As soon as I saw its misty silhouette rising sharply from the horizon it stirred something deep within me. I can see St Kilda from the hill behind the house. I don’t even have an affiliation with these islands; I’ve never considered living here before. Bunch of God-fearing sheep-shaggers, you know. But suddenly the mainland Highlands seem too congested. I don’t want to leave here, and it has only been two days. I awoke this morning with the very strong urge to walk over to the beach, strip off to my bollocks and swim westward until I tired and was claimed by the icy currents. En route to St Kilda, what a lovely thought; knowing I would never ever reach it, not even able to see it, yet deliriously content for my last few hours with the aims of my trip, the thought of washing up on those lonely shores, leaving my family with nothing but the tragic irony of my dying while trying to reach a place that is uninhabitable.
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