I’m on a creative practitioner residency on Eigg, courtesy of the Bothy Project, and trying to write. There are distractions, though. Outside the window is a mass of bluebells, rippling in sun and shadow. Beyond, another sea turns from turquoise to blue to grey. It’s been squally all day, but by mid-afternoon the wind has died down, and across the water the tops of the Rum Cuillin, on the island of Rum, are visible for the first time. I head out.
At the end of the track, I start crossing fields in the vague direction of the sea. After a couple of detours when it gets too boggy, I realise I’m following the call of a cuckoo, though I see no trees or discernible shelter for one. Once I reach the coast, I discover a cove that had been below the horizon line. A small, dank curve of cliff, water trickling down its face, sits behind a thicket of willows that – sure enough – hides the calling cuckoo.
