I step out the door of Guirdil bothy at 2am to the guttural roar of a stag and the sound of the ocean lapping on the beach before me. It’s the height of the rut here on Rum, a Hebridean island where red deer outnumber people, and stags have been bolving all night.
The skull of an old, beached minke whale lies on the pebbles, just discernible in the darkness, while the imposing slopes of Bloodstone Hill tower over Guirdil, sheltering the bay from the wind and isolating it from the world. I can make out the silhouette of a stag as it strolls slowly off the beach and trots up the ridge. Wild goats follow.
