On the Isle of Lewis ferry to Stornoway, red pumps on hand to replace Wellingtons (in the event of the ship sinking, the girl in the red shoes will be saved).

Watching yellow-jacketed men standing below, waiting to throw, tie ropes. Like birds or sheep: bursts of heavy work, surrounded by long periods of huddling, conserving energy while the day passes.

In Stornoway, a shopping trolley sculpture lies above the smooth grey gallery floor of the harbour

Spending time, mulling through Stornoway charity shops. Returning from a short walk, hit by anxiety around 4:30 by the looming emptiness of my evening. Panic over closed shops, looking for a good book. 60p copy of Walter Scott's Ivanhoe to fill the void.

Unheated hostel, in bed at 9 alone in a bare room upstairs on Keith Street. Underneath duvet fully clothed plus wooly hat, gloves and slippers. Feeling sorry for myself, cold and lonely. Watching a DVD set in LA, the heat emited from my laptop warming me up. A bit.

Early morning (6:30) departure on 'bus' booked last night; turns out to be a taxi and me the only passenger. £4.95 for my own chauffeur (plus anecdotes) along 2 hour drive through Stornoway and Harris to Leverburgh ferry.

Dark. Black.

Frightening journey through northernmost Hebridean island: ice, dark, snow hurtling towards windscreen. Black long sheets of water, iced sea-lochs alongside the road. I can't see how deep the drop or how far the sea. I sit back and enjoy the snow constallation of white spots, flying towards us at great speed. We slide, spin around a corner: "Foock!" Driver swearing more and more. I reassure him: "Don't worry about the ferry (connection); getting there is fine". Lights of cars in the distance like lamps hanging in the sky. The sight of a road-gritting lorry is the most beautiful thing in the world.

We arrive at Leverburgh and it is pink-light.

Journey between Leverburgh to Berneray: on top of the world as the sun rises.

Small ferry (I the only foot passenger) noses its way through islands, floating animals. One with sheep dumped on it: 20 or 30, on an island in the middle of the sea, which doesn't from here look much bigger than a large garden.

The water is blue, enticing. Reepicheep comes to mind (C.S. Lewis' valiant mouse, seeking the end of the world in a rowing boat, going further and further, climbing out and disappearing into the distance). And the north pole (the horizon curves around the boat). Melted. And the sea levels rising. Here.

The boat slowly spins round, sliding a new landscape into shot.

Sun. Stillness. This isn't supposed to happen.

My is mother is texting me that it's cold at home. I have no idea if it's cold or not where I am; the only thing that I can observe is the brilliant sun, and the piercing blue water, and the reflections of the land in it. I try to write on the beach the next day and cannot hold the pen; yes, it is cold, but right now all I can feel is the glory of the sun on my face.

At Berneray (waiting room, a bus stop, a causeway to North Uist and a road towards the village) the cars and the ferry drive off and I am left alone, in the sun.

My bus comes hurtling in, empty, and pauses for an unquantifiable length of time. I make my way back from the causeway towards it. It turns around.

Before heading across towards Lochmaddy I am given a whistlestop tour of Berneray and its seal rocks. I don't know whether to talk to the driver as though he's giving me a lift (taxi, friend) or to sit in my seat quietly, belted upon request and be on a bus, a tourist, take photographs out the window.

The road is metal, a mirror, reflecting the light into your eyes. A silky grey ribbon, laid across a lacy landscape.

Meet Lucy and trudge up to her house just north of Lochmaddy. Over 80s rickety bridge (curves in the wind) and through cowshit (Highland neighbours) to Spoonish House, the factor's. Her's renovated, tacked on. Convenient cottage: spiral staircase, mod cons. Cat. Tea. Cigarettes. Walk.

Houses:

Island life?

More mirrors:

On Wednesday I hitch-hike in an anti-clockwise circle around North Uist, drawing together an almost-random cross-section of the island community: a game-keeper; nurse; farmer; hotel-owner. Across the roads, as they stitch together the land.

At the western edge of the island, sand dunes a wall against the violent motorway of the sea beyond. Water everywhere, mixing up edges. Old farm implements in front of a cemetery, monuments to passed time or David Smith sculptures. The fields, swamped; sunken ice pockets, cracks into the sky below. We are far up, a place close to heaven.

Swamp / David Smith sculpture:

Next day: leaving Lucy's house at 6:30 (is this a theme?) for first ferry. Reasonable winds hint of weather's more usual possibilities. Use 'phone to light way over bridge and beyond. Manage to avoid walking into cows and falling into water. Approaching road a steady beat of car lights (where are they all coming from?). Think of the ferries as the island's heartbeat and remember Lucy saying she knows what time it is, whether she's late for school by how far across the ferry is across the window above her kitchen sink. The traffic as the island's tides, rushing in towards the ferry's departure, out from arrivals.

A bigger boat to Skye. Weather warnings in London on TV; reporters in lots of clothes by railway lines, looking ridiculous. People worrying about not being able to get to work. A world away.

Skye:

Through Skye. Brunch in a cafe. Proper shops, people. Back onto the mainland at Mallaig I await tomorrow's ferry to Eigg.