Isle of Lismore, Argyll: They skim over the surface like stones, making such a hullabaloo you could hear them a mile away
I hear them before I see them: a wailing, or something more like ululation. High-pitched, repeated vocalisations that are neither man nor cat, but somewhere in between. I throw open the cabin door, unsure what to look for, and for a moment see nothing new: only the rocky strand and the sweep of dark wrack high above the shoreline.
The strange, warbling sound comes again. Ai-ai-ai-ai. Not quite screaming, not quite howling, not quite trilling, but all of those things at once.
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