Epilogue

CALIFORNIA AND NEVADA were fascinating episodes in my life, giving me an insight into lives lived entirely differently from those that I knew so well on Papavray.

In California, there was the need to strive to be always young and beautiful, to climb the career ladder as fast as possible. The near obsession with all things material was baffling to me and I contrasted these attitudes with the stoic acceptance of the status quo in the Hebrides, however harsh that might be. I saw the incessant purchasing of anything newly on the market and thought of the old, worn furniture and out-dated possessions of the crofters of Papavray, unnoticed and unimportant.

And yet, in this materialistic, fast-paced society, there was an unrestrained welcome for us: an instant familiarity. The invitation to share a barbeque after the briefest of meetings, the interest in us that was transparent and unembarrassed and I compared this with the equally welcoming but quiet attitude of the islanders and their gently probing questions.

I suppose the greatest and most obvious contrast between those precious islands and this big land of tall, blond people was the weather. Oh, the sunshine and the warmth! To be able to swim in the blue water of the warm Pacific, to lie on a beach in the sun with no thought of wind or rain was like a storybook existence to one who had been used to such things as answering night calls in snow, gales and bitter cold.

Life in Nevada was less focused on the need to possess ‘the latest’ or ‘the best’, to be always striving to climb the financial ladder or follow fashion. People were content with less and seemed somehow more real because of it, while the space and freedom of that state reminded me of Papavray and its inhabitants. So there were parallels as well as contrasts.

But even warm weather and easy living could not keep us in California or Nevada and, after only three years, we left for Saudi Arabia and continued to wander the globe.

Both these States, however, have taken their place in my heart and my memory and I often think of them and their people with warmth. I look back sometimes and dream of all the different countries, contrasting cultures and remarkable people that I have encountered and wonder, rather forlornly, if I really belong anywhere.

Then I remember those misty, mysterious islands which will always call me back. They will never let me go.

Although I might wander the world in my remaining years, I shall always feel the threads that bind me to the Hebrides. Kind, comfortable threads which, like gossamer, are hardly there at all but are oh so strong! Compelling, embracing. How could I live without that memory of the purple mountains, the silver sea, snow and sunshine, starlit skies and scudding clouds, fierce storms and the lilting tongues of island people?

In the heat of deserts or among the roar of city traffic – wherever I might roam – I can fly in my imagination to ‘my island’ where, once more, I can feel the welcome of the unique and friendly people. I can absorb the peace and the raw beauty of moorland flowers and barren, rugged hills. I can stand on the shore, feeling the spray from the restless waves as they pound against dark cliffs or I may sit beside a chattering burn in the glen or on a rocky promontory where I can bare my soul to the splendour of a fearsome, fiery sunset.

I’ll never want to be free from the call of those windswept isles, those little worlds surrounded and protected by the tumultuous ocean. We will perish, as all mortals must, but they will endure for ever: timeless and eternal.