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Back
at the ferry slip, the Canna is swiftly re-activated
and I trundle aboard. The sun is now low and golden,
and seagulls swoop about the deck as we scoosh back
to the Kyles terminal. Until a bridge spans this narrow
sound, Scalpay will remain dependant on the little Canna
for visitor, frieght, emergency services, and even the
burial of the dead. For there is no graveyard in the
shallow soil of Scalpay. when the sun sets on an islander
he is borne west across the Harris mainland to the beautiful
cemetary of Luskentyre, by the great rumbling breakers
of the Atlantic, to lie in the land from which his people
were driven a few generations ago.
The
Canna making the three-minute crossing to Scalpay
(article
by John MacLeod, The Scotsman Weekend, 13 April 1991)
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