The sky is a huge brilliant blue, the sea a magnificent reflection. The view I’m drinking in as blue as blue can be.

“Blue enough?” The universe whispers. “Won’t this do?”

And twirls off into the sky, leaving me to admire the clouds of her trail, and an utterly wonderful blue.

Grandparents taking the weans for a day out, resplendent in freckles and red hair.

Pipers crossing to practice or play.

Old gentlemen with medals on their jackets, off to pay their respects.

And me: drinking in a sky of blue. Sails on the Holy Loch. Red Western Ferry boats doing the short crossing, signalling as they go:

Nearly there now.

Must turn back eastward: home.

Till I stop and think: no.

This is home. This is where I belong. This is where my heart needs to be, and where my spirit flies.

I’ll leave part of myself here. (I always have done – maybe that’s why I feel lost when I’m gone.) I’ll go back to work and pack and plan and get ready. It’s a three month period of work.

But before you know it I’ll be back. Where I should be. Home.

The sun’s shining on the boat and when I arrive at Hunters Quay the noise is deafening: birds singing, chirping, tweeting, chirruping, laughing. They are celebrating my being there. I cannot believe I will wake up each morning and hear their joyful celebration.

The air is balmy: soft, sweet, deliciously May time. It can only be a sunny May day in the west Highlands.

I’m nervous about the arrangements for the walk, it suddenly seems far-fetched to find the car park, and hail the bus, and the bus to arrive at the right time and take me to the right place, but I let go and trust. And the bus comes.

The walk starts at Benmore Gardens: teeming with visitors and rhododendrons ready to burst into bloom. It’s an 8 mile walk to the top of Loch Eck, along its west side, all the way from one end of the Loch to the other. The sun shines all the way.

And it’s a photo walk too, taking pictures as I go and this stopping, and noticing, and taking of pictures, oh it takes me so long to keep stopping and taking and walking and stopping. It adds a good hour to a four hour walk.

But it’s worth it. I find hidden treasures. Tiny red thistles, just waiting to be admired. Outrageous gorse bushes, firing up yellow to the heavens. Purple rhododendrons, blooming and in bud. Tiny hedgerow flowers: weeds really, that you’d normally walk past without a glance. But look what happens when you stop, bend down, pay attention, whisper “thank you”.

Look how much beauty you find.

Towards the end of the walk I lie down in the grasses. Oh yes, it’s partly because I’m tired and it’s hot, but it’s mainly because it’s the best way I know to get up close and personal with the Highlands. To lie down on the warm, rough ground, and look out through the moorland grasses. Breathe in her scents. Watch through that grassy frame. Let the landscape move, softly, as the grasses bend in the wind.

It’s a feeling of perfect contentment. Of being at peace, at ease, of being in precisely the right place at precisely the right moment in time.

And giving thanks.

That’s when the heathers pop out at me. Rooted now, growing, and thriving.

And I remember, suddenly, a day last summer when I walked out by Loch Fyne. A hot, sunny summer’s day when I walked out along the valley, got stuck with some cattle, jumped over some fences, got lost by a quarry, scrambled down to the water, put my feet in the river.

Sat by the river and ate my picnic, dangled my feet in the water, and kept my face from the burning sun.

I remember now going back to the cafe later, and stopping first at the garden centre nearby. Looking wistfully at plants that will only grow in the west, and thinking they’re not for me, there’s no point in buying them now. Still feel the need though, the urge, to bring back something from my trip. A little pocket of Loch Fyne.

And so I buy six twists of heather, that sit now, growing and thriving in my city garden, connecting this earth: here, to that space, that earth, that moment in time.

Remember too how forlorn she felt. How sad. How far from being in the right place.

And suddenly it all falls into place. Why I need to go west. How it calls me. And that it doesn’t need to be right here or right there, it just needs to carry that feel: of the soft sweet air, the cold clear water on my warm sunburned feet, the lure of the hills, the ridiculous kiss of the soft highland rain.

It doesn’t need to make sense to you. Just to me.

And at last, when I watch this heather growing, it does, to me.

The rain that starts to fall, with a smile, as the car drives onto the ferry boat. (Never mind the sunshine in Glasgow, it’s time for some highland rain.)

The radio playing, jauntily, in the cafe at the marina, while I gulp my morning tea.

It’s the oystercatchers who arrive, on cue, when I stop for a moment at Sandbank and drink in the sea, the hills, the holy loch. Who fly by, calling.

Oh but was that the call?

Or is it the tea drunk in a warm kitchen on a sunny Friday afternoon. An invitation to stop, to chat, to make conversation amongst a community of eccentrics, away from the conventions of the city.

The tail of the dog, thumping quietly, as she sits at the open door, watching the sunlight, waiting for the invitation to roam.

I don’t know.

Perhaps it’s the call of the ferry boat, floating above the houses, drifting above the garden that watches above the quay.

But when I stop and think I’d say it was the birdsong: calling, laughing, singing, cajoling, exuberant with delight that I was there. Singing in the garden, laughing as I climbed up the hill, nodding with approval as I crossed the line and entered the wildness of the wood.

I hear you.

I hear you.

I’m coming.

I try different strategies. Tell my new friends of my plans. Tell it, write it, try to make it real with my words.

Struggle to hold on to the belief.

Maybe the sunshine doesn’t help. Throwing light into this house, showing me how lovely it is. Tempting me into my garden. How easy it is. Watching the cat sunbathing in the back. How perfect it is.

It’s only when the rain batters and the wind howls that my strength comes back. Calling me, reminding me, showing me the way.

And I try and write, and read, and organise my photos. Capturing the moment, remembering it’s true, affirming the possibility, no: stating the necessity. Making my connections. Weaving some threads.

Maybe this is how it needs to be. I want a sign, a move, a shift, something that says as clear as it can – it’s now, it’s for you, do this, this is how.

But maybe I’m not going to get that kind of a lifebelt. Maybe this is just how it will be, one foot in front of the other, weaving soft threads, my words and my pictures, the sound of the wind and the rain.

It’s a cold wet day by the time we leave Brodick and it’s only the smokers on deck. Looking back to the island I can’t help but notice the rows of empty seats, looking out to sea. Something jaunty, Victorian, no Edwardian about their colours, their steadfast wait for the stream of day trippers.

Not ten minutes later and the weather’s changed again. Brilliant blue skies over the Ayrshire coast, demanding more pictures. It’s a feast of blues – more sea, I wonder, or more sky? I take some of each, adjusting, admiring as I go.

On the other side of the boat the skies have darkened. Streaks of black rain on the horizon. The faint outline of Ailsa Craig in shadows of darkness and light.

A fishing boat drifts past. As I turn back to watch the boat is perfectly framed: dark clouds, sheets of rain, bright silver sunshine illuminating the water.

Why do I prefer this side of the boat? It’s not just the last look at the island.

It’s the appeal of the dark, the wind and the rain, the edge of the Atlantic, the promise of the islands, the stretch into wildness, the depths of my history, the wildness of the west.

I can resist it no more.

In the wood, the wind flies through the trees, spooking me with its whispers. The golden remains of autumn lie on the path, even though we’re nearing spring. Gorse bushes are walloped by the wind and the rain, bright petals strewn like confetti in the path.

At the break in the path, an old green bench sits waiting.

It marks a break in the landscape. The sky opens up. The woods stops its whispering. Here the gorse bushes stand strong. The sea shimmers silver ahead.

The path runs on to the cairn at Torrylinn.

I stop to soak up the history. It’s only later I notice the colour of the stones, the perfect ending to my yellow-seeking walk.

Stained deep with yellow lichen.

My landlord is waiting for the bus, a hopeful trip to the Ferry terminal, to see if the boat is running. In the Co-op, neighbours discuss the speed of the wind. There’s a discussion about speed and directions, and what it means for the running of the boat.

The boat is the pulse of the island. Regulating its pace, its speed, its economy. It’s a constant, humbling, reminder that there are things outwith our control.

By the shore at Kildonan the wind howls, blowing salt water onto my face. The waves crash on the distant headland. It’s hard to stay out, to stay upright, but it’s hard to stay inside too.

The wind has wild dervish energy. It makes me shout, and laugh.

The wind has dominion.