The beach at Cnip (Kneep in English) stretches far away, pure clean sand with ripples left by the retreating sea and small puncture marks left by raindrops which fell earlier in the day. The ever present wind sweeps across the landscape keeping us cool but never too cold as it arrives from a southerly direction where a warmer climate rules.
We are on Lewis, the northernmost of the Outer Hebridean islands, camped for the second night of our latest holiday/adventure. The campsite lies amongst the dunes behind this vast beach and on arrival we find a notice in the window of the facilities building giving instructions to new arrivals. We call the telephone number provided and speak to a man whose name we later discover is Fin Morrison, this being a local name. His accent is strange to us, faintly Irish to our ears, but he tells us where to find an empty pitch for our campervan saying he'll be by later to collect payment. The site is quite spread out, grass covered sand with markers to ensure adequate spacing between pitches, and it is far from level so it takes us a while to find a spot where the van is not leaning too much.
We settle in and cook ourselves a meal as the wind whistles through the dunes then, just as we are tidying away, we notice a black saloon car has driven up close to us and an elderly gentleman emerges. His face is lined with age and his beard in need of a good trim but I guess (correctly) that he is Fin who I spoke with earlier. We open the door for him and begin to answer his questions as he writes out a receipt for the twenty pound overnight fee.
"Where are you from?" he asks. His reaction when we simply say "Argyll" is one of sadness for it is a place where the Gaelic language is rarely spoken, something that is clearly very important to him. We comment that we try to embrace the culture associated with the Gaelic language and I mention that I play in a band.
"Do you play fiddle?" he asks, so I confess to playing a concertina. At this his eyes lit up and his interest seemed to spike. He wants to know more.
"What Scottish tunes do you play? Do you play waltzes?" He names a tune, which I don't recognise so I ask him to sing it for me. In hindsight this was a rather cheeky request but without hesitation he begins to sing the tune for me. Unfortunately I have to confess that I don't recognise it so he tries again, this time asking if I know Leaving Lismore. This one I know, of course, as it is part of the repertoire of the Fyne Thyme band.
At this point something amazing happens. We are parked on a remote windy campsite on the west coast of Lewis and suddenly I am singing a tune I know along with a local man who has come to our door to collect camping dues. Once started he continues singing, as do I, both parts of the tune, in perfect time and pitch until we reach the end. To him this is clearly better use of his time than collecting camping dues and for me I am filled with emotion as we come to an end. I thank him and he departs quickly, finally remembering what he came to do. I can only hope the song we shared has meant as much to him as it did to me. To think that I can join together with a local man and provide him with pleasure in this way leaves me thrilled and buzzing inside, a feeling that I take away with me on the rest of our journey through the islands.
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