Although there’s not a lot of autumn colour in such places, there is still beauty. Last winter’s gales bent and battered many of the trees, so they look like lines of tired soldiers back from a war. Bright green mosses and wild orange fungi sprout in the dark places, and because they’re dark places, look even more colourful against the peaty black of the earth and the grey stones. At the top of the rise, the views across the sea to other islands, far further away than my eye can believe, is stunning, beneath the blue sky, brushed lightly with high clouds on the run from the wind. And there is no sound of man, but only the trees chattering together and the run of a little burn over the ancient rocks. I could live nowhere else to be honest. I have been many places, but the beauty of the island still sings in my heart, no matter what the weather. And, on the way home, we found a full-berried rowan, the witches tree, in all her glory.