C. and A. are neighbours, living in a remote stone house almost an hour's drive away from us. The house, which was once a school, is hidden high up on the hill and has views sweeping down the slopes and onto the sea, out to the Treshnish Islands beyond. The day we visited, there was little in view from the kitchen doors as rain and fog had obscured much of the heather-covered hills.

Tea seemed more of a formality, served up in a metal teapot alongside a lovely Victoria Sponge. Soon after we had finished out first cup, A. started rootling around in the fridge for tonic, coming back with some large drinks, the ice tinkling in the glasses. We discussed my recent parasite- A. is a parasitologist-, love, the state of the roads and the wind. The wind features heavy on the agenda in Mull, especially in this old school house, stranded alone on the hill with nothing to protect it from the raging gales that blow in from the Atlantic.

On leaving, C. offered us some eggs laid on Saturday by the golden chickens that pecked in and amongst the thick heather of their garden.

"We're selling them in the kiosk now," she said proudly, and led us to a small shed sitting proudly beside the gravel driveway, though not near the single-track main road. Lowering the front shutter and putting right the sign that had fallen to the mud, we stepped inside to find eggs and cards for sale (honey to follow) and I thought, this is what Britain is missing. In Dakar, this would be known as a 'Diallo' shop, referring to the hard-working Fulanis (often named Diallo) who take over small boutiques and run them day and night, selling eggs, single cigarettes, hair-weave and toothpaste. In Bissau, it might be known as the 'Narr', referring to the Arab Mauritanians who seem to make such good shop-keepers, keeping tinned mackerel, peanuts, raw shea butter and soap powder for sale in tiny quantities in their tightly-packed shops. The boutique is the quintessential emblem of west Africa- for its readiness to face any eventuality, any time of the day or night, no planning required.

C. and I played shop-keeper for a while, pretending I was in Abidjan and selling "a-thie-ke chaud" to imaginary passers-by. C. said that the first day she opened shop, she came home to find three cards and six eggs gone and a £5 note in the honesty box.


*****




There was snow on Ben Moore, but we only saw it once or twice, when the cloud lifted just enough to be able to see the white-capped hill across the loch from the house. The week brought gusts of rain, gales and a hail storm, and three sheep camped out on the lawn and ate their way through the luscious grass that had shot up with all the water.

Last night, as we were eating dinner, a car pulled up into the drive, our first visitor in a week. It was M., the farmer from down the road with his dog Taff. He was looking for his sheep, which had just that afternoon moved off elsewhere. I invited him in for a drink; it was a lovely still evening and the wind bristling the loch had dropped so that the hills were reflected in the glassy waters infront of the house.

"Aye," he said, "I'll just find my sheep and then I'll be in."

He went to the cab of his red pick-up, pulled a ten-day old lamb from inside, and handed it to me along with a Sprite bottle filled with milk, and a long red teat.

"He'll be needin' feedin'" he said, and drove off to find his tups.

The lamb dragged on the teat, and drank the bottle of warm milk in just a few minutes. His wool was tight, warm white curls, and I could feel two hard horns just emerging beneath the black wool on his head. As I held him by the stomach, his umbilical cord, now hard and black, stuck like a tangled wire into my hand. His bursting, wriggling energy reminded me pleasantly of home, origins. It's been more than twenty years since I fed a lamb, but it served to remind me of my very happy childhood.