BARRA - Beaches galore

Friday 16th July 1993 - Day 51

It seemed to be still raining when I woke up this morning. The first thing I did was look out of the window: the washing had been on the line all night. Mrs. Murray knocked on my door to make sure I was up. When I told her yesterday that I was going to stay with the Couzens, she said that her brother brings provisions over from the mainland for them. After a couple of Weetabix from the breakfast bar, I set off with a lightened holdall, leaving some of my clothes behind in a plastic bag. It was no longer raining, but the weather was dull and damp. I went to wait for the bus at the end of the road. The driver saw me as he was heading down to the pier and kindly stopped to pick me up rather than leave me standing there for ten minutes until he came back. This gave me the opportunity of seeing what Lochboisdale will have to offer when I return for my five-day stay next week. Like Lochmaddy, the hotel is next to the ferry terminal, but apart from that, there seemed little of any immediate interest.

Three locals got on and we left the customary five minutes late. It was a proper coach and, from what I gathered, usually takes the children to school in term-time. At Daliburgh, three miles up the road, one of the men got off and we turned south. I was surprised at the number of houses strung out along the side roads running west across the flat terrain. The driver deposited the other two men and we soon reached Ludag. Sitting on the south coast of the island overlooked by hills, it seemed a pretty grim location for a four-hour wait, particularly at 8.20 in the morning. Apart from some empty cars and lobster pots, the only sign of life was limited to a few houses leading up into the hills.

I lingered on the warm bus, chatting to the driver and hoping he would stay as long as possible. Given that this is supposed to be the height of summer, I wondered where all the other tourists were. He was more surprised at how late the ferry would be and thought there might be an earlier one. When I told him I would be staying in Compton MacKenzie's old house, he pointed to the spot where the S.S. Politician sank off Eriskay with its cargo of whisky. Eager to double-check my return journey, I quizzed him about the time of the afternoon bus to Lochboisdale. He confirmed that when I come back on the ferry next week, I'll have about two hours to wait.

According to the timetable, he didn't leave until about 9 o'clock, but after a while he said he had to go for his breakfast and drove off. I had been reassured by the "Public convenience" symbol marked on the map, thinking that it might be the only place to shelter, like Calgary Bay on Mull. As it transpired, there was a seven by nine foot waiting room with a wooden bench, a payphone and a copy of the Highlands and Islands telephone directory as reading matter.

I checked the timetable pinned up outside, before settling down for a long wait. The bus came back to start its return journey to Lochboisdale. Later, several cars came and went. At one stage, a family arrived and came in to ring the ferryman. There was no reply, so hoping he might be on his way, they waited a while, then disappeared. I think they must have been expecting an earlier boat. During the course of the morning, two boats landed, one from the island of Eriskay opposite and the other a fishing boat. Both soon put out to sea again. Watching the water level around the jetty, I could understand why the ferry times are governed by the tide.

Every so often, I went out to stretch my legs. A single-track road led off into the hills behind the shelter. Had conditions been better, I could have gone for a walk. In such dull, damp weather with the occasional spell of light rain, the idea wasn't particularly appealing. The clouds were so low, it was hard to tell where the sea ended and the sky began. I sat looking out into the featureless grey distance. As the hours ticked past, I wondered if the boat would actually come. There seemed no reason to believe that anything would ever happen. Perhaps there was nothing out there but an immense void. My imagination was pushed into free-fall fantasy by the monotony of the situation. I felt as though I was sitting at the very edge of the world. No movement, no sign of life, no past or future. Just the swell of the sea endlessly rising and falling. I half-expected some giant hand to slash the colourless curtain and reveal an exotic universe hiding behind perceived reality. Had I stumbled across the waiting room at the end of the cosmos?

To see if there was anyone else left on the planet, I hooked up my walkman, only to find that radio reception was very poor. Through the static, the first words I heard were from a woman saying how Barra had been the worst part of her trip. I tried to tune-in to the station better and discovered it was a Radio Scotland programme about the sailing ship Malcolm Miller which I saw two weeks ago in Kyle of Lochalsh. The woman went on to explain how she'd been chosen for the 4 to 6am watch and had to move the boat to enable the early morning ferry to dock in Castlebay. Sleep deprivation had tarnished her impression of the island. I kept my eyes fixed on the sea, waiting for the boat that was to take me over there.

Around midday, another car drew up, driven by a couple in their fifties. The lady came in to use the 'phone. By this time, I was too cold to make a polite exit to let her make the call in private. She seemed to be ringing relations on Eriskay who asked her to bring a roll of carpet that someone had placed in the store next door. She sent her husband off to look for it and decided that they could manage it between them if the ferryman gave them a hand when the boat arrived. I began to eat part of my sandwich, thinking that it might be best not to devour it all before I sailed.

Later, the family I'd seen earlier returned and sat in their car. A boat was coming over from Eriskay. The other couple went down to meet it and I expected to see a procession of helpers for the famous carpet. The family made their way onboard and seeing no sign of action, I made a last-minute dash for the jetty. The man explained to me that they would be taking it on the one o'clock car ferry instead, as this boat was not stopping at Eriskay today.

After almost losing my balance on the slippery concrete jetty, I managed to clamber onboard with a little help from one of the crew. We set off as soon as I was on, the captain radioing the Stornoway coastguard to inform them that the boat was heading for Barra carrying eight people. I didn't know whether to feel reassured or not. Apart from the skipper and his mate, the family of four and myself, there was an old man who stood chatting to the crew in a mixture of English and Gaelic. He must have come over with them from Eriskay. Seats lined two sides of the cabin which was designed to take about a dozen or so people. A seaworthiness certificate proclaimed total passenger capacity to be thirty. We all stayed under cover and watched the captain manoeuvre his way through the waters he obviously knew so well. The family appeared to be visiting relatives, although they didn't sound particularly Scottish. The children went out for a while, but soon came back when they realised how cold it was. The wind was fairly light, but the tiny boat still rocked about in the open sea. We went past several small islands, although through the drizzle it was hard to tell where we were exactly and I was disappointed not to see much of Eriskay, having been so close to it all that time at Ludag.

We reached Eoligarry after 45 minutes, a little later than scheduled, not having left on time. I paid the skipper once we were alongside the jetty. The family must have handed over their fares at Ludag as they just disappeared when we landed. Masses of people were queuing up to get on with tons of luggage and I almost had to fight my way off. I hoped Mrs. Couzens wouldn't think I'd missed the boat and drive home without me. There was only one white car, which from a distance, looked empty. As I approached, a welcoming Mrs. Couzens emerged and helped put my bags in the boot. I wondered if I should ask her about the state of the roads, given past experience with the camcorder, but thought it might sound odd without going into a lengthy explanation. I decided to trust to fate and soon discovered that I was right to be worried. Chatting, we whizzed along an uneven single-track road for a couple of miles to reach the house. Having concentrated more on the conversation than where we were going, I realised I had no idea of the route we had taken. Grass and sand were all I could recall.

Suidheachan was built for Compton MacKenzie in 1935 and bought by the Couzens in 1976. It is a huge white bungalow overlooking Cockle Strand, the beach which serves as the island's airstrip. Mr. Couzens, white-haired and bespectacled, carried my luggage from the car and we all went inside. I felt rather clumsy traipsing through someone's home in my walking shoes. His wife showed me around the house before leaving me to settle into my room, having explained that she had to go and meet a friend arriving on the plane from Glasgow. I soon found that the friend in question, a New Zealander called Glenys, had moved into the room next to mine.

Most of the rooms lead off a sixty-foot long corridor featuring framed maps, newspaper cuttings and old postcards of Barra. At one end, chairs and lamps look set for after-dinner conversation, then a mini-conservatory brims over with colourful plants. Next to this is the lounge where there are dozens of old novels and a television set. To the side, Mrs. Couzens showed me a little kitchen complete with fridge and oven where you can make your own snacks. She told me to help myself to the biscuits when I mentioned that I didn't drink tea or coffee. She's seems a jovial, down-to-earth sort with a good sense of humour.

At the other end of the corridor, shelves display a collection of pebbles, shells, books and videos about the islands and their wildlife. Above sits an old road sign indicating "Eoligarry Jetty 3½ miles". Adjacent to this, is the dining room which is used by the Couzens as a sitting room when the guests have eaten. As well as another television, there is also a bookcase containing the whole of Compton MacKenzie's works, some 110 books. On top stands a whisky bottle and an ancient hand-written card certifying that it came from the wreck of the S.S. Politician.

My room overlooks the grass at the back of the house and is situated half-way down the corridor (there's a bathroom at both ends). It has a double bed with quilt and blankets, plus a built-in washbasin. Ornaments and flowers decorate the dressing table. If I need anything, but can see no-one about, I am to ring the handbell in the corridor. Apparently its sound carries through the house better than attempts at shouting.

After finishing the remains of my peanut butter sandwiches and checking that the camcorder still worked, I went out around 2.30pm. In order to get some idea of where I was, I decided to walk back along the road we had taken from the jetty. After three or four hundred metres, I came to the airport terminal. The weather was still grey and damp, so I went inside for a look around. It is a small one-storey building housing toilets, a payphone and a tearoom which is open from 10am to 3pm. I bought two postcards and a couple of fruit bars, the likes of which I've not seen since the health food shop in Oban. The airline Loganair is represented by a check-in counter and an old pair of scales.

The road continued on flatly across the sandy pasture or machair. Along the way I passed carcasses in various states of decay. Some were rabbits, some were birds, but the odd one remained unidentifiable. The road turned at what looked like a school and then started to climb. It began to drizzle, but I plodded onwards and picked up a souvenir stone when I stopped for a breather. From the top of the hill, I could see that it wasn't far to the jetty where I had landed earlier. At this point, the road forked either side of a scattering of houses. Rather than walk back to the jetty, I went left and found myself at the foot of Cille Bharra cemetery situated a little way up the hillside. Two twelfth-century chapels stand in the middle, one lays in ruins, whilst the other has been restored to house carved stones. A car suddenly arrived and four people went prowling around the graves. They soon found Compton MacKenzie's resting place, which saved me the trouble of looking for it myself. They left shortly afterwards. I think they had expected something a little more grandiose. Within minutes, a coachload of Germans had turned up. I'd seen them parked at the airport earlier, some trekking into the sand dunes, others just wandering about.

It was beginning to brighten up a little as I retraced my steps. On nearing the airport, I saw the path the Germans had followed and decided to investigate what the attraction was. Thoughtfully provided upturned plastic crates formed a stile for the wire fence. I climbed over, crossed the grass and entered the dunes. Like desert sculptures, some towered above me as high as houses. I made my way through the sand and came to an empty beach roaring with Atlantic breakers. The sea looked green and uninticing. Impressed by the mile-long stretch of sand, I resolved to save exploration for another day when the weather will perhaps make it appear more hospitable. The map gives its Gaelic name as Tràigh Eais.

I returned to the house around 5pm and sat surrounded by greenery in the sun-trap at the end of the corridor. The view looks out over Cockle Strand and the rugged hills at the side of the house. As blue sky overtook the grey clouds, the tide came in and the sun came out. I wonder if this will be the only good weather I'll see here.

The dinner table was set just for Glenys and myself, there being no other guests. I am pleased to announce that I have discovered another member of the Small Stomach Club. Having been presented with huge receptacles, we both struggled with the soup and decided to abandon it to allow us a fighting chance of finishing the main course. Following Glenys's brave attempt to devour her meat, I managed to win round three by successfully eating all the dessert. When Mrs. Couzens realised our difficulties, we said we would be happy to skip the starter in future. She proposed to compensate by providing bread and cheese for our lunches which is very kind of her.

On tonight's menu:

Vegetable soup

Mushroom omelette with cauliflower in cheese sauce, green beans and potatoes

Gooseberry pie and cream

From what I gather, Glenys first visited Barra a few years ago and has also stayed with the Couzens in their house in Cumbria. When she came here before, she received Highland dancing lessons lasting all day from an old gentleman in Castlebay with whom she had corresponded after seeing him on a television programme in New Zealand in 1986. She is currently on a two-month trip around the UK and has other friends to visit in mainland Scotland, Leicester and London.

As the light began to fade, I was reminded of my stay on Islay: lovely house, beautiful view and friendly people. Well worth waiting for four hours at the edge of the world!

Saturday 17th July 1993 - Day 52

Rain and wind lashing against the window this morning. Breakfast at 9am: toast and marmalade, honey and oatmeal biscuits, jug of orange juice on the table (no one-mouthful glasses here). Glenys had scrambled eggs, so she beat me in the opening round of today's eating competition. Mrs. Couzens informed us that she would be going shopping to Castlebay this afternoon and kindly offered us both a lift.

Due to the weather, we spent the morning reading, writing and chatting in the lounge. I notice that they have the videos of Whisky Galore and Rockets Galore, plus a few others on Scotland, which might prove handy if we have to spend a lot of time indoors. I also found an interesting book showing old postcards of the Hebrides, including pictures of Lochmaddy, Tarbert, the Harris Hotel and Amhuinnsuidhe Castle where my grandmother once worked.

It stopped raining around noon and we raided the little kitchen to prepare our lunch. Mrs. Couzens had left us some bread rolls, butter, cheese and tins of tuna. She'd even put some orange juice in the fridge for me. We sat scoffing away and watching the sky clear. It was rather like some sort of illicit feast except it was midday not midnight.

Before leaving, we watched the plane arrive. It just seemed to drop down at the last minute to land on the beach and then taxied over to the airport building. A red and white 19-seater, it was full of passengers from Glasgow, who were handed down their luggage and had to carry it across the sand.

Glenys and I sat in the back, while Harold drove and Brenda gave us a running commentary. With the Couzens being old enough to be our parents, it was almost as though we could have been on a family outing. After a couple of miles, we joined the main road which loops twelve miles around the island. Taking us on the anti-clockwise route, Harold was keen to slow down and show us Queen Victoria's Rock, so called because of its resemblance to the monarch's distinctive profile when viewed at the correct angle. It overlooks a reservoir which is the principal source of water for the island. Further up was a rock quarry, then we returned to the coast and saw huge deep blue Atlantic waves crashing onto more sandy beaches. We passed the Isle of Barra hotel: a black and white eyesore which somehow won a design award when it was built in the 1970s as part of a project of the Highlands and Islands Development Board. It looked as impersonal as a rabbit warren. We drove past a church and a local perfume shop before arriving in the main town.

Brenda went off to do her shopping in the huge Co-op, giving us time for a quick look around. Castlebay began as a nineteenth-century fishing port and has probably grown little over the years. I noticed a couple of hotels, two churches (this is Catholic country) and a new ro-ro ferry terminal. The main street features the post office, bank and a Spar shop where the newspapers had just been delivered from the plane. On the other side is a new set of petrol pumps including one with unleaded petrol, making its first appearance on Barra. Behind are a community shop and the tourist information centre where I bought a couple of postcards. Further down was a busy café with people actually sitting around tables outside and eating ice cream. This must surely be unique in the islands. I found that half the inside was a craft gallery with clothes and Gaelic music tapes in the corner. Opposite, on a rocky islet in the bay sits Kisimul Castle, stronghold of the MacNeils since the twelfth century. Some of the German tourists I saw yesterday were being ferried across in groups of six in a tiny craft, no larger than a rowing boat. Recently restored for visitors, it is only open three afternoons a week. Asking me if I wanted to go over, Brenda told me that there is little inside. The grey exterior certainly looked inhospitable.

After finding the lines dead in the two 'phone boxes at the top of the street, I returned to the car and we headed back to Northbay the other way to complete the circuit. Brenda told us about the annual hill race up Ben Heaval (384 metres) which overlooks Castlebay. The record to run to the top and back stands at twenty-four minutes. We were just able to glimpse "Our Lady of the Sea", a white marble statue of the Madonna and Child on the side of the hill. On the way back, the eastern side of the island looked much more rugged than the sandy west. Along the road to Northbay, Harold pointed out a radio tower and also a disused fishmeal factory which was only built a few years ago, but had to be sold when things didn't work out.

By the time we reached the house, it had become a gloriously sunny afternoon. Having seen a bright red telephone box by a cluster of dwellings about a mile away, I decided to walk back along the road and ring home. I stopped to film the vast expanse of sand that forms Cockle Strand, only to have the camcorder battery run out. I returned to the house for the spare and began filming again from the same spot on top of some rocks, just in case I never get another opportunity to do so in good weather. Out to sea, I could see Fuday, Eriskay and in the distance South Uist with its scattering of houses around Ludag. It seems hard to believe that only yesterday I spent four grey hours there waiting for the boat. Standing on a slab of black rock, looking at the quasi-tropical intensity of the colours, I knew that I didn't want to be anywhere else in the world.

The tide was coming in, forming rivulets in channels in the sand. Transparent green at its shallowest point, the sea stretched out and darkened to a deeper blue on the horizon. I pressed on past a mobile home and two red-roofed houses sitting around their own little sandy cove. Further along, a caravan was tied down with ropes to prevent the wind blowing it back across to the mainland. My boots sank into the melting tarmac. I made a long 'phone call and realised I ought to return to get ready for dinner. On the way back I recognised my own footprints on the road and wondered how long they will last.

I left my boots inside the front door, having realised that sand gets everywhere. I tip-toed past the kitchen in my stocking feet to find Brenda about to serve up dinner. Commenting on how well house-trained I am, she said she was convinced that I had long since returned and was quietly sitting in my room. Even though it was only about ten to seven, she thought she would start dishing up. I asked if she had rung the bell in the main corridor to get us salivating in Pavlovian anticipation. After a quick freshen-up, I was ready to continue today's eating competition with Glenys.

On tonight's menu:

Mushroom and broccoli quiche with a cheese gratin top, potatoes, broad beans and onions in white sauce

Raspberry flan and cream

We both declined the offer of cheese and biscuits "after", unless as I said "after" meant tomorrow. Brenda went on to ask if we'd be interested in a trip to Mingulay, one of the islands south of Barra. If the good weather holds, she thinks there might be a boat going for the day. After warning us that there was another couple staying tonight, she explained the arrival of a lady in her caravan on the stretch of grass in front of Cockle Strand. Apparently she is a nurse who comes several times a year to recharge her batteries.

Having recovered from dinner, I was lured outside by the evening sunshine. It's almost as though I view every hour of sun as being potentially my last on the trip. I walked down to the airport and gazed at Cockle Strand, curved and perfectly flat like a golden ice rink. Meeting a few people returning to their cars, I headed into the dunes and followed the roar of the waves. The eastern slopes of the dunes concealed shadows; the western faces were warmly lit by the setting sun. Tall grass blew in the breeze off the Atlantic. A well-trodden trough in the sandy valley brought me to the beach. The sun was directly opposite, poised to dip below the water in its endlessly repeated ceremony. There was no visible sign of the twentieth century, only an air of some eternal truth. The hills to the side transported me back thousands of years. I half-expected to see a white-robed druid procession materialise out of the rocks, as if I had stumbled on some ancient rite.

I went down onto the beach and crossed the seaweed line to walk on virgin sand cleansed by the tide. The place was deserted, but for me and my elongated shadow. My feet sank into the still moist sand, leaving depressions which were gradually transformed into shapeless blotches. I stood watching waves crash against the rocks jutting out into the ocean at either end of the beach. Lost in time and caught up in the spell of complete serenity, I found myself humming without realising. The sky was almost cloudless: orange at the rim graduating upwards through darkening shades of blue. This was like being on the edge of the world too, but so different from the waiting room in Ludag.

I could have stayed for hours, watching the sun disappear and the stars emerge, but I wasn't sure when the Couzens locked up the house (if indeed they do). Certain that I would return one day to see the whole show, I made my way out of the dunes just before 10pm. By Cockle Strand, I stared upwards into the sky, like a child enthralled by the night's performance for the very first time. One hundred and eighty degrees of pure blue.

Sunday 18th July 1993 - Day 53

No cosy breakfast this morning. After we'd got used to there being just the two of us staying in the house, the middle-aged couple was there to share our table. According to Brenda, they came back very late last night, so I could have stayed out to watch the sun set after all. The lady asked if she could try on my walking boots, having seen them in the porch. I warned her that they would probably be full of sand.

It was a gloriously sunny day from start to finish. I left around 10am, aiming to walk the three miles to the northern tip of the peninsula. Unable to resist a look at Tràigh Eais, I retraced my steps through the dunes and shot the scene from the same spot as I did last night. Returning to the road, I soon stopped again to film the cows grazing in the dunes. On climbing to the top of the hill overlooking Eoligarry jetty, I found that the tide had drawn back to reveal yet more golden sand. It seemed to follow the coast curving round from Cockle Strand. The water glistened like silver in the sunlight. To the north, the view over to South Uist and Eriskay was clear. The islands had taken on an almost purple hue.

One of the herd of cattle on Ben Eoligarry ran along the fence noisily warning me to keep my distance. Rather than follow the road to Cille Bharra cemetery, as I had done the other day, I decided to go down to the jetty. Sand stretched on either side. A couple of old ladies sat drinking from a thermos flask, whilst a man repaired his boat with children and dog in tow. I surveyed the scene from what appeared to be the old pier. Across the valley on the hillside behind me lay the cemetery. The network of narrow lanes formed a figure of eight, so I thought I would return that way to pay it another visit later.

I headed on through the scattered houses, passed by the occasional car and plagued by a swarm of huge flies. I wanted to stop to take off my jacket and have a drink of water, but just had to keep moving until the road began to climb and the breeze sent them buzzing back into their tall grass dens. Suddenly they were gone as though I had imagined it all.

The road brought me to a rocky beach where several cars were parked. A woman was locking hers as I arrived and began to climb the hill. I had intended to carry on another half mile to Ben Scurrival at the very tip of the island, but could see fences and possibly more cattle. It would soon be lunch time and I didn't want to trek over there only to find nowhere to sit. Instead I opted to follow the woman as she seemed to know where she was going, although I soon lost sight of her. The last section looked a little steep, so I stashed my rucksack and just took the camcorder with me. She sat at the top in the remains of a dun or ruined fort about fifteen metres across, poised to photograph the view as I popped my head up. Apologising, I went over to the other side to keep out of her way. An excited red setter leapt in front of me and I discovered two other women were already up there with a posse of dogs, both small and large. They soon disappeared downwards, I know not where for I wasn't too keen on looking over the edge. Before I had chance to speak to the woman, a couple had materialised from nowhere and engaged her in conversation. I was sure I hadn't been followed, so they must have taken another route to suddenly appear like that. Having not spoken to a soul all morning, I felt as though I had reached Barra's equivalent of Piccadilly Circus.

With the yapping dogs gone, I set about filming the view. From the rocky beach down below, along the deep blue Atlantic horizon and round to Tràigh Eais, the panorama then continued across the peninsula, over part of Cockle Strand and out to the islands opposite, coming full circle at the beach by Eoligarry and the rounded hump of Ben Scurrival. Not only could I make out houses dotted around Ludag on South Uist, to the east I saw what must have been the outline of Rum in the distance, some sixteen miles away. Balancing on the scattered stones, I counted six beaches in a 360-degree spin. Three colours dominated the scene: blue, green and yellow in a multitude of paintbox shades.

I went down to rescue my bag from the surrounding deposits of sheep droppings and saw more people approaching. Searching for some shade in the rocky overhangs of the southern side of the hill, I came to a spot overlooking the length of my favourite beach. I ate my sandwich and watched a few people playing in the sea. Further out, two canoeists paddled parallel to the shore. Following a well-worn sheep trail, I climbed up the next hill and scrambled over some slabs of sloping rock. I could hear what sounded like a plane, but until then had thought there would be no Sunday service. Suddenly it was directly above me flying westwards. It headed out to sea, turned around to come back over the beach and the house, then dipped out of sight presumably onto Cockle Strand. No massive explosion followed, so it must have put down safely. I remembered Brenda telling me how they circle and check the windsock to make sure of landing into a headwind. I assumed that it would take off in the same manner, which meant there would be no point waiting to try and capture its departure on film, as the hill blocked my view.

Seeing a gap in the fence and realising how close I was to Tràigh Eais, I attempted to reach the beach. After picking my way through the rocks, knowing that it would be hard to find my way back again if I failed, I finally managed to clamber down onto the white sand. The beach stretched in front of me for over a mile. I zigzagged up and down the shoreline following the firmest sand and avoiding the bathers I had spotted from my perch. Coming across a white pebble which looked like an egg, I tried to get a matching black one, but had to make do with one half the size.

Several families were playing near the coloured crates used to mark the way back into the dunes. I rejoined the road to find that the tide was out and promptly set off to the rocks where my camcorder battery had given up yesterday. I wanted a shot to show the vast expanse of Cockle Strand while it was free from the sea. In the distance, I thought I had spotted another island, but on seeing that it was moving, realised it must have been a huge oil tanker. Further out I could see the hump-back whale shape of Canna, fifteen miles to the east.

By this time I was down to my last drop of water from the litre I had taken with me and so headed back to the house. As I returned, one of the local fishermen was bringing some fresh salmon for dinner. Brenda asked me if I'd seen the mini parked outside earlier, explaining that it belonged to a lady who is staying at the Isle of Barra rabbit warren and has a long-standing reservation to spend her last night here. Quite why she didn't book herself in here for the whole week is a mystery. Apparently she was on Tràigh Eais this afternoon and lost some family heirlooms. Security conscious, she had not wanted to leave them in her house while she was on holiday, so she brought them with her. Then, not believing they would be safe in a locked car parked away from the road on the Couzens' driveway, she took them with her on the beach, placing them at the top of an open bag. Needless to say, when she returned to the car, she realised she was missing her jewellery. Unable to remember where she had been sitting, she could do little more than notify the police. Searching such an expanse of sand would be impossible. At least, as Brenda said, if anyone finds them, they're more than likely to hand them in. Had she gone to a crowded resort on the Costa del Sol, there would have been little hope.

Although it was barely 4pm, I was too tired to go back out again, the sun having taken its toll. Instead I sat writing in the lounge looking out over Cockle Strand. I waited to see if Brenda would ring the bell in anticipation of dinner, but the couple who stayed out late last night had returned earlier to take a nap.

Glenys and I sat in our customary places for dinner. I asked her yesterday if she wanted to swap seats, so she could look out of the window, but she wasn't bothered. The sun was so bright this evening that we had to draw the blind. I wonder if the rabbits sit and watch us as they chew their way through the grass outside, just as I stare out at them.

On tonight's menu:

Fresh salmon, peas, potatoes, asparagus and parsley sauce

Ice cream and meringues

After digesting the meal, I was drawn back to Tràigh Eais. Climbing over the fence behind the house, I sent the rabbits running for cover and followed Glenys's recommended cut-through to the beach. In a sudden realisation that this might be the only chance I'd have of venturing into the sea, I found some dry rocks at the side to leave my things on and went paddling. Stepping through the cool water, I felt as free as a child again. The sky was embossed with a solitary band of thin cloud just above the horizon where the sun was setting. A primeval glow lit the rugged hills, conjuring up a picture of timeless harmony. I thought of the cows I saw on the hilltops this morning. Silhouetted against the sky, like sentinels on duty, they stood impenetrably looking out to sea, watching and waiting.

Monday 19th July 1993 - Day 54

Scotch mist enveloped the island at six this morning according to the early birds in the house. It was only to be expected I suppose, as Brenda had gone around cleaning all the windows yesterday. I set off around 10.30am back in my waterproof trousers and both my coats again, ready for any deterioration in the weather. I walked the two miles to Northbay where the two road signs point both left and right to Castlebay, depending on which way you wish to travel around the loop. I headed for the reservoir we had passed in the car and found two cyclists sitting in the shelter of the dam wall overlooking the ruins of an old watermill.

A few hundred metres further on was Queen Victoria's Rock. Once I had stopped to get the camcorder out, two couples appeared within five minutes of each other to take photographs. The two cyclists peddled past, wobbling from side to side in an attempt to work out what we all found so fascinating. At the correct angle, her forehead, nose and mouth stand out perfectly, but move to one side and there's nothing but a jumble of grey rock.

I walked a little way up from there and found a convenient stone by the reservoir where I could eat my cheese rolls. On the opposite bank, there seemed to be a path. Through the low cloud I thought I saw blue sky for an instant, but nothing came of it. Having scouted around in vain for a suitable spot for biological relief (there being little cover anywhere on Barra I suspect), I decided to head back to the house.

A new bench has been provided halfway up the hill looking down on Northbay. From that angle, the statue of Saint Barr (holding his shepherd's crook aloft) which sits on a rock in the middle of the sea loch looks like a golfer who has just sliced a ball into the rough. Around the corner I passed in front of a wildly overgrown enclosure which Brenda had pointed out from the car. She told us that the chap has planted hundreds of varieties of trees all together and is planning to wait and see what takes. Some of the few wild trees on the island lie in a secluded gully not far from there.

As I came within sight of the airport, I saw that the Toytown fire engine was out of its shed, then the Post bus drove past and I knew the plane couldn't be far away. With the tide so far out, men were bent double collecting cockles on the beach a mile from the airport. A tour coach arrived and dozens of people clambered up on the car park fence to get a better view. I removed the camcorder from its protective layers of plastic bags and waited, listening for the tell-tale noise of the aircraft's impending arrival. With the wind blowing from the west, I knew it would have to come down right in front of me. Suddenly I heard the engines and the plane popped through the low cloud over my right shoulder, landing on the wet beach within seconds, then taxied down to the crowd at the terminal building.

The passengers swiftly disembarked and carried off their luggage. The fire engine beat a temporary retreat and the Post bus drove onto the sand to exchange sacks of mail. Unsure as to how long the turn-around would take, I decided to move closer. A man from the coach had strayed far out onto the beach, despite the warning sign and obvious dangers. The fire engine raced out to tell him to come back and slowly he wandered towards the car park. Finally, out came the pilot, copilot and stewardess, followed by a stream of waving passengers. Engine 1 started up, then Engine 2. The plane taxied out a little way, turned around and aimed straight for the terminal building. It was up in seconds, soon disappearing into the grey clouds on its hour long journey back to Glasgow.

As the fire engine was put away and the orange windsock brought down, I decided to go over to the airport. The Post bus had already started back to Castlebay and most of the cars had gone. Only the sightseers were left, filling the tearoom. I bought two pieces of flapjack and some more postcards, before availing myself of their lavatorial facilities.

Upon my arrival at the house, Brenda and Glenys were just going to Castlebay for some shopping and invited me along for the ride. This time, we went clockwise, so now I have seen Barra in both directions. Brenda pointed out many of the houses we passed and told us all about the occupants, divulging nicknames and anecdotes.

We just had a few minutes in Castlebay for Brenda to pick up a couple of things, then she took us over the new causeway to Vatersay. The approach road just south of Castlebay was hewn out of the cliffs and the rock was used to build the causeway. Brenda pointed out the remains of a fighter plane which crashed near the road during the Second World War. We also passed the monument to victims of the shipwreck which occurred in 1853 when the Annie Jane left Liverpool bound for Quebec with hundreds of emigrants. The ship was swept onto the rocky Vatersay coast and most of the passengers were drowned. Near there, on the eastern side of the island was Vatersay Bay, a golden beach set off by the shallow green sea. The weather had dried up a little by now, but the sun was still reluctant to put in an appearance.

We travelled three miles down the island's main road until we could go no further. The end of the road was truly that. The last few houses sat around what could easily have been mistaken for the council tip. Disused fishing nets were strewn over mangled pushchairs. An old cooker was surrounded by broken furniture. Three or four cars lay rusting to pieces. On almost every island, I have seen rusty wrecks where you would least expect to find them, but this was a real graveyard. Only since the building of the causeway has the island been added to the rounds of Barra's refuse collection lorry, which perhaps goes someway to explaining, if not excusing the state of the place.

Brenda showed us one of the cattle barges that the islanders bought just before the causeway was built. Prior to that, they used to swim the cows across which often incurred losses. Apparently though, the barge method isn't without danger either. One year when the Eoligarry farmers were taking cattle over to Fuday, they overloaded the barge and lost five cows when it capsized.

On the way back around Barra, we continued our clockwise circuit with Brenda rattling off more stories about the locals and foreigners who came, then moved away. We bumped into Ronnie and Annie in their van and stopped for a quick gossip. He's the chief fireman at the airport and she runs the tearoom. They are also the guardians of the veterinary supplies on Barra. There being no resident vet on the island, people usually contact the one on South Uist for a diagnosis over the 'phone and then collect the prescription from Ronnie and Annie.

We returned to find a Dutch car parked by the nurse's caravan. With canoes on the roof rack, I suspect it may be the people I saw yesterday in the sea. They had erected some strange apparatus comprising a huge plastic pouch mounted on a frame, giving the impression of an outsized hospital drip. We all speculated as to its purpose. I suggested it could be part of an illicit still.

For dinner, we were given a light starter in view of the presence of another guest: the dizzy woman who lost her jewels on the beach yesterday. Miraculously, they had been found and handed in. Absent-minded by her own admission, she related several tales of similar misfortune. One, however, turned out to have another happy ending. Whilst on a picnic on Exmoor, her mother had lost an old family brooch. After searching the moorland to no avail, they continued their holiday somewhat dismayed. Visiting the same spot the following year, the piece was discovered almost immediately, just as if it had been waiting for them. She showed us the brooch, having lost it yesterday and had it returned to her yet again: one item that she seems destined never to lose, despite her many other mishaps.

On tonight's menu:

Melon and orange

Salmon, prawns and smoked mackerel in a white sauce made with cream and wine, plus potatoes, sweetcorn, broccoli

Apple pie with a crumble-type top and cream

As we talked about the extent of my trip, she asked me if I had thought of living on the island. She seemed surprised to learn that it was a question I have asked myself on every island I've visited. I almost said that perhaps in order to like islands, you have to be one yourself. She started discussing the unimportance of possessions and I realised that I don't really need any more than what I carry with me in my two bags. I feel that I could go on for ever and ever, just moving on to a new place after six or seven days, continually travelling and exploring.

After all her trials and tribulations, she retired early, leaving Glenys and myself to settle down in front of the television. Brenda had already apologised to us that some of the prongs had blown off the aerial during the winter to the detriment of the picture quality. I asked if any had speared a rabbit. Glenys stayed up to watch Come Dancing: I wonder if they get that in New Zealand.

Tuesday 20th July 1993 - Day 55

The strange lady had surfaced for breakfast early this morning, as she seemed to be in a hurry to leave. Glenys and I lingered at the breakfast table watching the wind blow sheets of rain across the grass. Once she had gone, Glenys began to speculate as to what sort of job she could possibly do. Apparently she had told Brenda that she was a teacher. Having borrowed Brenda's hairbrush (after losing her own), she disappeared without returning it, doubtless mislaying it somewhere in the house.

Given the weather, outdoor activities were not an option for entertainment. Instead Glenys and I watched the video of Whisky Galore, recognising Tràigh Eais and the main street in Castlebay which were used for some of the filming. Later we made ourselves lunch in the kitchenette with the provisions Brenda had left us in the fridge.

The weather cleared up and Brenda offered us another trip around the island, as she was going out to fetch the groceries. First, she had to collect someone off the Glasgow plane, having received a telephone call from the airport asking if she had any vacancies. The man's camping equipment has been left in Sweden when he flew over with Air UK. The airline is hoping to locate it, so that Loganair can bring it out to him tomorrow. In the meantime, they will pay for his overnight accommodation. As we waited for the plane to arrive, the air ambulance flew in to pick someone up. The light aircraft is what the local ambulance driver has flatteringly dubbed "puke green" in colour. Finally, the scheduled flight landed and Brenda drove over to collect the unexpected guest. The young man maintained that he didn't want a lift and we had to wait ages for him to pack everything securely on his bike, then cycle over. Due to his general stature and pretentious manner, I immediately nicknamed him "King Olaf".

We drove over to Castlebay and dropped Glenys off to spend half an hour with her old dancing teacher. He's over eighty, partially deaf and adopts cats. A couple of years ago, his house caught fire and so he lives in a flat down the road now. We waited to make sure that she had got the right number and then went to park in the main street.

Brenda went off to do her shopping and I had another potter around. At the top of the street was a general store where a group of local boys were looking at birthday cards. The Community Co-op next to the Tourist Office displayed a few handmade souvenirs in the window, but stocked mainly down-to-earth goods for the farmers and fishermen. I met up with Brenda in the grocer's. She had not been able to find any milk in the town. Apparently there will be none until Thursday when supplies from the Oban ferry will be distributed. Her last stop was the Post Office to see if the mail from the plane had been sorted. You can collect it yourself if you get to it before the delivery van leaves. An elderly man was putting it into rows of pigeonholes which looked as old as him. The place probably hasn't changed for fifty years or more.

We went back to rescue Glenys from her old friend and his generous offers of whisky, then headed up the western side of the island. Brenda wanted to show us all the unclassified roads off the main loop. Four led inland and two led to the coast. Gaelic signs pointed to Allathasdal, Cleit and Grinn. The Highland Games are held on a flat parcel of land near Borve. Brenda also pointed out one of the many wheelie bins which I have seen on the islands (the ideal system to prevent litter from being blown everywhere). This particular one sits by the gate of a cemetery which is almost falling into the sea. The bin's Gaelic and English stickers read "No hot ashes". One of her previous guests was so amused, he had to stop and take a photograph.

Following the "road" to Craigston, we stopped when it became a dirt track winding up the hill out of sight. Brenda assured us that there is a museum up there in a thatched cottage, but we weren't going to risk damaging the car to see if it was open. We were hounded back down by a noisy dog which habitually runs along the road in front of visiting vehicles. Its persistent yapping is probably the only thing that saves it from being run over. It weaves about so much, you would otherwise be incapable of telling where it was. At Grean, there's a new nine-hole golf course with electrified fencing around the holes to keep the sheep away. Harold has a framed certificate in the house to prove that he's a founder member, but he's never had time to play on it yet.

By the time we returned, the washing which Brenda had kindly put in her machine for me was dry. I was grateful for her offer, since I had begun to ration my clean clothes. Fortunately, it was still all on the line, unlike one of Glenys's sweatshirts which blew off the other day and landed in such a place that the stains still haven't come out.

At dinner with King Olaf, I felt almost as though we had gathered at the captain's table on some surreal cruise. Looking out of the window, it would be easy to imagine that it wasn't the clouds that were moving, but us, adrift on a haunted ship with strange noises emanating from the galley. In an alternative bid to break the ice with the Scandinavian, I suggested that the view could also be seen as a computer screen where we could dispose of a maximum number of rabbits, given a couple of joysticks and a suitable software package. Only one seemed to hop at any given time, as if they were all pieces in some elaborate board game, controlled from above.

On tonight's menu:

Vegetable pie with potatoes, beans, mashed carrots and swede

Blackcurrant cheesecake

I disappeared to pack my belongings, leaving Glenys to chat with King Olaf. Later Brenda went to her rescue by asking if she wanted to accompany us on the egg run. She thought we might enjoy a scenic trip through Eoligarry past Ben Scurrival to the very northern tip of the island, but it began to rain almost as soon as we left the house and the car windows soon steamed up. As Brenda disappeared into the farmhouse, we sat and waited in the car inventing increasingly involved tales as to what had become of her, until finally she emerged with the precious eggs. The old lady lives alone and does everything herself, refusing all offers of help.

On the way back, Brenda had an idea to save me waiting for hours at Ludag on my return journey to Lochboisdale tomorrow. She suggests I go on the "proper" ferry from Castlebay in the evening, since they have to go over there anyway. They have an arrangement with George (Mrs. Murray's husband according to Brenda, although I was sure she told me he was her brother when I was there last week). He takes fish over from South Uist to Oban in his freezer van, then brings Brenda any frozen food she may have ordered from the mainland, which she duly picks up when the ferry docks in Castlebay. She thinks I could get a lift to the house with him when the boat reaches Lochboisdale. It gives me the equivalent of another day on the island.

Wednesday 21st July 1993 - Day 56

Before breakfast with King Olaf, Brenda told me she had rung Mrs. Murray about the ferry arrangements and found that she preferred to collect me herself for some reason. Perhaps George is in the habit of stopping off for a drink rather than going straight home. As no other guests were booked in for tonight, she proposed the four of us have a meal in one of the hotels before meeting the ferry.

I decided to walk over to Eoligarry and film the private ferry I should have been on. Having been thwarted by a sudden rain shower, I had to make do with a zoom shot since the boat was already arriving to meet a long queue of people on the pier when I rounded the top of the hill. It carefully manoeuvred its way through the sandbanks before heading back to South Uist.

As it wasn't yet 11 o'clock, I returned for a last walk along my favourite beach. I spent over an hour amusing myself in the hunt for more interesting pebbles. The sky was partially clear, but the sand remained deserted. A fishing boat bobbed up and down offshore.

I arrived back at the house and moved my bags into the hall, so Brenda could clean my room. Glenys had gone on the morning Post bus to see her old dancing teacher again. He'd been disappointed that she hadn't been able to stay long yesterday and on reflection she thought she owed it to him to pay him another visit. After all, he might not be here the next time she comes over to this country.

After lunch, I watched the plane come and go (always the main highlight of the day). This afternoon, there was a camera crew filming the proceedings. They rushed onto the sand as soon as it was safe and headed straight for the luggage hold. Having seen them completely ignore the passengers, I began to wonder if there wasn't something special about today's cargo, but they seemed equally fascinated when the mail was loaded on. Once they had shot the take-off, they disappeared into the tearoom.

King Olaf went down to collect his missing belongings and found that only some of them had been sent. What was delivered was enough for his outdoor needs and he set off on his bike looking for a place to set up camp. We discovered later that he was in fact Dutch, but the nickname still stuck.

Having looked at Cockle Strand for five days, but not once set foot on it, I thought I'd take a walk to see what it was like. The area marked as the landing strip is very firm and almost concrete-like. Much of it is a mixture of sand and shell. Harold actually runs a little business, collecting the shells and crushing them for use as decoration for building exteriors (harling) and fish tanks. Employing a couple of local men, he converted Compton MacKenzie's old billiard room into a workshop for the necessary machinery.

With the tide so far out, I realised I could reach the island of Orosay about a mile from the house. The last few hundred metres were a little wet in places, but I easily made it onto the grass. Climbing to the top to survey the scene, I was finally able to see the extent of the uncovered sand. Not only did the vast expanse of Cockle Strand stretch before me, but the beach carried on northwards around the corner as far as Eoligarry jetty, giving at least three miles of unbroken sand along the coast. Despite the grey clouds, I could also see Canna and Rum on the eastern horizon. The grass was scattered with some of the hundreds of wild flowers to which Barra owes its title of the Garden of the Hebrides.

Knowing that the tide was starting to come in, I picked my way across the rivulets to the dry sand at the edge of the beach and began to walk around the rim. A seagull squeaked overhead as my boots crunched on the shells. Only on Fantasy Island could you have a never-ending beach to yourself where you can walk to your very own islet.

When I returned, I had finished composing in my mind what I wanted to write in the visitors' book. Of all the places I have been so far, this is the hardest to do justice to in words. Flicking through the pages of superlatives and thanks, I came across an inspired guest who summed it up perfectly: "Barradise".

Once Glenys had recovered from her ride in the Post bus (bumpy, but good value at £2.30 for the round trip), the four of us piled into the car for our final "family outing". We arrived at the hotel to find the rest of the dining room taken over by a group on an adventure course judging by the van parked outside. They noisily swapped boastful stories while we exchanged conspiratorial glances. Precedence was given to sorting out their meals while we waited to order. It transpired that the haddock and scampi were both "off", so I had to have the only other fish dish: salmon. It took so long in coming that we wondered if they had sent out one of the fishing boats, but it was definitely worth the wait. Later, as we got chance to gossip with the lady running the show, we discovered that her cooker broke down last week and she was having to manage on electric rings and a camping stove.

We drove over to the ferry terminal and I went in to buy my ticket. The boat had already docked and so goodbyes and handshakes were rushed through before Brenda dashed off to find the famous George. Glenys wisely stayed with the car and Harold kindly carried my bags as far as the gangway. I almost lost him in the assembled crowd. It was hard to tell who being welcomed home and who was being waved off. In the event I guessed that most of the passengers had disembarked at Castlebay, as the ship was much quieter than the quayside when I finally managed to fight my way onboard.

I suddenly realised that I was sad for the first time on my trip. For once I wasn't eager to move on to the next stage. When we set sail at 9pm, I stared back at Castlebay and the new friends I was leaving behind. A single slit in the clouds illuminated the town as the Lord of the Isles steamed out into the Sound. I knew that later the sun would set over my favourite beach, just as it always has, even though I would no longer be there to see it.

My eyes followed the coastline up the island, hoping for a last, distant glimpse of Cockle Strand and Eoligarry. I believe I did see them, but in the magical aura of the evening light, I couldn't be sure. Instead of looking to where I was going, I gazed and gazed until I felt that Barra had finally slipped away. To the east, the familiar shapes of the Small Isles and Skye offered themselves in compensation. All the way to Lochboisdale, islands, large and small, lay spread out like a string of pearls. The calm sea reflected grey clouds of hundreds of differing shades with occasional breaks in the collage enabling a selected few to be blessed with a golden lining.

After one and a half hours, I saw the lights of Lochboisdale. Walking down the gangway and searching for Mrs. Murray, I wasn't particularly surprised not to see her. It had all been too good to be true. I watched the vehicles being unloaded at the rear, wondering which one belonged to George. The other passengers and waiting cars soon disappeared. Anxiously, I eyed two lorry drivers who had gone to elaborate lengths to park nearby and went to stand under the streetlight. Just when I thought she must have forgotten, I heard the tell-tale din of her car arriving with its loose exhaust. The whole island must know her every move. Apparently she had to wait at the house for a couple who were due off the ferry and got themselves lost on the way. Having slung my luggage on the back seat, I found that the passenger door doesn't open and so had to quickly squeeze in with my bags before we sped off noisily up the road and into the darkness.

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

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May 1998