It’s late at night and I’m sitting on the wide window ledge in the kitchen. The light is on and the curtains are open. I’m reading.
There’s the sound of pitter patter on the window – the perfect sound of large raindrops hitting the glass. It’s a romantic sound to me, speaking volumes of the isolation, the exposure, the forces of nature. I look out into the night and can’t see any rain. I strain to see raindrops falling and glistening dampness on the ground but there is none. Then I notice the pitter patter is being made by hundreds of dungflies bashing themselves against the window trying to get in.
Westray is a place you have to learn to love.