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regarded as being the best time for peat cutting so that the peats will have a chance to become thoroughly dry before the wet spell which can be relied upon to reach the Hebrides by the end of June or early July. This year a faltering spring had delayed all the croft work and the hiccoughing cuckoos were already warning us that ‘June was nearly away with the calender’ before a spell of fine weather was confidently predicted and Morag and I were able to set out together for the area of moor reserved for the village peat cutting. We followed first the track through the glen which, after years of agitation, the County Council had been persuaded to widen so that vans and lorries could reach some of the more isolated crofts where hitherto supplies had had to be carried by the women. Work on the project was slow and to all appearances involved the men in nothing more strenuous than chipping caves in rocky outcrops so as to provide shelter for them when at their card games.
    â€˜My, but you’re busy,’ Morag called as we passed a couple of them absorbed in scratching noughts and crosses on a face of rock.
    â€˜Aye.’ They spared us a glance of tepid interest and then returned to their game.
    â€˜Indeed, I don’t know why the County bothers to give them picks and shovels,’ said Morag. ‘I think it must be more for company than use.’
    â€˜They don’t seem to do much work,’ I agreed.
    â€˜Their main work is dodgin’ the Gaffer. They wake him up in a mornin’ to report for work and once they’ve done that then every time his back’s turned they’re out with their cards or else away up the hill with Donald’s ferret. I canna’ count the number of rabbits he’s puttin’ on the bus every mornin’ since he’s been working on the road.’
    I glanced up towards the top of the hill and sure enough saw a straggling bunch of figures who looked as though they might be roadmen.
    â€˜You’d think,’ I said, ‘that they’d want to do some work occasionally, if only as a change from doing nothing.’
    â€˜That’s just what Erchy told them now,’ replied Morag warmly. ‘Says he, “I’m sick of cards, cards, cards, I’m off to do some work,” he says, and nobody stopped him!’
    Bruach’s peat glen was a sad, desolate-looking place, scarred by peat hags, some long neglected, and pocked with dark pools. The crofters, though they may not have cut peats for years, jealously guarded their rights to hags used by their forbears, their claims frequently encompassing quite large areas. Those who did rely on peat for fuel were continually forced to take out new hags farther afield as the old ones became exhausted, and as a consequence it was usually the poorest and least accessible hags that were regularly worked while the best hags, close to the track for easy transport, were reserved for people who would never cut peat again, either because they were in the money or in their graves.
    The only hag available for me was naturally one of the inaccessible ones. We turned off the track in its direction, the sodden moor squeaking protest at our every step. The previous day rain had fallen heavily and the hills, marble black against a paling blue sky, were still veined with white rushing burns whose muted thunder pressed at our ears. Now, the fresh-laundered sun was kindling the torches of asphodel into golden flame and coaxing the limp bog cotton to dry its plumage in the frisky breeze that sent contingents of ripples scurrying across the moorland pools.
    â€˜Its a right day for the peats,’ said Morag, ‘but if this wind drops the clegs will eat us.’
    â€˜I wish there was a better path to my peats,’ I said as we jumped dark drains and wallowed in spongy moss.
    â€˜Right enough,’ replied Morag, ‘but a few years ago you might have been glad of it.’
    â€˜How?’ I