Sunday is a day of rest. Nothing moves, not even the oil slicks.
Everyone goes to church - usually twice, once in the morning, once in the evening - dressed in their Sunday best, which means dark suits for men, hats, sober but colourful jackets and black heels for women. Bibles obligatory. No shops open, and just a couple of hotel bars and restaurants. Closing time is a restrained 10pm.
Controversially, the ferry recently started a Sunday service to Stornoway. Which was fortunate, as Becca and Anne were heading home after their epic cycle up the Hebrides. Here they are, triumphant, if a little hung over. UPDATE - I realise this statement is possibly libellous, as Ann wasn't drinking. Sorry, Ann!
I headed North, first to Eorope, the Northernmost surfing beach in the Western Isles, and a great final surf in unruffled, chest-high, peeling waves.
And on to the Butt of Lewis (almost certainly the butt of many puns)
Then back via the tallest megalith in the Western Isles.