It’s been raining, and the wet grass feels fresh and summery. But the wooden scent, that’s new. There’s a crack like thunder towards our house - another tree is down. Storm Floris is here, and she is brutal.

I’ll admit, when I saw the named storm and even checked the forecast, I underestimated it. It’s the middle of summer, how bad can winds really get? And yet here we are, sitting in work with our faces pressed up against the windows in the front room, watching the branches fall and the sea spray whip against the wind.

When you run an island’s largest accommodation, especially an island that encourages adventure and hiking, you don’t get to sit out a storm - you’re very much a part of it. Our Bunkhouse was already busy with people looking to claim the ridge and the corbitts, and their initial plan was to leave the island on Monday. No such luck.

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We had two sailors turn up late into the night in sodden jackets and wind-swept hair, looking for some spare beds to see out the storm. They’d sailed from near Ballachulish, hoping to moor in Mallaig or Arisaig - but........

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