Time has an exceptional quality here; the day lasts interminably (I have not seen darkness since I got here, even when I sleep at midnight and wake up at 7am) and there is nothing, like the call of the mosque, to mark its passing. I look out on the rocks and the glassy loch and imagine it to be 5 in the afternoon, only to find it is half past nine at night. At eight in the morning it feels like midday. But it doesn't matter what time it is, I have nowhere to be and nothing to do but write and wonder what I will do when I get really hungry.

The car is still being fixed so today I walked the four miles back from the village with a bag of kale and some potatoes so I shall be alright for a while.

When I got back, I was sunburnt so I went down to the shore in my wellies and waded into the clear water, rippled with giant plaits of rust-coloured seaweed. I swam backwards and forth, though it was quite cold. I noticed a caravan parked far-off along the way and when I splashed about loudly, two figures came around to the front of the caravan and stood watching in my direction. I could tell by the way their elbows were out that they were both looking through their binoculars.

"Oh, I say," I could imagine one of them saying, "what do you think that is? Over there, look!"

"Let's have a look," replied the other probably, focusing the lenses and nestling them into his eye sockets. "Do you think it's a seal, or maybe an otter?"

I stood up in the six inches of water I now found myself in and gave them an enormous wave. Only one of them waved back.