It's the middle of September and the Isle of Skye got a soaking overnight. Nonetheless, the young Chinese woman gingerly descending the steep and slippery path is wearing flip-flops. 'She probably just came from the beach', my wife observes.
There's a fine vista from this elevated position. Across the wide bay three waterfalls tumble over the cliffs. In the distance a long and undulating island is visible. Fat sheep are everywhere, greedily chomping on the short grass. And, at the foot of the path, close to the sea, stands a lighthouse painted in white and yellow. It towers over a couple of low, single storey buildings.
As I approach the compound, I see that it is not in good repair. The paint is flaking off, revealing the reddish brown stone beneath. Rusting cylinders of fuel have been dumped on the ground and dead thistle plants stand sorrowfully by one of the walls. The gates are padlocked.
And yet, there are curtains in the windows. I venture up the rise to peer inside, trying to dodge the sheep droppings which seem to be everywhere. Inside, on the window ledge, is a hardback copy of a John Le Carré novel. It looks almost new. Round the corner, a window pane is missing. It's as if the place was suddenly abandoned, like the Marie Celeste. Either that, or it's now a crack den or a squat.
A path leads from the buildings to the rocky water's edge, where we find a disused crane and a jetty. No doubt this was where provisions were unloaded by the lonely souls living in this spot. Behind, near the lighthouse, I spy two men with fishing rods wandering back to their tents, where they are presumably spending the night. It's an eerie place to camp out, and it gives me an idea for a story, which I relay to my wife:
'I'm spending the night in a tent outside the lighthouse when I'm awoken by sounds which seem to come from the jetty. The next morning I walk down to the shore, but find no sign that anyone was there. The following night, though, I hear the noise again, and this time I go over to check it out...'
'It's a good start', she says. 'What happens next?'
'I have no idea', I say. 'I have no imagination'.
