‘Going we are,’ I answered, for the wind had fallen to a light breeze, and with Eigg still in mind, I thought we should chance making for Loch Scresort, the only decent anchorage in Rum. We were now far enough at sea to be able to make Loch Ainort or even Loch Brittle, in Skye, under canvas, should the old engine conk out. Always as we went along these computations were made. It was a conjuring with many possibilities, and when we felt we kept a reasonable balance, it added the zest of a game.

Rum was impressive in its hills. The two peaks of Ailbe-meall and Aisge-mheall dominated the whole, with Ais-mheall topping a high ridge to the south. It took us two hours’ steady going to come near enough to see the brown sandy bays on its eastern shore. The green of the slopes were deeply tinged with brown. It looked a desolate land.

It is, too, a desolate land. Once Rum carried a population of about 400, all crofters and fishermen. Now there is neither a crofter nor a fisherman on the island. Apart from the mansion house of the proprietor, there are only some six families, all thirled to ‘the estate’. The whole original population of Rum was evicted. Sheep in thousands took their place. Now there is riot a single sheep. The whole island is preserved for sport and no Rum native treads its soil.

It is the perfect example of what the clearances, and, following the clearances, sport, have done for the Highlands. It is perfect even to such minor details as that one never encounters either a domestic pet or a paying guest.

Some amusing stories are told about visitors who, having business on the island, try to land there—mostly, of course, visitors engaged on some official affair of the Post Office or, in the case of wreck, of the Board of Trade, as it is difficult for any other kind of visitor to land, except from a private yacht, because the ferry-boat that goes out to meet the steamer is estate-owned. As a private individual, you may buy a ticket from Messrs. MacBrayne for Rum, but what would happen when you wanted to get ashore is another matter. And even if you did manage, what next? For every door would be shut against you and you would have nowhere to spend the night except on the beach. What would happen if you boldly took to the hills amid the wild goats and the wild ponies, I, however, cannot say. But don’t depend on ground game, for there is neither rabbit nor mole on the island.

I know of men, landing there on official business, who have been promptly told to clear out (when, the steamer gone, the only place to clear into was the sea) and who ultimately won a temporary footing on the soil by the production of a commission which empowers an officer to call on all liege subjects to assist him in time of difficulty in the public execution of his duties. There was once a crew in a disabled ship, lying off shore, who had at last to be permitted to land in order to move a warp. At once they lined up and expressed, in a way of nature, solemnly and ceremoniously, that instinct of independence and freedom in man which, despite all oppressions, will find a suitable outlet. But the stories are many and amusing and the best of them true. At this time of day, all this may well sound incredible to one unacquainted with the history of these parts. To such a one the adventure remains open of trying to make himself at home on Rum.