Rosie van Cutsem
SOME of my happiest teenage memories are of family summers on South Uist in the Western Isles. We would rise before dawn to motor down darkened roads in a fugged-up minibus, tramping out through the reed-beds and sprawling on the ground, falling into a deep reverie only to be jolted awake by a gaggling skein of geese streaming overhead. Clutching my father’s 12-bore I would gamely and consistently
