It had been a sunny but blustery time on the island. The sea journey out had been rough, but the weeks of surveying had given him a sense of connection with the place. Whether on the slopes of Odnachair, across on the island of Soay or looking down from Mullach Sgar onto the peat smoke rising from the village below.

His measurements were nearly complete, his rough sketches of the land shapes safe in his leather-bound portfolio. He had also painted some watercolours around Hirta Bay, capturing the changing weather and the light on the waves. One of the village women, Christina Gillies, had several times stopped to admire his brush work; sometimes alone, at other times when out walking with her two daughters. Her youngest Rachel loved his painting, her eyes sparkled with imagination when he talked to her about the waves constantly changing shape.

He’d been feeling pity for the islanders. From the stories they told, there were fewer people on the island than last Century. A number were older residents, there just didn’t seem to be enough people left to spin wool from the sheep or go hunting for sea birds on the cliffs. The availability of provisions was unpredictable. One day he could have oatmeal bannocks, salted mutton with eggs; the next day there were no eggs as no-one had been able to reach the fulmar’s nests in the wet weather.

There was a sadness in his heart. Not just at the thought of leaving this unique island, but at his worry for their future. What would become of Rachel and her older sister Kate? He gazed along the shoreline as it curved out to Dùn. A break in the squally rain clouds had let the sunlight in. The sea danced like diamonds. 

It was time to pack for trip back to Harris tomorrow.