CHAPTER XX 



SKERRYVORE 



A GREY September morning, with the wind strong from the 

 nor '-west. For days now the weather has been unsettled, 

 and a heavy swell is breaking on the reefs that guard this 

 small isolated rock from the waters of the Atlantic. The 

 steamer which is to make the relief at the two storm-swept 

 lighthouses of Skerryvore and Dubh Hirteach, lying not so 

 many miles apart, but both of them far out at sea, lies at 

 anchor in the Sound of lona, rising and falling gently on the 

 swell. 



Thick drizzling rain is falling, and the day is long of 

 breaking. It is still dusk as anchor is weighed, and the 

 boat slips out through the sound, heading nor'-westward 

 in the teeth of the wind, and making for the lighthouse 

 built on the wild rock of Skerryvore (Sgeir Mhor, the Big 

 Rock) twenty-five miles distant. Ahead, the sky is thick with 

 mist and rain, and soon the view of the land is lost. 



Nothing meets the eye save an expanse of storm-tossed 

 waters. Sunken rocks — the Torrans — lie about us, and from 

 time to time cascades of spray shoot up into the air, where the 

 Atlantic swell meets the reefs. A wild part of the coast 

 is this, and many a ship has found her doom on these 

 rocks. Our vessel is powerfully built, as she must needs 

 be in order to withstand the storms of winter, but the head- 

 seas are slowing her down. 



One sees many birds on these waters of solitude. Solan 

 geese fly past, making their way hither and thither in search 

 of fish. The flight of the solan is a thing of immense 

 power, so that even the gulls themselves seem punv and 

 feeble in comparison ; but then the solan is essentially a 



III 



