A Sign of the Times

Uist is an idyllic place but I found out that it is, sadly, no different from the rest of the world in many respects. It has wonderful beaches, a thriving community but, alas, some problems with the odd drug user and there has certainly been the occasional barney between neighbours and even kin. Houses lie empty, 'in dispute'. No one knows for certain who owns them. Surely this is all normal. Where there is human activity there is sure to be human failings. I guess that's where religion and telly come into play. Moral doctrine and escapism seem to go hand in hand here. Anyway... The Western Isles are still a million times more peaceful and beautiful than most places I've been to in my life. It's so nice that I even consider becoming an 'incomer' and look more closely at a few of the empty houses. Everyone I've met: at the libraries, schools and hotels have, without exception, been interesting and extremely friendly.

On a walk along the beach I see a man spreading heaps of seaweed over the grass behind the dunes. I ask him what he is doing. He explains that the seaweed, shoveled out in 20ft x 80ft patches, melts into the soil. After 2 months, or so, they rotovate the area and plant potatoes. A very old practice, I'm told. I am also given the 'ins and outs' of cutting peat. Nowadays, they tend to cut it on a slope, up a hill etc to avoid flooding. They store it, stacked in a breezy spot, so that it can dry into black, brittle blocks; the best for burning.

After my 5th walk along the beach and back, I settle down to an excellent anti-pasta salad, followed by a plate of humongous scallops and Stornoway back pudding. I give in to the cook, Ian's, pudding list and submit to his homemade cheese cake and lemon ice-cream. Gosh, I really need to get back to more edits and more writing. On Uist, it's too easy to relax. Bad news, however, spoils my coffee. There's no space on the Uist to Oban ferry. An M.P. has passed away and the funeral takes precedence. Fair enough. There are more important things... This means that I will have to go back home the long way, via Skye. Oh, well, never mind. It's a dirty job, but someone has to do it.