It had been hard to judge the wind’s strength. On the Isle of Skye there aren’t many trees to bend, and despite the low temperatures the chimneys of the few white-washed crofting cottages we had driven past on the way to the western tip of the island were not smoking. But as soon as we parked at Neist Point, it was obvious it was blowing a hoolie. Water is meant to fall downwards, yet all along the step of the cliff that bends away to the east, the run-off from rain and snowmelt was being flung into the air in spindrift fountains.
As soon as we got out of the car the wind was there with us. It shouted jet engine-loud in the shells of our ears. It pushed against our chests and plugged our breath with its own. We gasped with the shock of it, and then, just as suddenly, we laughed. We planted our feet and leant into the wind and tried shouting at each other. Look, we motioned to each other, we are being supported, we are being carried.
