One of the many splendid spin-offs from this magazine has been the number of unsolicited letters and articles I've received from people who want to put on record their appreciative memories of the island and its inhabitants. To publish them all in their entirety would take this whole issue, so here are extracts from just some I've received during the past year.

Margaret Snow, who calls her piece Island of Joy, remembers going to Arileod for her summer holidays and staying with Mary and her father, Hugh Kennedy: -

I loved to go across the field to Ballard where Lachie and Angus and their sister had a large herd of milking cows. How exciting it was to a town child to watch each cow selecting its own stall in the byre and what delightful frissons of fear ran through me when I heard that someone had forgotten to chain the bull! That bull - I can see him now - a large white beast placidly chewing the cud and gazing at the little girl perched timorously on the gate of Arileod.

Mary trusted me to take the can over and collect the milk but one day the bull must have been in the field with the cows. Did he just look at me or did he even step towards me? I can't remember but I dropped the can and fled to Arileod, loud with tears and lamentations!

Does the ghost still haunt the byre at Arileod and can you still pick mushrooms in the fields at the rear?

Leslie Myatt first reached Coll in 1953 on the Loch Earn, and was met by Davy Fotheringham on the ferryboat and taken by Angus to Ballard, where he was employed for the rest of the summer:-

There are many episodes during that time in Coll which still remain firmly imprinted in my memory. Angus was very proud of his two horses and would not think of having a tractor, in fact I do not remember even seeing a tractor on the island at that time. I was told that tractors would spoil the ground and that horses could always do the job much better.

Much of my time was spent in the field below the house where sometimes we would take shelter in the whins and a rest from haymaking when the rain come on. It was on these occasions when Lachie would tell me about the history of his farm machinery, some of which had been salvaged from a wreck some twenty years earlier. He also explained to me the longevity of Harris tweed as a material from which his jacket was made - a fact which I have since discovered to be true.

There was always soup in the pot hanging from the swey over the fire. It tasted delicious after exhausting work, and a distinctive flavour I have never tasted since was that of the Coll rabbits. Together with Morag's baking my enormous appetite was always satisfied.

Water was from the well beyond the house and on fine days it was a pleasant task to walk up there and fill the two buckets which then hung from the ceiling in the dairy. From here a door led through to the byre where we hand-milked the cows. There were no sheep on the farm and the lorry called each day to collect the milk which had all been poured into the churn.

The radio was used sparingly, in order to conserve the batteries, and mainly for the weather forecast and headlines of the news, but what was happening in the outside world did not seem very relevant to life on Coll.

John Workman, now aged eighty, came to Coll for a holiday just after the first world war. He also stayed at Ballard and he and his brother had 'a good time running wild all over the place'.

"... there was a bit of a hullaballoo and the men started hurrying towards the beach. Of course we boys followed and reached a spot where about six men of Coll were arguing fiercely with a number of men from Tiree. It appears the Coll men had salvaged and stacked planks of wood that had been washed up, but some Tiree fishermen had seen the stacks from the sea and were taking the wood away so there was much shouting. It was mostly in Gaelic, but what was actually said I could guess!

I also remember that the people of the farm held a barn dance before we departed and we young boys and girls looked down at the dancers from the loft which had been swept and covered with straw. As I remember, everybody had a very good time."

Doris Scholefield visited Coll for the first time last year and, as she explains, had a very special reason for doing so: -

"It was about 1933 that my father travelled to Coll on business. He was a funeral director and his mission was to have a (non-local!) body in the cemetery there exhumed and transported to Brookwood in Surrey for reburial. On his return he told us what a unique and beautiful place the island was and how hospitable were its people, especially the postmaster and his family, with whom he stayed. He told me of a dish he enjoyed like junket, made from seaweed. To go on a journey like that in those days was a very rare occasion. So, to me, at seven years old, it was sheer magic. Never in my wildest dreams did I think then that I'd ever visit those shores.

It came out of the blue therefore when, during a recent touring holiday in Scotland, the friends I was travelling with suggested we should visit Coll. We set off on a beautifully sunny morning and I watched with childish excitement as the rocky island came into view. Where did the islanders live? Then a cluster of dwellings appeared, nestling in a sheltered bay. We'd been told that people at the guest house would take visitors for an island tour, so we made our way there. A man was just coming out of the gate as we arrived and he agreed to take us. We all jumped into the vehicle. "What is your special interest?" he asked, and I eagerly told my story. To my amazement he said, "I am Robert Sturgeon. It was my father your Dad stayed with. I was a lad at the time. I remember your Dad came from Brookwood". What a memory! I could hardly believe my ears ... And so off we went on that memorable tour of Coll that was over far too soon." (Robert also remembers his mother asking him to get some kindling from the garage and his steady refusal to go because 'that man is in there'. They had brought the remains back from the cemetery in a square box and stored them in the Sturgeons' garage overnight ... !)

Peter Mason, his wife and four children went to stay with Tom and Joan Gordon at Grishipol in 1964:-

Coll was at its best, and Joan at her most hospitable. We all took to each other at once, perhaps because we all came from the North of England. Indeed the only fault I ever did find with the Gordons was that they, I believe, came from the wrong side of the Pennines! We were mothered and cosseted and given comfortable beds, and we quickly got used to the fact that our electricity came from a tiny windmill on a hill behind the house. No telly, no wireless, and if there was no wind, no reading after dark!

There followed a wonderful holiday. When the sun shone we climbed Ben Hogh or scrambled through the garden of the empty manse to the beach at Clabhach - the most beautiful in the Western Isles - or walked past Ballyhough and through the bent land to Totronald and Breachacha Castle.

Tom and Joan had two daughters who were slightly older than our children, and were therefore shamelessly heroworshipped. The hero-worship was not entirely without point, as one of them owned a pony, a ride on which was a reward devoutly to be wished. The parents worked all hours. Tom's dog, which answered to the tasteful name of Hambone and which was a spirited but obedient spaniel of doubtful provenance, was his constant companion, and the beneficiary, along with us, of his clear-cut views. "There is no place for face-fungus" he used to say tautologically "in modem contemporary society". Or again "those who break the law should not be just imprisoned, they should be totally incarcerated". With dear Tom, you knew exactly where you stood.

(I received, incidentally, a note from one Gordon daughter, Marion, recently. If anyone would like to contact her, I have her address. Ed.)

And lastly, part of a tribute from David Nove, whose family have been regular island visitors for many years:-

"I find it almost impossible to explain to my friends the large, almost empty beaches and the wonderful colours on the water looking across to the mainland from the north shore on a sunny day ... Perhaps the most difficult thing to define is the atmosphere of the island. The main street in Arinagour has, in all the years we've been coming to the island, remained the same. The pace, if I can put it that way, is unhurried ... We shall above all be grateful to the island for the fact that we could bring our children here in the knowledge that they would be perfectly safe going to the shops, playing on the beaches or whatever they wanted to do. They are now grown up and haven't been to the island for a year or two. The hope is that, if they have children, they will remember Coll and return with them in the future."