"Is South Uist part of the United Kingdom?" asked the man from the Prudential.

"I'm not sure, but I can ask." (One never knows with anything around Scotland) I telephoned then and there.

"Richard, the man from the Prudential is here. Is South Uist part of the United Kingdom?"

"Absolutely," said Richard.

The Prudential was relieved and grateful and gave me my insurance.

That was only a small part of the preparations. There was the first day the prospectus went up on the wall of the house in early March. "Hebridean Expedition" sounded impressive, and the offer of bed and breakfast was reassuring — "I cannot sleep If I am cold", I told Richard, although there was a secret shame that I was rejecting this, the first opportunity of camping I had ever had. But I could do everything else couldn't I? Well, perhaps not the water things. I love water, gazing at its different moods and lights - and perhaps a therapeutic fifteen minutes dip three times a week in the local swimming baths. "I'm not really a water person", I told Richard. "I burn uncomfortably lying in the sun in my swimming costume." "You'll be lucky!!" said Richard.

In fact, I watched the first six people doing capsize drill and photographed each stage but with a different person doing it. I took a really intelligent interest. And I joined in boat trips whenever the chance came: I loved the P4, the fat orange rubber contraption (was that the leader preparing to do battle with the midges?? - Ed) with its obstinate outboard motor that would suddenly roar into life when the frantically active operator nearly fell overboard as he (or she) pulled the starter cord. After that wild beginning to the boat trip, it was a peaceful, soothing, uplifting experience to be a speck on a large expanse of water, able to touch the water with one's hand, humbly.

The day we went fishing from the P4 was the only really wet day we had in the two weeks of the expedition. At last, my waterproof trousers were really useful, but my hands lost all feeling. Racing back to shore, into the teeth of the strong off-shore wind was exhilarating. As we six crowded at the back of the boat and the nose lifted higher and higher into the air, one simply trusted one's leader. After all, had one not signed an oath of allegiance, promising to do as one was told?

With the same faith, I went walking on the hills, grateful when the leader took time to stop and g(r)aze. The changing light was breathtaking. The silence was healing. At the human level one felt inadequate at times, as when Jane and Diane skipped ahead like mountain gazelles along what seemed to me nearly sheer hill-side. "Jane, I don't like this. Please can we go down?" And down we went — the others zigzagging sensibly upright while I sat on my bottom and slid through the heather.

Never before have I really come to grips with birds and plants. I have just enjoyed then vaguely. Now, I was really looking, really noticing details as they were pointed out everyone around me seemed really enthusiastic about noticing and identifying and the excitement was catching.

The barbecue on the beach on Midsummer Night - when we did not go to see the Standing Stone line up with the Stone on St Kilda because clouds hid the sun; and the meditation we shared there in the afterglow. We had so often this experience at two levels: excellent food, and imaginative spirituality. Wanda shared with us some beautiful Celtic prayers. I began to have some sense of the qualities of Celtic civilisation. And when Father John Angus MacDonald came to talk to us one evening about the physical history and prehistory of the Western Isles and their political and human history too, that was one of the highlights of the two weeks.

I simply cannot think about the next expedition at the moment. I am too full of this one. There is so much more that I will remember. But perhaps what remains above all is the sense of being in touch with the Celts, and the memory of the vast silence, and the light changing over the loch.

Then there were the locals - the human beings who shared their life and their beautiful country with us outsiders. They were so kind and calm and friendly and humorous and helpful. I will always remember feeding a motherless lamb from a bottle in Mary's kitchen. And waiting and waiting for Richard courteously taking time to talk when he went and asked permission for us to visit someone's private beach.

A Trip to the Monach Isles.

We reached the appointed boatman a trifle late in a minibus packed to the gunwhales. The crew had not surfaced that morning, possibly due to a hangover, and the thought that the trip might be off. This gladdened the hearts of some. But finally everyone was ready and we drove to the point of embarkation to view the "Crystal Sea". Was this boat to take us to a larger sea-going vessel or was this THE boat? Those remaining knew they had made the right decision: those leaving could not now back out in such a public place.

Awaiting us at the top of the dunes was the most glorious pastoral scene of lush grass, with bright yellow buttercups bobbing, sheep grazing, rabbits scurrying to their warrens and the birds flying up to warn others of our approach. The sun blazed in the luminous blue sky and we were very glad to be there.

A place where there's green, green grass, a carpet of yellow buttercups, white sweeping sand dunes, sea alternating between deep blue and Jade green glistening In the sun, seems almost too good to be true, yet this was the experience of six of us when we visited the Monach Isles during the second week of the expedition.