Back from the wilds of the Hebrides, and somewhat restored. It was full of chilly walks, stiff breezes, cultural history, cullen skink, reading matter, long conversations, endless pots of tea and skies like this:

The Isle of Tiree is a fascinating, beautiful, strange little place: the sort of place that makes you think, and change your habits.

Case in point: I was in bed most nights by half ten, and by half six this morning I was walking along a deserted two mile white beach, watching wild geese flying low over the waves.

I’ll write more about the island, my journey and the mini break when I’ve had some sleep.