This is the most beautiful place on earth and at the same time so imbued with sadness. The surge and lilt and fall and rise of the Gaelic on the radio blends with the rushing water’s voice, bathing all in an ancient symphony. The old trees, moss joining them to the older, quieter stones. Silly, friendly sheep chewing and thinking nothing at all. Loch Tuath is still today, sheltered by Ulva’s barrenness. There is another Isle of Ulva, far away … where once not long ago I glimpsed a saddleback, darting stealthily from tree to tree, older than any of us.
