There are three Loganair flights leaving Edinburgh Airport in the space of an hour… and only two check-in desks open. When we finally reach the front of the line, I am keen for things to go quickly and smoothly.

 “Do you have any dangerous goods?” asks the check-in agent.

 “Yes!” responds DorkySon, with great enthusiasm.

 DorkyDad and I look at him in horror. 

 “You do?” says the check-in agent, eyebrow raised.

“Hang on, hang on,” says DorkySon. “Did you ask me if everything is good?” 

 

When the miscommunication is eventually cleared up, we make our way through to the chaos that is Edinburgh Airport Departures. We’re ready to hop on a quick flight up to Stornoway, and eagerly awaiting the Tunnocks Caramel Wafer that we know will be offered onboard. 

Good old Stornoway. Ever reliable. Where my Dad is always waiting at the window with a hug and a grin. Where the baggage conveyor belt is already beeping and grinding into action before we’ve made it into the terminal building. And where our plane has inevitably reboarded and taxied back out for its return flight before we have the hire car keys in hand. 

We arrive on the island bearing gifts. Our suitcases are bulging at the seams with tshirts and trinkets, with packets of Caramello Koalas and Caramilk Wallabies, with bubble-wrapped jars of Bruny Island Jam, and carefully carved boab nuts from Warringarri Arts Centre. 

We arrive to absolute scenes. Well, by island standards at least.

The supermarket where we usually do a quick shop before heading south to Tarbert is being refurbished, so we have to brave the other, bigger one which has notoriously narrow aisles. (I am grateful that we have broken up our journey in Edinburgh and aren’t trying to do this after two days of long-haul flights.)

The ferry has just come in, so there is heavy traffic and plenty of drivers with their elbows out; and it is school lunch hour, so the store is full of hungry, half-feral high school students. I had forgotten that British supermarkets require a pound coin to release your trolley, so I scramble around in my purse and have to pull out and scrutinise every bloody denomination in there before I find the right one. 

When we return to our extremely fancy hybrid car with touchscreen infotainment system, we spend twenty minutes trying to turn off the radio… before giving up and driving down the road with it still playing, just so low we can’t hear it. 

However, the moment we step into our rental cottage, calm is restored. Not even the unsettling knowledge that my Primary One teacher is living in the house next door – the teacher I notoriously told to eff off on the first day of school – is enough to detract from what a beautiful and inviting space this is. 

There is delightful artwork, big comfy beds, and spotlessly clean bathrooms. There’s a well-equipped kitchen, and a vinyl collection that DorkyDad wastes no time in investigating. The welcome hamper of goodies from the owner, and a beautiful flower bouquet from my Dad and stepmum, are truly the icing on the cake.  

I will confess that before we arrive, I feel apprehensive about this portion of the trip. I have read so many social media posts and newspaper op-eds, along with the occasional grumbling message from family or friends, about how much the island has changed. 

I wonder if the Harris I know and love will still be recognisable; or if it really has been ruined by the hordes of visitors (of which I am now one), the countless new buildings, and the mile-long convoys of camper vans that stretch along the single track roads.

I am relieved to discover, very quickly, that it has not been ruined. Perhaps it’s because UK school holidays are over and the peak season has passed. Perhaps it’s because when the best restaurant in the village is managed by your cousins, they’ll always find a corner to squeeze you into. Or perhaps it’s just because I’ve always preferred understated Nisabost to Insta-favourite Luskentyre, so there is no need to fight anyone for a parking spot. 

I am certainly not dismissing or diminishing the very real concerns that locals have about over-tourism. As we well know in Tassie, too many people and not enough infrastructure can be awful. 

But in the ten days that we spent there, new Harris felt very much like old Harris… just a bit better. All the new developments I saw – from houses to event spaces to windmills – felt appropriately sized and located, and many of them had been initiated by the community. Being able to walk along the Main Street in Tarbert and pop into a recently opened deli for a decent flat white – well, that was just a bonus. 

We spend our first few days just settling in, and enjoy being able to walk a few minutes up the road to see family. So much easier than finding a mutually convenient time for a Zoom call! 

We watch the ferry come in, write postcards, and stick our heads into the Isle of Harris Distillery, where they are extremely busy preparing for the launch of the Hearach. We enjoy a couple of blustery beach walks and a drive down the coast to Croft 36, where I pick up some fresh lobster rolls and chocolate chip butteries (YUM) and am treated to the unexpected bonus of a hug from a Twitter pal who works there (hi Sarah!). 

By day three, we realise that even though we have been feeling relaxed, our time is passing at a gallop rather than an amble, so we get a bit more serious about making plans: visits to aunties and uncles are pencilled into the day planner that I’ve brought along; and a meal is booked at the fabulous North Harbour Bistro in Scalpay. 

I exchange messages with my best pal, someone I have known for 35 years, and we organise a morning in Stornoway – a stroll around the Castle Grounds, a quick bite to eat, and a top-up trip to the supermarket. It has been nine years since I’ve seen her, which is ridiculous, but I am reminded as I was in Edinburgh that if someone is a true friend you can just pick up where you left off. DorkySon is so unimpressed with our constant chatter in the car that he decides a backseat nap is the way to go.  

We have bought ferry tickets from Leverburgh to Berneray so that we can spend a day visiting my big brother and his family. They are finally settled in the beautiful croft house they’ve spent years renovating, and I can’t wait to see it. A couple of days before we’re due to go, there is some kind of incident with the water supply on the island – oil has leaked into the system, and everyone is getting by on bottled for the next few days, delivered to households by the dozen by Scottish Water. 

I wonder if we should postpone… but my magnificent sister-in-law is not one to let a small inconvenience like contaminated water get in the way of her generous hospitality. We sail across the Sound of Harris on a gloriously sunny day, and are welcomed to their new home with bacon butties and endless cups of tea, shortly followed by some of the most spectacular banana splits I’ve ever seen. 

We sit on the swing and play charades with my niece, watch music videos and cartoons with my nephew, and spend a happy afternoon admiring the seedlings that my brother is tending in the garden. And then all too soon, it is time to drive back to the ferry.

Just a minute or two before we leave, they receive notice that the water is back to normal, and there are shrieks of excitement at the thought of the first showers in days. 

The remainder of our time in Harris is something of a blur. 

We do a lot of walking, although the weather gets progressively worse the longer we are there, and I am even more grateful for the calm and sunny ferry sailing we had on Saturday. We walk loops around the village, along the wave-rippled pontoons at the marina, and up the heather-covered hill behind my Dad’s house. 

I have been warned that ticks are rampant, and I nervously check DorkySon’s legs every night – whatever the weather, he insists on wearing shorts – but somehow he escapes unscathed. 

DorkyDad manages a couple of rounds of golf on the beautiful 9-hole course at Scarista. On the first, he stays relatively dry and returns to the clubhouse with a decent score. On the second, people driving by the course stop in disbelief to take photos because it is howling with wind and raining sideways, and he is the only one brave or daft enough to be out there. Ahh well, when it has been five years between rounds, you have to give it a shot.  

We do another couple of breezy beach walks, tuck into far too many lunches and dinners at the hotel (where I even brave the haggis nachos…), and take endless photos of the endless rainbows that seem to follow us around the island wherever we go. Unfortunately, my habit of sleeping through auroras is as predictable in the northern hemisphere as it is in the south, and I don’t catch any of the many light displays that take place during our stay. 

Very early one morning, DorkySon accompanies my Dad up to Stornoway Airport, where they are dropping my stepmum off for a flight to Glasgow. He is thrilled by the opportunity to get some unexpected planespotting in – and doubly thrilled when her initial flight is cancelled because the plane has been hit by lightning on its way to Stornoway. (He’s not thrilled by the inconvenience of the cancellation – just by the opportunity for two planespotting trips in one day…) All the passengers file back out of the departure lounge, head home for a few hours, and then trek back to the airport a second time for a flight in the afternoon. 

Before we know it, the time comes for our own return to Stornoway Airport. Bags packed, Caramello Koalas long gone, new memories made. 

We have one final hotel lunch with my Dad and Stepmum, sitting at the same window table where we’d sat on our first day. DorkySon has his last Irn Bru for a while, and DorkyDad his last bowl of Cullen Skink. There are tears and tight hugs and promises that it won’t be five years until the next time.  

And then we are off again. Making a start on the long, long journey home.