Claire Black: 'I thought I'd broken some rule about talking to strangers in bars on the Sabbath'

ISLAND life. Until about a week ago, those two words meant only one thing to me: Grace Jones. I've lost count of the nights I've spent trying to replicate the arabesque on that classic album cover after imbibing a few too many lemonades.

(It took me and my always eager accomplices several years of strained muscles and near misses before we realised the pose had been created in Photoshop and is, in fact, physically impossible.)

Now, though, those two little words conjure up something quite different. That's what happens when you get stranded in the Outer Hebrides. Stranded. Really. And you'll be pleased to know I've learned a thing or two.

Lesson one: on an island everyone really does know everyone else. In two days I bumped into the same man four times. On day one, he stopped to see if I'd broken down when I was actually just taking a photo. (Embarrassing.) Later that same night, I saw him in the bar. The next day he waved to me as I walked to another village and two hours after that, as I helped an old woman pack her shopping at the Co-op, he arrived to pick her up. I see my siblings less often than this.

Lesson two: stuff happens, there's no point in getting uptight about it. "Nice day," I offered to a local by way of an ice-breaker in the hotel bar on a Sunday afternoon. The response was a sharp intake of breath and a raised eyebrow. At first I thought I'd broken some rule about talking to strangers in bars on the Sabbath, but it was just my non-verbal cue to ask for further information.

"How's the forecast looking?" I asked, trying to give the impression that I was someone who knows the difference between an isobar and a muesli bar.

"It's going to get rough tonight," he said.

"How rough exactly is that?" I enquired, trying not to look frightened at the prospect of a seven-hour ferry journey the next day. I needn't have worried, it was bad enough to stop the ferry. Just like that. There was no stropping. There were no grovelling apologies for any inconvenience caused, it was just off and that was that. Given that I have seen otherwise sensible adults have a complete meltdown at Waverley Station when their train to Glasgow is delayed by 15 minutes, I would suggest to you that this was an invaluable lesson in perspective.

Lesson three: those stories about people not locking their doors are absolutely true. "Do you have crime on the island?" I asked another local. He smiled. "No, we don't have crime. If you stole something everyone would see it. I went on my honeymoon for ten days and my front door was wedged closed with a bit of cardboard because the lock was broken. It was fine."

Given my neighbour had her bag pinched when she used it to prop open the door for about 15 seconds as she carried a box across the threshold, I couldn't help but feel jealous.

Queuing for the ferry the next morning, the man took my boarding pass. "You're lucky you're off because the weather is set to get worse," he said.

"You might've been stuck here."

I could think of worse things.