But there was something deeper than that, too—a feeling, almost uncomfortable in its excitement, that not only should I buy this boat but that it might completely alter my whole way of life.

Eoin may have thought me not very enthusiastic about his find. Possibly I looked more than a trifle vague.

We failed to see the owner, and as our appointment, by telegram, was for the following morning, I did not mind. Nor do I remember much of the journey that followed, except for two clear pictures: the first, of Uig Bay, for as you come in over its southern horn the white cottages on the green slopes opposite look like toy cottages set down between thumb and forefinger by one of those giants who stalk through the ancient legends; the second, of Waternish headland running far into the western sea and bathed in fiery mist. There was a distinct feeling of relief in the involuntary thought that at least one should never have to attempt to describe the marvel of that headland at that hour.

Not that surprise was done with, for as at last we stepped from the car we saw the full red ball of the sinking sun caught amid the ruins of Duntulm Castle. But that was an effect over-dramatic, and a sensible mind refuses the incredible symbol.

While we stood there looking to the west, we saw the Hebrides, low down on the horizon, like a band of purple cloud. Despite ourselves, we were held.

In that evening light, dimming through fire and purple to the illimitable grey wings of the sea, that autumn of the day with April in its breath, was all the West of legend—disturbing, inviting, leaving one very still, hearkening for one knew not what. Those who have never known the West like this may find it easy to jeer at phrases like ‘the Celtic Twilight’. But I have the uneasy feeling that that does not end the matter.

Eoin took me through his unfurnished hotel, and then in the gloomy loft of an outside building we started up the small engine that was to provide electricity. Engines are fascinating things to those who know something about them. This was a compact unit that would be set in motion at any time by the simple process of switching on a light, any light, in the hotel.

A rare game for children in the dead of night!

Still smiling, we stood outside again, drawn by the last edge of the sun as it disappeared. A shadow came in over the waters; there was a soft wash on the shore; the shrilling of two sea birds. The world was very quiet. ‘Who would want to go back?’ said Eoin.

So back we went, through Kilmuir, where Flora Macdonald’s grave is and the monument on a hill. All over Skye and the outer Isles you come on the shadowy track of the Prince. Bonnie Prince Charlie. The guide books are full of him. And of Flora, the heroine, who guided him through the meshes of the military net—cast by the authorities in London and dragged so relentlessly through the old Gaelic sea. Over there was her home, Kingsburgh. The Prince slept there—and, in the same bed, some thirty years later, so did Dr. Samuel Johnson. (‘I have had no ambitious thoughts in it.’)