye ferry was due in, the craft shop opened and I went to investigate. There are two rooms, one full of garments and one containing books, postcards and souvenirs. A couple of old ladies were in there telling the owner how pleased they were with what they'd bought the last time they came. There were some pretty hand-made cards in a box, but most had already gone. I just bought some postcards instead, giving her a couple of grubby Scottish pound notes, so I could keep some change for the telephone. It all still seems like foreign money to me anyway after being used to French francs for so long. Incidentally, today being Bastille Day, I noticed that someone had raised the Tricolour on a flagpole behind the Police station. Over recent days, it has flown the St. Andrew's cross and a flag which I didn't recognise, but was perhaps celebrating another country's national day.

With my stones and videotape finally parcelled up in padded envelopes from Weehavitt, I ventured over to the Post Office only to find it closed on Wednesday afternoons. For want of something better to do on my last day here, I thought I'd just have another walk out of town a little way and then come back early to finish off some letters. As I passed the school, a car pulled up beside me. In it was Mrs. Johnson with one of her cronies. It was the first time I've ever seen her outside the B+B. Realising that I must be running out of possibilities by now, she kindly offered to drop me somewhere out of town to enable me to walk back. I wasn't really prepared for a long excursion, so thanked her and mumbled something about not wanting to get caught out by the weather.

I returned later in the afternoon to find two Portaloos standing on a trailer in front of the New Courthouse. I can only assume that they are for the North Uist Highland Gathering which takes place on Friday when I go over to Barra. The day I come back from Barra, the South Uist Highland Gathering is due to be held, so I might see them again on my travels.

With the limited selection of produce to be found on the island, I never cease to be impressed with the inventive meals Mrs. Johnson places before me. Today she surpassed herself, bringing plate upon plate for the main course. I thought she would never stop.

Tonight's menu:

Vegetable soup

Macaroni cheese with pieces of boiled egg, mushrooms, broccoli and tomato served with a side salad of lettuce, tomato, cucumber and spring onion, together with a bowl of Waldorf salad plus a plate of hot garlic bread

Redcurrant and raspberry pastry with cream

As I was having my now customary lie-down after dinner, I heard someone playing the bagpipes nearby. There was nothing to be seen from any of the upstairs windows and yet it sounded very close. I decided to record a bit with the camcorder, by filming out of my window and hoping the microphone would pick it up.

The music had stopped by the time I went out to the telephone box to ring the people on Barra and confirm that they can still collect me from the ferry on Friday morning. At first there was no reply, but the second time I got through and told them I would be arriving around 1.15pm. The lady said she would be in a white Savana with a personalised numberplate.

Thursday 15th July 1993 - Day 50

I paid Mrs. Johnson and suggested I leave my £10 deposit with her until I return on July 26th, so I can give her the balance in cash then and save myself another cheque. She seemed reluctant, but relented since I'd already written out the cheque. I asked her about last night's music only to find that the phantom piper was in fact her husband practising in the garden. So much for my theory about the lodger. Having warmed to her over the last few days, I'm glad I had chance to chat with her a little before leaving.

I managed to get my various packages sent off at the Post Office and had a last walk around the town. It was a dull morning and I returned to the B+B around 11.30am to eat my sandwich in the lounge and listen to the radio. When it was time to leave, rain was falling quite heavily. I walked over to the Post Office and waited for the 2 o'clock bus. The shop was closed for lunch, so I couldn't even shelter in the doorway. Fortunately, the bus driver saw me on his way down to the pier and picked me up to save me getting any wetter. I showed him the address of my accommodation and asked if he could drop me anywhere near it. He seemed to think he knew where it was which reassured me. As we waited by the ferry office, the rain gradually stopped. A Dutch girl climbed on and asked how much it was for the round trip. He had to look it up on his fare sheet, but it wasn't listed as no-one usually went all the way to Lochboisdale and back again. He found it hard to grasp why anyone would want to, but she explained that as she had only limited time on the islands, it seemed the best way to see as much as possible.

We left at five minutes past two (just in case anyone was late) and repeated Tuesday's bumpy journey down to Balivanich. We stopped for a quarter of an hour at the airport where the driver went in for a cup of tea. More military jets came in to land. At 3pm we set off again across Benbecula and over the causeway to South Uist. Two young girls got off when we reached a track signposted Loch Aineort and struggled to lift their backpacks into position before heading into the wilderness.

A few miles further on, we pulled into a roadside store at the request of two ladies who got on at the airport and needed to buy a tin of paint. Having finally extricated ourselves from the muddy car park, we soon reached Daliburgh where they nipped into the Co-Op, splitting their shopping list between them to rush round at record pace. As we resumed the journey to Lochboisdale, the rain began to pour down.

The driver dropped me at the turn-off to Lasgair. A dozen or so houses were spread out along a road which seemed to run for about half a mile. I needed to find Brae Lea. The first house bore no name, but the front door was open and I could see a man inside with a barking dog. Given the stormy conditions, there was nothing for it but to ask him which was Mrs. Murray's place. I shouted over the fence as he came to the doorway. "The one with the washing outside", he replied. Inevitably, it was at the far end of the road. After battling along against the wind and rain, I eventually reached a modern bungalow with no name. I knocked on the porch door, went in, knocked again on the inner door and was greeted by nothing but silence. A quick look at the number on the telephone in the hall confirmed that I was in the right place.

Another door led off a large blue lounge-cum-dining room. I was about to knock when it opened and out came Mrs. Murray. As I stood trying my best not to drip on the carpet, she appeared wearing a striped rugby shirt and shorts made out of an old pair of jeans. "Miss Winters" she said straight away, seemingly more surprised by the fact that I'd actually turned up than by my uninvited presence in her lounge. Showing me to my room, she warned me that she had foreign guests arriving on the late ferry and hoped they would settle down quietly and quickly. It is a twin-bedded room with a washbasin. My window looks out on the back garden, grazed by a few of the local sheep. To the side, I can just see the main road into Lochboisdale. There appear to be four guest rooms in all with a shower room and bathroom. I sat for a while, trying to get warm and dry, wondering what on earth I was doing here. At least things have gone according to plan so far, this being one of the trickiest sections of my trip. I just hope that the rain stops for the journey to Barra.

Before dinner, I went to watch the TV news in the newly-decorated lounge. A huge window faces south to where the sea must be. In the general greyness, it was hard to tell what the view was exactly. To the left, there seem to be hills. Several family photographs are displayed. Perhaps the children are nephews and nieces as there has been no sign of any actually living here since I arrived.

Dinner began with soup, which was followed by smoked haddock in cheese sauce with a baked potato, sweetcorn and peas, plus a side salad of crunchy lettuce, tomato, coleslaw and red and green peppers. Later she came in and asked me if I wanted something or other for dessert. Having no idea what she actually said in her softly spoken tones and not believing I could eat another morsel of anything, despite my training with Mrs. Johnson, I declined. She seems very friendly and is much younger than anyone running the other B+Bs I've stayed at.

Later I explained that I would have to leave early tomorrow for the 7.55am bus to Ludag and she shouldn't worry about getting me any breakfast at that time of day. She maintained that she would have to be up to cook something for her brother anyway. There are alsorts of cereal packets on the breakfast bar, so she said I could help myself. When I told her I would have to wait four hours for the ferry, she suggested I'd be better going later and hitching a lift. She wasn't even sure that the bus ran during the school holidays and rang to check that it did. Having managed to convince her that I'd prefer to be sure of getting there and go on the bus, I asked if I could leave some of my things with her. Given that I'll only be spending five days on Barra before coming back, it seems pointless carrying everything with me. Knowing that I should return on Wednesday, she was reluctant to take my money for tonight, saying I could pay it all next week. I got my own way in the end though.

..... Go to the next chapter ......

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May 1998