Early the following morning, and still cramped and stale after the long journey, Simon set off across the island, climbing the single-track road that led to the hill more or less in the middle. From there, the road descended again, and, because few lived on this side of Taransay, it was stony and narrow, untended.
After four miles of steady tramping, he began to climb again towards the cliffs above the wilder sea. Looking down, he could see a long sandy bay. Gannets and kittiwakes clung to the rock face, occasionally soaring up and plunging back to their ledges again. Ahead, there was only the sea, which, on this side, was never calm, never quiet. The great rollers piled in one after another, foaming in a long white line onto the shore. He could not have heard himself speak above the crashing of the sea and the racket of the birds. But there was no one to speak to.
He sat on an outcrop and looked for a long time. The sky was milky, the air fresh but not cold. And there was a wind. Always a wind here.
He did not know if it was the most beautiful place he had ever visited – perhaps not. But it was closest to his heart now. He loved the solitude, the wildness, the constant shifting of clouds and sea and coarse grass, the rise and fall of the birds. The way it absorbed yet remained quite indifferent to his presence.
The other side of the island was softer, more sheltered, lower to the water, though the gales could still howl and roar, and the sea be rough enough for the boats to be marooned in harbour for days and the ferry crossings be suspended.
Could he live here? All the year round, when it was dark at three for months, in a place where dark meant black? All the year round, when one could be trapped in by the weather for a week or more? Electronic communication was good now, they could contact the outside world as easily as anyone living on the mainland, but that only meant words, written or spoken, flying to and fro across cyberspace, not close human contact.
And yet, he thought, peering down as the sun came out and glanced and glinted on the surface of the sea and he saw the heads of three seals bobbing up close to the beach, and yet …
The seals disappeared so suddenly that he looked to see what had startled them and made out a figure walking along the shore close to the water’s edge. It was a woman wearing waders and a full-length mud-coloured waterproof, the scarf tied round her neck concealing most of her hair. She walked steadily, taking long strides, looking down at the sand. After a moment, she bent down and picked up something, examined it, and then slipped it into her pocket. A little further on, she did the same again.
A beachcomber, then, and perhaps there were good pickings where the sea left a line of stones and debris as it sucked back. The tide was going out fast, as it did here. The woman walked on. She had not seen Simon. He did not move. Before long, she was out of sight round an outcrop of rocks and the seals had surfaced again.