What prompts the title of this meandering is an abortive visit to a small island off the west coast of Scotland, one famous for the beauty of its situation, its long history, like many of these islands, of conflict and struggle, and above all for the friendliness of its folk.

Well come the day, cometh the storm. A telephone call in the middle of breakfast told me that the ferry sailing that morning was cancelled due to bad weather. Well they were right about that. Force 9-10 and getting worse. The rain beat against the hotel windows and we had some rapid decision making to do. Perhaps the weather would improve by tomorrow and we could go then?

A visit to the ferry office and brief but informative conversation with a man in a beard and a souwester revealed that our chances of getting to the island this weekend were somewhat smaller than an imploding sonoluminescence bubble and rapidly diminishing. Fate it seems knows when to drop the boom with the timing of a medaeval executioner. Back to the hotel and some phone calls later and the island visit postponed until early December when (quote) "the weather is usually much better than November" (unquote).

We drove back home down roads where waterfalls of spray from normally unoticeable trickles down cliff faces were cascading over half the road. Normally quiet tranquil glens were maelstroms of wind and roaring burns and off every mountain sufficient water ran to sustain the manufacture of usquebah for a thousand glorious years.

Scotland, even under the most apalling conditions, remains obstinately and permanently beautiful, from the small cottages by the white shores of the Atlantic to its mountain tops arrayed in full tartan array of dark green and brown heathers and streams. There was disappointment that we couldn't get to our island destination, but I defy anyone with a soul not to appreciate this country's outstanding beauty.

We will get to our small island sooner or later, an island so many have left never to return. Life on it will go on before we arrive and after we leave, as it has done for thousands of years. Its ancient shores and white sands under green hills will survive us. Its eagles will pirouette above its fields and its orchids nestle for shelter from the atlantic wind. We all live on a small island drifting through space; if only we could stop killing each other and appreciate what we have before someone stops the ferry.