There is no more bracing or healthy island in the world than Skye, and during the summer, and all throughout the autumn till the "fa' o' the year", his study was out of doors.
On fine days it was always on that green-topped cliff where the wild thyme grew. I verily believe, and Creggan himself used to think so, that the song of the sea as the waves broke lazily on the brown weed-covered boulders, far beneath the cliff, making a solemn bass to the musical cry of the gulls, the kittiwakes, and skuas, helped the lad along. It lulled him, soothed him, so that his head was always clear and his mind never too exalted.
City students often need a wet towel to tie around their brows when at work. Creggan needed none of that; his bonnet lay near him, on Oscar's ear, and the cool and gentle breezes fanned his brow, so that hard though his "grind" undoubtedly was his face remained hard and brown, with a tint of carmine on his cheeks.
On stormy days even, he did not go indoors, for M'Ian the minister knew the value of fresh air, and had a kind of summer-house study built in his garden for his son and daughter, Rory and Maggie, and Creggan.
Both were very fond of Creggan. In fact, being brought up together, they were like brother and sister to him, in a manner of speaking, and well he loved them in return.
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But the winter itself wore away at last. And a wild tempestuous winter it had been. There were weeks at a time when Creggan could not leave his little island home, for the seas that tumbled and heaved around, and surged in foaming cataracts high up the sides of the black and beetling cliffs, would have sunk the stoutest boat that was ever built.
But Creggan had not been idle for all that. There had come a six weeks' spell of calm, clear, frosty weather, with seldom a breath of wind or cat's-paw to ruffle the glassy surface of the smooth Atlantic rollers. So high were these "doldrums" at times, that when Creggan's skiff was down in the trough of the seas as he rowed manfully shorewards, there were long seconds during which Rory and Maggie, watching his progress eagerly, could not see him.
Then, when he mounted a house-high wave, they would rejoicingly wave their handkerchiefs to him, and he his bonnet to them.
Yes, winter flew far away back to the icy Arctic regions on snow-white wings, and soft gentle spring returned, laden with bird and bud and green bourgeon to scatter over hill and brae and moorland.