The Fragile Islands
By the time I had heard Heather's story, drunk a cup of coffee and
admired her stock of goods, the day was well advanced, and lack of
sleep was catching up with me. I thought it would be a good idea to
find a place to make camp soon and have a lazy ending to the day. The
lovely Luskentyre beach was only a few miles further on so I decided to
look for a place beside it. I had already noticed on the map that there
was a spit of sand dunes which appeared ideal for a quiet camp site. It
was shaped like a huge rhinoceros horn protruding out into the sandy
estuary from Seilibost. Far from anywhere, at high tide it was almost
surrounded by sea. The only snag with it was that there appeared to be
no fresh water nearby. I filled my container at a tap which was outside
a school still closed for the summer holiday, and started off along the
rough track leading to the spit. Dozens of rabbits scuttled from my
path in startled surprise as I caught them unawares in my silent
approach on the Tank. They seemed to dart reproachful looks over their
shoulders as they ran for the burrow entrances; remarkably plump
rabbits who looked as though no-one disturbed them overmuch.
It was not until I was at the extreme tip of the
peninsular that I found the ideal clearing among the rough hummocks of
marram-bound dunes. It was like being on the prow of a tall ship, or in
a lighthouse with the sea all around, except that I had a sweep of
white beaches all around too, with purple mountains edging three
quarters of the view. A patch of the small yellow flowers called,
appropriately, ladies bedstraw, had impacted the ground sufficiently
for the tent pegs to hold as long as no gales blew. The small green
nylon shape transformed the unfamiliar place at once into 'home' - a
covered space of less than seven feet by three. With my stove, pans,
lilo, sleeping bag and various other bits and pieces I made my small
island of domesticity in the wilderness, just as Abraham and all other
nomads had done before me. I didn't have my flocks of goats and camels
about me of course, nor was my existence dependent upon finding water
and grazing for them - had it been so it I would have been nicely
placed since there was so much of both and to spare on Harris. I often
remember our nomadic forebears when I'm sleeping in a tent instead of
in a bed, and I must have fallen asleep thinking about them on this
occasion because I dreamt about them setting up their camel skin tents
in the Syrian desert and imagined I was there with them because I could
hear the camels stamping about and getting in a state (as camels often
do because of their being so highly strung) and I knew I had to get up
and deal with them before they pulled out their tethering pegs and
wandered off into the trackless wastes. When I surfaced properly I
found that the short rest I'd planned had extended into several hours
and it wasn't camels stamping about outside but a couple of young
German campers looking for a place to put up their tent, having also
noted this ideal place from their maps.
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