"But what do you Do on holiday in Coll?"

They always ask that, as if it were the $64,000 question. Then they have an inspiration. "I suppose you unwind, and recharge your batteries?"

You see how it is. People speak as if folk were mechanical pieces of faulty technology. (Once upon a time they might have suggested we "restore our souls" - but that kind of expression is reserved now for the psalm we sing at funerals!) There is the idea behind this puzzled question, that constant activity is all-important, rather than any notion that to be still, and simply be is more essential for our well being.

So, without the diversions of organised holidays, and apart from walking. cycling, bathing, fishing, banting, flower hunting, bird watching, archaeology and exploration - what does one do on Coll? Well, first, one breathes. "You must be joking!" says our outraged questioner, No, seriously; that clear, pure air, free from diesel fumes, is something to be savoured like a delicious meal. There is the almost intoxicating honey scent of clover and lady's bedstraw, thyme of the machair, aromatic tang of bog myrtle, peat reek and the felt presence of salt water. Every summer breath on Coll can be a delight, after the vitiated air of car pollution elsewhere. That in itself is a source of vital energy.

Second, all the time, one is looking. Sea, sky and earth are brimful, overflowing with colour. In the twinkling of an eye changing light and shade can transform shore and hill and water, One learns the way of the wind, carrying rain on its back or thrusting away dour clouds to let the sun have its day. Eyes accustomed to focus on daily work and TV watch instead for herons and hedgehogs; examine shells, and stones, seeing in the mind's eye Margaret Glendyke's lovely tumble, polished wonders. We look out for Duke of Argyll black rabbits, and the Laird's "fancy sheep", and Acha donkeys; shy, long. lashed calves; the inquisitive dairy hens; Manse goslings; the old collie that barks at passing bicycles; Margaret Limetree's cycling pussy; Calum in the mail van; Butt the village watchdog at his cottage doorstep; Lachie and Katina's window display of Busy Lizzies; Betty MacDougall's and Hugh Handy's roses; and always sheep and lambs, terns, seals, yachts in the bay, boats on the horizon, and the magical islands floating beyond Call. And, all along the way, wild flowers lure us as surely as rainbow feathers entice breac, the speckled trout.

There is no end to the feasting of the eyes on Coll, and this can be indulged. picnicking every day on sandy beach, on moor, machair or hill, each with its own special outlook, and sounds that make listening another positive Coll activity. Larks, corncrakes, stonechats, oyster catchers, seals, cicadas; grunting 27 hedgehogs, lambs anxiously calling and sheep hoarsely answering; dashing waves and quietly flowing burns; find human speech - sometimes even the sound of that tongue we are told was spoken in the Garden of Eden- These compose a summer symphony that is part of the experience of Coll.

That's it - we experience Coll. It's not so much what we do, as what Coll does to us (“’S ann don a' chaochad sin a theid an lanachd”). ¹ Above all, of course, Coll means Collachs. Over the years we have been visiting, they have accorded us the privilege of friendly acceptance, so that we look forward eagerly every year to meeting again the people who belong to the island, and to hearing all their news of the past year. The meeting of the boat, greeting of arrivals who are old friends and the collecting of Supplies together, from Cathie and lain at the Store, that welcoming gathering place, are among the social occasions of our days.

One is aware always of those long-ago Collachs in the island's dawn, who raised the standing stones at Totronald, built the cists at Cnoc a' Bhadain hehind Arinagour, looked out from the dun at Acha and the fort at Ballyhaugh, rested secure in their midloch crannogs. Deserted townships at Grimsary and Arnobost and many others are mute reminders of island folk whose way of life still lingers in living memory. One makes a pilgrimage to Cill lonnaig to pay one’s respects to those who have gone, and one feels the tautness of a thread of love for Coll that binds us all together, even those of us who may be "only visitors". "Air latha Samhraidh bhiodh ar saobhal cruinn". 2 Without Coll, our world would fall apart. 1"lt is into that emptiness that fullness goes" 2"On a summer day our world was whole". Gaelic quotations taken from Derrick Thomson's Collected Poems Creachadh na Clarsaich. (Macdonald. 1982).