Southern North Uist.

There are a three hundred and sixty-five lochs in North Uist, one for each day of the year

Postbuses, which are basically mini-buses used by the local posties, double up as the main form of public transport in the rural parts of the Hebrides. We took one from South Uist, through Benbecula, to North Uist.

We flagged it down after an hour and a half stint of unsuccessful hitching. Morag, the postie, pulled into the side and mumbled through a mouthful of Snickers, "where are you going to?". She shielded any crumby fall-out with her hand. "Dunno, somewhere further North?", "Well I go as far as Benbecula, but I go through all the wee villages", "Okay, that sounds good".

Morag wore rubber gloves for a reason I couldn't tell and spoke of her regret for leaving a jacket at home. Her post-snack voice was lyrical and light. She told us about every village we drove through so methodically that by the time we arrived in Benbecula we knew about every marriage and birth and death on the island.

'Alan' got on after a while. He sat next to me but turned his body slightly away. A peat-cutter, his hands were calloused, his nails were deep with dirt and he brought with him the scent of oil and the air of somebody who spends most of his time outside. He spoke gaelic with Morag, only speaking to us when she left the van to pick up letters.

...

We arrived in North Uist later that day.

Although dropped off outside a campsite, we decided to skip it and instead opt for a 45 minute walk to the nearest village in search of one of those sandy beaches we've seen on the postcards. What we came to, however, was a small street of grey houses looking out onto a series of craggy islands linked by causeways and surrounded by monotonous, brown seaweed.

A bloke with a pony tail ensured us that he had a great time camping on them when he was a youngster, so we tried it.

As soon as we got onto the first column of black rocks oystercatchers and terns started to circle overhead, screeching and probably urging us to bugger off. We probably shouldn't have been there, in hindsight, anywhere else and these islands would most likely be protected. But by the time I saw the first batch of eggs, sitting in plain view on the ground, the tent was already up and the ravioli was already a-bubbling.

We were punished, though, with the incessant screaming and dive bombing anytime mussel, or a muscle, was moved.

Each time I went for an outdoorsman pee, then, I thought my time had come.

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