The sun shines on the water and there’s a tear in my eye

Rab is about to leave Skye and, as well as the near-permanent fine weather, it has a parting gift for him: not one, not two, but three otters – and a guest appearance by Captain Mainwaring

H ere’s an odd thing.

It was my last few minutes on Skye. As usual (for me, if for no one else; it is a purely personal, meteorological phenomenon) the sun was shining.

The sunlight was silvery white. Snow lay all around. I took a cup of coffee out and sat on the wooden seat on the walkway in front of the house (where the pine marten comes for his peanut butter supper around 9pm).

I always get emotional when leaving, and a scornful voice in my head says: “You are grizzled – ken? – and you have a beard. Pull yourself together, man. It’s just land and sea. Means nothing beyond the aesthetic fairy tales you bring to it.”

The point was arguable, but I poohpoohed it impatiently. For, as the poet Wordsworth has said, “getting and spending” we forget how wonderful nature is.

“This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon… It moves us not.” I’ve edited Skye’s bright water. Picture: Getty Images. him down to improve the piece. Ghost of Wordsworth: “Damned journalists!”

Returning to the matter in hand, I do believe that, bizarre though it sounds, islands are autonomous entities, and that sometimes they take to you and sometimes they don’t. And much of the time they toy with a chap’s feelings.

Skye, I believe, is trying to lure me in and, were I to move here, the island would laugh at having ensnared me, and pelt me with rubbish weather and suddenly peculiar people. I know I’ve always been lucky with the weather (despite being here nearly always in winter). This time, over the three weeks, there were only a couple of awful days of relentless rain and overcast skies, and I almost welcomed them.

But was it the late, great Derek Cooper who said that, while Skye’s rainfall statistics are fearful, it’s usually the sort of rain that comes in short, heavy bursts then subsides. Others say differently but that’s mostly been my experience: four seasons in an hour. So, the sun was shining – as usual – as I sat outside one December morning and drank in the view with the coffee. Then I saw a tell-tale line in the water. Grabbed the binoculars. Otter! No! Three otters!

For this to happen in my last, lingering look over the sea here! I’d only seen one otter (with fish) in the previous three weeks. I was reminded of a tale that The Courier’s own Jim Crumley told, in one of his wonderful books, about visiting Sandaig (across the sea and up a bit from here), where Gavin Maxwell of Ring of Bright Water had lived. The atmosphere was haunting and, quite unexpectedly, Jim saw three figures – what looked like a man, a boy and an otter – appear on the shore in that isolated place. Then they disappeared.

Though ambivalent about Maxwell, I’d been giving him much thought on this trip, delving into his books and even watching the charming old Ring film on Youtube (though it lacks the ending).

Perhaps, I fancied, my three otters were the same personnel. However, my spiritual mentor, Captain Mainwaring of Dad’s Army, appeared in my head and said: “You’re entering the realms of fantasy now, Rab.” Maybe.