The wind had been in the south for nearly a week, so migration had been on hold. Wednesday dawned with the wind raging against the north end of the house, drumming the rain against the window. Fishing was going to be an experience today. As you crest the Committee Road, the expanse of Vallay Strand is laid put in all its glory in front of you. The deep blues signifying the slightly deeper water and the shallower water running through all the variations of yellow until it actually becomes solid sandbanks as the tide recedes. The tide was running north against the wind, raising breaking waves as it rushed towards the Atlantic, but also churning the sand up, so that it looked like the water was half sand and water. I knew the tide ran strongly between us and the sea pool, but in this wind we needed to get to the other side to even have a chance of casting in this maelstrom. It was running too fast to cross safely – we were going to have to wait until it dropped further. As we waited rain squalls came in off the Atlantic which the wind drove into us like hail, even though we were cowering behind the only available rock. A quick step out into the unknown and deepest part of the ford, but soon across with the rods and then back for Duncan and Susan. I am sure they were beginning to wonder if wading chest deep into this seemingly endless expanse of water was advisable, but soon we were fishing with the wind. Another squall and then blistering sun, then another squall – we were going to earn any fish we caught. With the return of the sun came the sound of yapping small dogs from high above us – the northerlies had brought another visitor from the far north in the shape of the amazing Barnacle Goose. The first three parties were family groups of two adults and one or two juveniles who would have stuck together during their long haul from Iceland, as well as the flight down from the high Arctic of Greenland or Svalbard where they nest high in the cliffs. For years people wondered how the gosling got from these inaccessible nests to the lochs below where they grow up. It was thought that the adults carried them on their backs, but the truth turned out to be much simpler – they jump, encouraged by their parents into a day old display of freefall. So these juveniles had survived a long fall and a long flight.

Within 24 hours the three small groups I had seen were quickly joined by a vast group on Kyles strand in a long line of resting geese that stretched for at least half a mile of silent birds. For the next four days the weather has been Mediterranean up here, making a visit to Harris fishless, but perfect for more Barnacles to arrive (as well as numerous wheaters and a redwing – the arctic really is coming south) until the island seems full of them – we must have seen groups totalling 10,000 in the last two days. They seem to prefer to roost on sand, so we now have our own resident group of about a thousand who spend low tide on Loch Paible, gently yapping at each other and occasionally taking fright at anything, including the Tuesday helicopter from St Kilda. They have reason to be wary on the island, but they need to listen to the local ravens if they want an early warning.

Our ravens spend a great deal of time on the chimney pots of Balranald House, from where they survey the local area like the local tacksman who used to lived there. Nothing stirs without them investigating, especially if it is a bird of prey. So it is always worth checking out why they are making their chastening call. Last night it was really worth it because flapping back from a foray over the exhausted geese was a white-tailed eagle. After a long flight from Iceland the geese are prey for even the rather laboured flight of the sea eagle. It will no doubt return to test the geese’s wariness until they depart for their final destination on Islay, the Solway and the west coast of Ireland.

Mobbing of eagles by other birds is a great way of finding eagles, but sometimes eagles attract things that you might miss. As we lay in the sun high up on a hill above Kyles and the barnacles, two eagles circled above us, like vultures in a 50s cowboy movie. Bored with the lack of carrion, one called to the other and they were off across the valley to seek richer pickings. Watching them slowly disappear, they were joined by another dot hurtling in from above them. A peregrine disgruntled by their invasion of its air space decided to make a warning fly past. The eagles seemed unperturbed, but the peregrine did keep its distance, only once causing evasive action from the eagle.

It was the yapping of wary geese that called me out with binoculars this morning to see what the fuss was about – perhaps another eagle visit. The geese seemed to have misidentified a heron as a possible threat, so I swung on to our freshwater loch to see if the heron’s mate was fishing the margin. It wasn’t a heron that was fishing the loch. Amazingly, right in front of the house, an otter was happily chasing something around the bottom of the loch, appearing occasionally before diving and then reappearing at the end of a trail of bubbles. We watched it for fifteen minute before going back to our porridge.

The wind has now gone round to the south, so maybe the geese will stay with us for a little while longer. I hope the otter stays in our loch for even longer.

The otter is such an enigmatic species. In the 1960s it wasn’t an enigma – it was just rare, driven from most of its lowland haunts by the pernicious effects of organophosphate pesticides at the top of the food chain. At the time Scotland, and in particular the Hebrides, became one of the places where the population remained at prewar levels. They were also easier to see as they were both confiding and tended to stick to very open habitats.

Following the ban on the worst of the pesticides, otter numbers have taken forty years to recover, but they can now be found in every county in the UK. Not that you would know unless you are extremely lucky – they seem to have the uncanny ability to slink away in the most unbelievable way. Their ability to hide makes me think that you only really see an otter, when the otter wants you to see it. I have had the great joy to fish with otters quite a few times – they always seem indifferent to my presence, until I cross some invisible line and they decide that is enough and they simply disappear.

An otter is also quite a large animal to just simply disappear. Forget the idea that it is just a rather large stoat, most otters are impressively big, especially the male dog otters. This was driven home to me when we were on a walk over to Roisinis, where Bonny Prince Charlie had waited patiently for Flora MacDonald to appear with his sex change disguise before she had to row him over to Skye (thankfully not on her own). Two archaeologists appeared saying that they had just seen an otter that was bigger than the border collie sized dog that they had with them. So think labrador size and you’ll have the right idea. This is the other problem with otters – people are always appearing saying did you just see the otter. Otter, where? They will point in a general direction and lo and behold another otter has pressed the hyperspace button and completely disappeared.

In North Uist, there are otters everywhere, or should I say signs of otters everywhere. Otter prints, with telltale tail mark and their lopping double paw impression are on the beaches. You can find otter roads leading off the beaches onto the machair, usually heading for a freshwater loch where they wash off the saltwater and thus restore their fur to sleak and insulating cleanliness. Otter scats, are all over the place, not just on preferred areas demarcating their territory. Otters are just everywhere. Even around the house, with a holt in the loch and a trail leading down to the tidal loch, where Kate disturbed one whilst I was away.

So I had been waiting for an otter to decide to put in an appearance. As usual for me, I needed to have a fishing rod in hand to prove I was a fisherman for the supreme fisherman to allow a view.

A short walk across the soft sand of Geirran Mill and hidden behind a small promontory is one of the largest sea pools on the island. Standing at the top willing a fish to put in appearance to raise our hopes after a rather dour season so far, a large head appeared about halfway down. So large that my immediate impression was seal – even I was lulled into a false sense of perspective. A sublime, rippleless dive was followed by the appearance of a long, thick tail – that otter is the size of a seal. Forget labrador size, readjust the scale. This otter was huge. And quite unperturbed. It looked at me the next time it surfaced and then went back to fishing. Later I was to discover that the place it was fishing was rammed with small pollack, but I like to think that it was after the tastier sea trout that would occasionally launch themselves out of the water in a just you try and catch me aerobatic display. The otter just kept surfacing and diving, occasionally looking over to see if I was going to fish or not. Finally it simply bobbed on the surface looking at me, swam towards me and out on to the beach, shook itself dry and scamped towards me, like a lithe, four footed seal. It really was a king-sized otter. It scampered behind a boulder and completely disappeared. How do they do that?