Postcards From The Wilderness 1 When you live, as I do, right by the sea's edge, in 'Europe's last great wilderness' with only thousands of miles of ocean between you and North America, what a difference a few days make at this time of year. Last week we had a sharp taste of what winter will bring. The sea was churning nothing but pure white foam for a full 500 yards out into the bay while beyond that huge waves were throwing themselves onto the rocky islets sending up towers of water the height of two houses, and the spray from the waterfall was rising so high in the buffeting air it looked like a mirror image of itself. Then a day or so later, when the wind had dropped and the sea was calmer we watched a helicopter make pass after pass around the bay all afternoon, filming for car advert. It turns out a guy had been location scouting up here earlier in the week when the sea was at its most dramatic and wanted to capture that but he seemed happy enough with it in a more pacific mood. Then earlier this week we drove down to Lochinver in warm sunshine with the hood down, me in a short-sleeved top, cut-off leggings and barefoot in sandals. All the trees were still in full leaf. The ancient oak that's my particular favourite, which may have watched the skirmishes of the MacLeods and the MacKenzies as they fought for dominance over West Sutherland and the Northern Hebrides, was still magnificent in stately green. A few trees in more exposed locations showed a trace of windburn on leaf edges, but otherwise all was still midsummer. By midweek, though, as the weather grew colder, I noticed the first, thin, scatter of leaves on the lawn from the birches in the garden, though the rowans remained serenely untouched. Today, though, on a perfect autumn day - just a smatter cotton-wool clouds decorating a deep blue sky, turning the sea below to a rich navy, braided grandly in white - those birches are barely clinging to their last, sparse yellow leaves. The rowans, though, now glow so hotly with fiery berries gleaming against leaf clusters of burnished copper and old gold they seem to burn the retina with their fierce colours. But by next week, or maybe the one after, even their pyrotechnic effects will be muted, their leaves just a memory, and only a few berries left after the birds have gorged on them to fatten themselves up in preparation for the cold and hungry months to come. By then it will be November, that sad, damp, least-loved of months. But to everything there is a season and there is still joy to be had in dozing by a warm fire, only half aware of soft sounds as logs settle and smoulder, red smudges suddenly gleaming brightly amongst the grey ash, as the scent of woodsmoke brings sleepy memories of autumns now past. Then, not too far off, will come the solstice and with it the reminder that, dark as the days may be, each succeeding day will grow just a little lighter and even in the depth of winter the slowly lengthening light cheers with the promise of those endless summer evenings when sunset sidles up so close to dawn it's impossible to tell them apart. So I try to enjoy what each season brings, even the screeching gales that regularly caterwaul round the corners of the house, banging on windows and bringing thoughts of old stories of banshees and witches flying in the night. But even then I know we'll be safe. Those same rowan trees that now glow so brightly near the door of every old croft house, are there because of their strong power that can protect the inhabitants from all manner of evil spirits. Mind you, if they could banish those blasted gale-force winds and outright hurricanes that winter brings round here without fail or mercy, that would be a bit more use!
