Isle of Canna

 I haven’t really seen anyone since getting off the ferry at 8:20. Another perfect day – Rùm volcanic-looking across the water – further south and bluer than the sea and the hills of Ardnamurchan and beyond, lies Mull; further west flat on the water are Coll and Tiree … even further round, the start of an t-Eilean Ard, the Long Island. I’ve just noticed that the sky has quickly filled with cirrus clouds, streaking from far south over to the north. Rùm has its own cumulus weather system! Sound of seals from small island at the foot of these sea-cliffs. Thought I heard a woman’s voice singing softly earlier – as if she were singing under her breath whilst working. This place is so empty and yet so haunted, like all the Highlands and Islands. Perhaps it was the voice of a selkie, calling me.

Onboard ferry bound for Isle of Canna

It was a perfectly clear night last night – I stuck my head out of the tent and watched the dancing of the Northern Lights: green again, in the northern sky, low over Sleat, dancing up in long sheets to the great plough above.