Diary

Last Easter, my family and I took a holiday house in the West Highlands. The windows of the cottage looked onto a salt marsh, and beyond that, to the fast-moving waters of the Kyles of Lochalsh. Across the waters rose the hills of southern Skye, still dusted with snow. Nearby stood the unloved stone ruin of a barracks built to house government troops engaged on the Highland-suppressing project that followed Culloden. In those times, to southerners, the Highlands were a distant and fearsome place. Nowadays, many of the houses are holiday homes, because people rejoice in the sea and hills, the silence and the wildlife.