As soon as spring sprung the young Lawrence MacEwen removed his shoes. Barefoot, he walked to school along the only road in Muck which was a mile and an hour of gravel that was that was dotted with grass. Barefoot, he ran through the shattered basalt stones that were part of the dykes constructed in the past by kelpers who earned their living from collecting seaweed from the rocks. Barefoot, he climbed the steep western cliffs, clinging to the heather with all his might and then climbed to the summit of Beinn Airein, the highest hill, and viewed over Eigg as well as Rum towards Knoydart and Knoydart to the Cuillin Hills. He would sit for hours on the shore below his home, so enthralled by the gentle tide that he couldn’t get up until his mum called him to have tea. His feet would sink small amount into the sand’s white which would encase him in the sand.
It was a small place in that it was only an inch long and two and a quarter miles in width, making it one of the smallest one of those Small Isles off Scotland’s west coast. His family bought the island in 1896 and earned an adequate living from it, as its rich volcanic soil could produce high-quality hay, corn, and other vegetables and also grass for grazing. But it was also abandoned by the world and shattered by the weather, often isolated due to autumn storms. The majority of residents were evicted during the 19th century or had emigrated to more secluded areas. The late 1960s saw the MacEwens too were contemplating whether or not they wanted to remain. Lawrence’s elder brother Alasdair who was now the proprietor was planning to move to the mainland, and creating Muck an all-seasons resort with holiday rentals. However, Lawrence was aware that he wouldn’t be able to leaveMuck, as he was a resident there.
