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.

The Uist Wolf

After a day of more calls and more typing I stride out across the busy Uist road and stumble onto the beach. It stretches, unbroken, for 22 miles. But I plump for 2 of those miles, deciding that I don't want to overdo it. I am now free on a deserted beach with my binoculars swinging beneath my chins. Scanning for otters, I see instead a vast array of seabirds:- Redshanks, Turnstones, Knots, Oyster catchers, the yellow-billed Whooper Swan, the scatty Ringed Plover. They dart this way and that, scattering before me only to alight a few yards further on. A highpoint is spotting a snipe, which zigzags away across a boggy field, it's flight pattern designed to evade any troublesome bullet with ease. I disturb the same heron at least four times and get a very disgruntled 'Squaack!" Wigeon and Tufted Duck patter across a frozen lochen and Rock Pipits flutter up into the air for a second only to disappear again, instantly resuming invisibility a few feet from my position. Then I hear it... A far-off bark. The sound makes my blood freeze and I hesitate. Should I carry on or divert back to the beach? The barking intensifies and I catch a glimpse of the beast. Is it truly of this Earth? It thunders towards me and then stops dead, its jaws dripping long strands of drool. It begins to circle me as I back away and head for the beach. I can always dive into the waves as a last resort, swim, madly, for Barra. It follows me, a deep growl emanating from its bulky frame. I fumble for some trinket, some scrap of chocolate or steak in my pockets. All I find is a chewit wrapper, but this is better than nothing. Carefully, I lay it at my feet and back away. The great wolf of a beast runs at me but then stops... It sniffs my offering giving me the chance I need to bolt. I hear its thundering paws hammering into the headland behind me... The Uist Wolf is upon me! MUMMY!