in the case of Harris in 2004) and those devilish clouds of minuscule, maddening midges, the surge of summer events rolled on unabated in the Outer Hebrides. A spate of agricultural shows, galas, Highland games, and mod musical competitions filled the weeks around the grand summer climax: the hugely popular Hebridean Celtic Festival in mid-July at Stornoway. Anne and I unfortunately were off-island for much of the time, not so much to avoid the rain showers and persistent biters but because of the sudden loss of Cynthia, my mother’s younger sister. The ensuing weeks were a marked contrast to the slow-paced hours and days spent on Harris. We traveled the four hundred or so miles south to green, sun-soaked Yorkshire, where the funeral was arranged, endless forms were signed or witnessed, probate lawyers were dealt with, and a house was cleared and readied for sale. Fortunately, it was a small house, snuggled away in an idyllic Constable-type spot—a cozy village overlooking the Vale of York and the great upland plateau of the North Yorkshire Moors to the east.
