The ferry leaves in fog and the island arrives in pieces: first a lighthouse, then a slope of sheep, then the pier with its single van. The crossing takes an hour and a half and my whole sense of scale with it. On deck, a man from the island tells me the ferry is never late, only early or cancelled. He says it without complaint, the way you'd describe a relative's temper. We watch the horizon do nothing for a long time, and it is the best conversation I have all week. The Hebrides are not a destination in the usual sense. They are a place you agree with.