The snow has swept down from the mountain tops and across the lower land to cover even the coastal machair. By the snow-covered path leading to the beach, shaggy-coated Highland cattle are feeding on the hay that has been brought out to them. Rabbit tracks crisscross the path, and here and there snow and sand are churned together where cattle too have crossed on their way to the shelter of the dunes. The beach itself has been transformed. There is no sand to be seen – just an expanse of snow stretching down to a dark sea, which in turn stretches away to a horizon defined by a distant line of clouds. Above them, the sky is the curious shade of green usually seen only at first light or late evening. To the south, a hazy gold sun, partially obscured by clouds, still has strength enough to gild the surface of the sea.
Today there are no waders feeding along the tide line, but a party of seven ravens are picking enthusiastically at something half-buried in the snow, while a single gull watches and waits patiently. The chilly day encourages a brisk walk and the wind – which in summer sends wraiths of dry silvery sand scudding along the beach – blows fine skeins of powder snow about our ankles as we march onwards. At the far end of the beach, a line of sheep, their fleeces dull against the crisp white of the snow, make their way out of the dunes, cross the beach and begin to pick out the tastiest strands from a pile of kelp revealed by the already falling tide. A ribbon of sand has appeared between the sea and the snow, its scalloped margins edged with tiny broken fragments of seaweed, brown against the white. Windblown snow is swept on to the wet sand, where most melts immediately, leaving the remainder scattered across its surface like salt crystals.