Whenever we drive through the island of Skye – An t-Eilean Sgitheanach – we’re always in a rush to catch the ferry and I’m ashamed by how little I’ve appreciated what a wonderful island it is. It’s about 50 miles long and 25 miles wide and on the map, the northwestern coast looks exactly like a lobster claw reaching out into the Little Minch, as though trying to grab a passing boat.
I’ve been up and down Skye twice recently. The first time, I was en route to another happy week with the family in our base in South Uist. Our numbers fluctuated: we had deliciouswhich is showing signs of age but is still seaworthy. We only managed to catch two pollack and two saithe: gone are the days when you could haul up an eight-hooked line with a mackerel on each hook, but it was a joy to be at sea again. Several of our lovely neighbours called in for a catch-up, one bearing a large basket crammed with shellfish, including lobsters, so we had a feast that night. It was, as always, a joy to be there.
