Wild winds raced and raged across the landscape, pummelling the island – lashing out and whipping up anything in their wake, as trees and shrubs were rearranged, feed buckets and bins were swirled high up into the air, before being deposited far away from their usual resting place.

As dawn broke, debris lay strewn across the landscape, the aftermath of a right good hoolie as the winds had partied long and hard into the night.

It can sometimes feel as if Islay is a buffer between the wild winter storms and the mainland. They come lashing in across the Atlantic Ocean, stirring up the tides, as their merry dance unfolds.

The seas, a myriad of constantly changing shades of turquoises, blues, greens, and greys, topped with frothy white choppy waves, that hurl themselves into giants, as they bash across the jaggy rocks of the coastline.

The gales curl and whistle their way around the farm steadings, as hail stones pelt at the windows. Inside, we hunker down in front of a roasting fire, the warmth from the Aga casting a gentle heat across the farmhouse kitchen and beyond. As the power goes out, candles are lit, and the whole house takes on a cosy ambient glow.

It might be wild outside, but these old stone walls have survived generations of Atlantic storms, having been built long before electricity was a household commodity.

Just as quickly, the wind dies away to a whisper, as the dark clouds lift, revealing the majestic Paps of Jura covered in crisp white winter coats. The sun casts her rays across the farm once more. The landscape is transported into a winter wonderland, and it feels as if we are living in the foothills of the ‘Persabus Alps’.

Morning runs across the farm and I am that ‘crazy lady’ jogging through those fields, my feet carrying me as fast as my little legs can go, racing in between those heavy showers, watching as the delivery vans make their way up the single-track road towards the farmhouse and beyond.

As in all islands' lives, there is always something very exciting about the sight of a delivery van. A link between mainland luxury and life on the edge of the land. From tractor parts to shiny new boots, it is a fantastic service, one that with the growth of online shopping, is being enjoyed much further afield than these island shores.

Growing up in a city, regular ‘shopping experiences’ were a firm fixture of every week. Plunged into island life and ‘shopping experiences’ were transferred into Irvine’s lorry which made occasional appearances in the farmyard. A lorry that would wind its way from Tighnabruich to these island shores.

These were journeys it made for many years, the service starting from the back of a big van, before the goods moved on into the back of a lorry. An Aladdin’s cave, filled with a rainbow of clothing hanging on neat rails, shelves full of household goods, rugs, and carpets. It was always a time when the Happy Farmer and the farmhouse would get a much-needed ‘make-over’.

The next day and you could tell that Irvine had done the rounds of the farms and villages. The island’s young population would be outside the Co-op, all sporting their new matching tartan shirts and gleaming trainers.

Then, there was the old blue transit that would arrive, unannounced, in the yard. Out would climb Mr Singh. Before you had even had chance to circumnavigate the van, its side door would slide open wide, revealing a mountain of clothes and household goods, crammed in and piled high.

Old Singh was a huge character, with an impressive sales pitch. He knew how to secure a transaction. No matter how much the Happy Farmer would protest that he didn’t need anything, Mr Singh would soon reel him in.

The kettle would be on in the farmhouse kitchen, as half of the van’s contents would happily follow Mr Singh into the farmhouse kitchen, his chunky hands clutching at t-shirts and door mats that he knew the Happy Farmer wouldn’t be able to resist purchasing. He was always ready for a good barter, a bit of ‘tail pulling’ and some happy banter.

Over tea and biscuits deals were made and before he knew it the Happy Farmer would be buying half a dozen shirts he didn’t need and a few more pots and pans for good measure. Sometimes it felt like you’d won and scooped an absolute bargain – other times as Mr Singh’s van drove off, out of the yard, you would look on in dismay at the heap of items that had just been bought.

There was the purchase of the Egyptian cotton shirt, with the ‘leather-look’ pocket, and aluminium badge, pulled from the van. Mr Singh convinced the Happy Farmer’s young brother that he had brought this one-off luxury shirt over especially for him. A high-end fashion item, unique and original, it was a bit pricy but seemed worth it.

Later that evening, my young brother-in-law, all spruced up and feeling the ‘bee’s knees’ in his new shirt, met up with a pal, only to find they had matching Egyptian cotton shirts. A succession of young men gradually followed into the bar, each sporting their high end, 'unique' matching Egyptian cotton shirts, the ones with the leather-look pocket and aluminium badges – Mr Singh’s sales pitch had successfully done the rounds.

Part of the barter with Mr Singh would, if time allowed, involve a deliciously spicy curry. If the Happy Farmer provided the beef or mutton, at the end of his rounds Mr Singh would arrive back at the farm with a bag of spices, sent over from his good wife.

The pot purchased earlier would prove to be too small and before we knew it Mr Singh would have sold us another pan. The huge one, sat at the back of his van that no one had wanted to purchase that day, put to good use at last. Mr Singh would chop onions and meat, and cook an amazing curry feast, as banter and craic continued long into the evening.

Then, there was the sales lady who would make an annual appearance. In her short skirt and pointy, high heels. You would see her gingerly picking her way across the cobbles and stones in the yard, before appearing at the farmhouse door.

She had a huge smile, plenty of lipstick, fluttery eyelashes, and would be clutching a clipboard. Not long on the farm and I was immediately on ‘high alert’ at this arrival, ‘insurance sales’ ... apparently.

As I went through the policy she had happened to discard on the coffee table with a fine-tooth comb, I quickly realised that for a huge premium the Happy Farmer’s arms, legs and eyes would be insured for a very ‘paltry’ sum.

It was the incredibly short and blunt list, in the event of the truly awful circumstance of a client losing both arms, both legs and both eyes, a meagre pay-out would be made, provided the client could still jump through the high hoops and the red tape in place.

Despite this, the Happy Farmer would insist on delighting in these visits. At least an hour of giggly chat, tea, and biscuits, and soon that policy would be signed for yet another term. It took me several years to put a stop to those policy payments.

Travelling salesmen and women were an important part of island life, always welcomed into the home. It was a time for catching up and sharing stories and welcoming these friends to the farm and the island once again. And the Happy Farmer would always reach into his pockets to support them, to show his appreciation of their support to his island life.

Internet shopping has transformed island life in many ways. In the run up to Christmas, the island’s plane service was held up, as vast amounts of parcels were piled into the hold.

However, on the farm we do miss Irvine’s lorry of clothing trundling into the yard, the cheery visits from Mr Singh, and I am sure the Happy Farmer also misses the visits from his smiling insurance lady, too!

It wasn’t about the sales and the products they brought to the island, it was about the chat and the happy times spent with these characters, their visits a much-needed part of island life.