The Raasay run

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Today we made our postponed visit to Raasay. The Caledonian MacBrayne ferry operates a "turn up and go" service: there's no booking and you pay on the boat. When a crewman collected our fares, we asked about the return. They wouldn't leave us stranded on the island, he assured us. If we couldn't get on the last scheduled crossing (the limit is twelve vehicles), they'd make an extra round trip to get us.

From mid-channel, we could see a cluster of small white waves to the south of the jetty. There was a murmur of anticipation among the passengers and one returned to his car to fetch field glasses. As we drew nearer, we glimpsed the backs and fins of a school of dolphins. Two broke the surface close to the ferry and swam with us for a short way, arching out of the water briefly, then disappearing, to emerge again further along our starboard side.

At a sign offering coffee, we pulled into the car park hotel. A woman was clearing crockery from bench seats. "Dolphins off the pier," she called out to us. Looking back, we found that the hotel overlooked the harbour and their frolics must have been visible from here. In the bar, over coffee, we planned our walk. A Dutch couple left just before we did. We'd decided to head for Ballemeanach and walk up to the extinct volcano of Dun Caan, where in 1773 Boswell danced a jig on reaching the summit during his tour with Dr Johnson.

As the road climbed round the hillside above the island's west coast, we saw the Dutch couple's car ahead of us. The man was standing alongside it, contemplating a large red-brown cow, which had turned its right flank to him, unconcerned about his progress. He'd tried sounding his horn, he said. A loud "goo-orn" from David at her rear was enough to move the beast to the verge. By the time we'd returned to our cars, she'd taken up the same blocking position five yards further down the road. At last, he succeeded in shooing her into a passing place, where she watched us pass, her jaw chewing lazily sideways.

The path up to Dun Caan is a rocky bed, over which rainwater runs off the hillside, between steep slopes of purple and orange heather. During the ascent, we stopped and looked back from time to time towards Skye. As the clouds shifted, curtains of pale white light appeared over the sound, or plots of green with grouped houses were lit like stage sets. Because the weather was closing in, we decided not to press on to the summit. Instead, we ate our rolls and cherries seated on a slab of rock above the lochs at the foot of Dun Caan. As soon as we sat down, our faces and hands were speckled with midges.

When we arrived back at the car, the cow was still in the passing place, as mindlessly content as she had been in the middle of the road.

Further north, the road surface deteriorated: potholes and sharp bends slowed us to 10 mph. By the ruins of Brochel Castle, we turned back for the 5pm ferry.

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