Patrick Galbraith’s trip to the Isle of Lewis shows him a new perspective on how to land a bird for your festive roast.
Last week, I was on the Isle of Lewis, crouched behind an old barbed-wire fence at dawn. The tide drew in around my boots, cold light broke through in the eastern sky and, out on the mud, a curlew cried. The previous evening, we’d stayed up late, having gloomy conversations with the outgoing party about how few fish they’d caught. They knew the…
