They warned me that island time was not something to scoff at. And in the 25 minutes it takes me to put out the bins, I understand it now.

It’s not an exaggeration. There’s no quick wheelie bin trip to the end of the driveway, no noisy collection in the wee hours. There’s just me, my car, and the bumpy road to the skips at the pier.

I haven't had an excuse to get dressed up for much since moving here, but for the bins, I make an exception. Wellies on, waterproof trousers zipped, tattered hoodie pulled tight under a mucky jacket. And the gloves - I can’t forget the gloves.

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The bin bags are piled high in the boot of the car, atop banana boxes to contain any unsightly escapees. The recycling goes in the back seat - bottles and cans that rattle in the short drive to the pier, threatening to tumble out their box with every slight pothole. And once we’re there, it’s a battle with the elements.

The first time I did this trip, the wind was howling and the rain was lashing -........

© Herald Scotland