Richard Baum

I am back from holiday. I spent five glorious days on the Isle of Mull, off the west coast of Scotland. It is a land so staggeringly beautiful that it is the single most compelling argument against air-travel that I yet to come across. Environmental campaigners take note. There’s no need to live in a tent by the M4 for a week. Just convince every would-be flyer to head to the Hebrides for a few days, and nobody would ever go abroad ever again.

It is rare these days that I find myself in a place so remote and unsullied by human litter and concrete that I could quite easily be in another time. If it wasn’t for Tam’s Nissan Micra transporting us across the moorland roads at 50mph, I could have been in the Dark Ages or the Victorian age, or any time in between.

For mile upon mile there is nothing, nothing, but nature. Pine forests and bouldered cliffs, grazing sheep and soaring eagles. We went to Staffa one afternoon, completely devoid of the touch of humanity for decades, and all the better for it. So exceptionally quiet that when the wind died away I understood what silence was for the first time in a long while. 

Iona too is a beautiful place. Ten minutes by boat from Mull itself, it is the home of Christianity in Scotland – and a better testament to God’s glorious creations I could scarcely contemplate. A fine resting place for the late John Smith, former Labour Party leader who is buried in the grounds of the abbey. 

We had no mobile phone reception of course, so I was forced to live as our forefathers did, without text messages for the better part of a week. But I didn’t die. Probably because we had BBC News 24 in the room. 

And there were very few tourists to speak of. I was expecting (and the Rough Guide had told me to expect) thousands of holiday makers yomping across the grasslands, and children doing the “Balamory” tour through Tobermory. There were surprisingly few. I was happy not to be surrounded by ten thousand mobile-home driving Americans tearing through the island. But at the same time I hope people aren’t deserting this beautiful place for a cheap last minute deal somewhere horrific out of the Airtours brochure… 

We climbed Ben More, the highest peak on the island, an official “Munro” and, at 1000 metres up and boggier than you’d think, probably not the best thing to be attempting to climb in my trainers and a t-shirt. The last thing St Mary’s needs is a by-election, which was one thought that went through my mind as I clambered uneasily over the scree. 

We came back via a wedding in Newcastle, which is a surprisingly long way from Mull. And now I’m back.