One dark and stormy night, a photographer stumbled on to Breacachadh beach, weary and lost. He had been walking from Port na Luing to Uig when his torch failed, leaving him blind and disorientated.

There was no light to be seen, no track to follow, the only sign that humans had ever preceded him in this lonely place was the gaunt, roofless ruin of the Old Castle, inhabited then by gulls and scrabbling rats (plus ça change etc.) He sank back on the cold damp rocks and lit a cigarette, grateful for the cheerful flare of the match and the aromatic glow of the tobacco. In the inky blackness, a wisp of smoke seemed to take the form of a woman, clad in a soft mediaeval robe, gliding soundlessly towards him. He closed his eyes to try to reorientate his vision, only to find the figure standing a few yards away from him, her head bent in dejection, the pale face drawn by centuries of grieving. Though logic contradicted, he somehow knew that this was the famed grey lady of Breacachadh. His voice unsteady he spoke softly, afraid of driving the desolate spirit back to its own dimension. "Lady, can I be of some service to you?" The head was raised, the sightless eyes seemed to look beyond him at the far horizon. "No-one can help me. It is my destiny to wander these lands until, through kindness to strangers, my sins are expiated. What may I do for you?" the voice was icy, a whisper of putrefaction from the charnel house wafting past his terrified face. He thought quickly, then his professional curiosity overcame his fear. "Lady, would you object if I tried to capture your image with my camera? It may be fruitless, but I would like to try." She nodded slowly, and as he assembled his apparatus, she stood by the castle, somehow seeming to solidify her form so that the outlines were sharp and clear, the features of her face distinct.

Trembling with excitement he fitted the flash unit, cursing that the batteries were low and weak, and, as the spirit posed statuesquely against the castle wall, he took five photographs before the flash ceased to work. The image on the viewfinder was perfect, the ghostly character apparent with the crumbling stone of the castle just visible through the semi-transparent form. With the last click of the shutter, the phantasm disappeared with a chilly, piteous sigh.

That night, safely back at Uig, the photographer worked feverishly in his darkened room. As the film emerged from its final washing, he pinned it up over the basin, his hands shaking with anticipation, and shone a light behind it, searching for the ghostly image which would secure his fame and fortune. The film was black and empty. No Castle, no trace of the forlorn phantom who had so generously posed for his camera. He put his head in his hand and groaned. "Oh why didn't I buy batteries today?" he sobbed, "all my hopes shattered, for though the spirit was willing - the flash was weak".