While swimming on the deserted beach on Sanday in the morning a woman with thick grey hair and a big white hat floats along in a canoe.
‘Morning.’
‘Morning.’
‘Is it warm or cold?’
‘What do you think?’
‘Ha! Well you’re very brave.’
On parting ‘I wonder what you’ll make of Muck. It has a strange atmosphere…’ she says this as she’s already rowing away from me.
Set off at 12 for Muck. Some sailing but going at only 1.5 knots with the engine off so once we have lunch we take down main and jibs and head on into the fog with the engine the only sound. No one talks. We have the 7 mile state of people used to being at sea staring into the open. It always makes me think about time and life.
Arrived at Muck 1615. All islands have campers often just pitched on outcrops, etc. The right to roam as made law by the the Land Reform Act of 2003. England could learn something from this.
Muck is mucky. There’s lots of metal on beach fencing, lobster pots, rusted wheelbarrow. A whole tip w metal. Is this how they get rid of it? Even outside the working farms there are rolls of fencing or piping just left lying about. The graveyard near where we land is uncared for.
I think this is what my friend from this morning was talking about. After a walk to Horse Island we retire to the boat for a beer and dinner.
The Slow Walker 