Country diary: South Uist

Last night's force 9, through which the Hebrides and her intrepid crew brought us back to Uist, has dropped away to a strong wind. By late afternoon the temptation to stop unpacking the piles of boxes and go out for a walk becomes irresistible. The day is bright and lively, the sun constantly vanishing and reappearing from behind the racing clouds. We head for the nearest beach and find it deserted – there are no other walkers, no dogs being taken for the last run of the day, not even any birds feeding in the back-run of the waves. There is just us, the beach, the wind and the sea. Unbothered by the wind, just glad to be out of doors at last, we stride out briskly, accompanied by the constant roar of a grey sea whose surface is broken by a confusion of tumbling white wave crests. As the waves surge up the beach, globules of foam break loose and are bowled along the sand, each revolution rendering them smaller until they disappear completely. Higher up the beach low piles of kelp knotted and tangled with whip-like thongs are half-hidden under fine blown sand. A small flock of tired-looking common gulls, the first birds we have seen, have taken shelter here using the sand-anchored weed as a windbreak. Understandably, they have no wish to move, and so permit us to come closer than they would normally tolerate before they reluctantly rise to their feet, striving for balance in the buffeting wind. Even then they pause before lifting their wings and allowing themselves to be carried a short distance along the beach before dropping to the ground to huddle behind the next clump of weed. Walking on will only disturb them again and again, and having no wish to chivvy them the length of the beach we detour along the track through the dunes, regaining the sands with the gulls behind us and miles of beach ahead.