In January of 1982 I went to Barra. It is an island in the Outer Hebrides about the size of Block Island. It is a twelve-hour ferry ride with a stop on the way. There were only two ferries a week. We left at 7PM. It was calm at first. I slept on a wooden bench. In the middle of the night, I woke up to the banging of the ship. I looked out in the dark and could see that the ship was flying as she broke the top of the waves. The wind was howling, and a hard rain was falling. This was far rougher than any Block Island Ferry ride. I was relieved when we pulled into port. The weather was not good for a good portion of my stay.

I was the only tourist on the island, and everyone knew it. I was the American staying at Dennard’s BnB. I had a few days to explore before the next ferry. I walked all over the island. There was only six or seven hours of daylight this time of year. There were far more sheep than people. The people and the sheep were quite friendly. They were happy to tell me their life stories and ask about me. I was invited into several houses. Shown pictures. Told stories. Played with dogs.

The walking was awesome. There was much to photograph. I took some good pictures out there. The church stands out because it embraces the feeling of the place; old, worn, lonely, strong, and stoic.

This is one place that I wish I could return to with my developed photographic vision. It is like the old saying that opportunity is wasted on the youth. I could do much better out there today. Maybe I will get lucky someday and return.