"Mary, what is Hirta?" I asked, after we had spent time exploring and I had played a game of running at the puffins to make them fly away until she told me to stop. At first the meaning of my question was unclear to her, and she said so. "You spoke of every man and boy on Hirta," I explained. "I do not know what Hirta is."
"This is Hirta," she said, waving all around us. "Hirta is where we live. It is the name of the land."
"I thought it was called the world."
"There is more land in the world than this. Look." She pointed straight ahead of us to the last piece of visible ground before the sea. "That hill over there looks like it is part of Hirta, but it is not. It is a separate island called Soay. That is where our sheep come from. And over there." Now she indicated to the right. "Another island called Boreray. It looks smaller than it truly is because it is a great distance from here."
Keep reading with a 7-day free trial
Subscribe to Stories Of Many Kinds to keep reading this post and get 7 days of free access to the full post archives.