@BurgersAndBruce
We had no fixed destination, and that was the beauty of it. My boyfriend and I had swapped our comfy London bed for a VW campervan, and had shoved our precious belongings – pillows, puffer jackets and tea bags – into its boot and cabinets. We took the first single-track road (it didn’t matter which one), turned the music up and drove alongside fields of golden heather, stopping occasionally to let snoozing sheep saunter off the road and slowing to snap pictures of scarecrows cloaked in high-viS jackets. Then we rounded a corner and saw it. There, in front of us, on the rough and remote Outer Hebridean island of Lewis and Harris, was the most dazzling sweep of cream sand, its far edge lapped with small fluoro-green waves, its sides flanked by steel-grey rock. We slammed to a halt, kicked off our trainers and ran to the freezing water – our footsteps the only marks on the sand, our feet the first to touch the North Atlantic that day. The beach felt impossible to leave behind, and so we didn’t.