Jonathan: 6am. A sparkling morning, the sky a soft blue and clouds banished to the far horizons. With scarce a breath of breeze in the walled garden, only the giant blades of the New Zealand Flax are astir, and the sea laps the shore as quietly as a cat purring itself to sleep. The air is so clear that the crofts and and lanes of Eolaigearraidh – far away across the Sound of Barra – seem but half the five miles away they really are. But … to work!