There was much going on as I struck out from the village of Carlabhagh for the north-west coast of Lewis. A flock of crows glided towards the inland moors, a starling alighted on a sheep's back in search of a mid-morning insect snack, and flocks of hedge sparrows shimmied to keep their distance as I walked past. A disproportionately stolid church stood on the skyline, the thin strip of houses that make up Carlabhagh seeming to tremble in its shadow.
The island of Lewis is the northernmost, largest and the lowest-lying of the Outer Hebrides. It is characterised by peat moorland and crenulated with freshwater lochs where, should you sit for a while, starlings, black-headed gulls and arctic terns will fly low, occasionally allowing their flight feathers to leave momentary rings on the water.
Gaelic is widely spoken and, along with Sunday observance (even leisure centres are closed) can make Lewis seem more of a living island than its counterparts Skye and Mull. There are few second-home owners, and tourism remains a marginal source of income, some way behind tweed weaving, crofting and fish farming.
Soon enough, I reached Na Gearrannan, a collection of restored blackhouses, sturdy stone dwellings topped with thatch and turf where occupants would share floor space with cattle. Although they date back several centuries, blackhouses are a gateway to an immediate past: the last ones were occupied right up to 1974, electricity came in 1952 and, until the 1960s when mains tap water arrived, clothes were washed in nearby lochs.
A boggy plod led north to the modest summit of Aird Mhor. The day was clear and I doubt there can be a finer coastal view anywhere in the British Isles.
