A Child Raised by Otters

Our first glimpse of the Baron, Isle of Skye 1981

In early 1981 my family toured northern England and then Scotland for a taste of the wilderness so unlike the quaint countryside of Warwickshire. Heading up the west coast we reached the rugged Hebridean archipelago. Taking the ferry across to the Isle of Skye we drove between rugged mountains and along the bleak coast, and in the late afternoon as the weather closed in, stopped for a walk on an isolated beach of jagged rocks and biting winds. In the distance, my dad saw a lone figure playing. Worried that a child had been separated from its parents in such inhospitable conditions, he headed over to check. The child, a little blond boy in a duffel coat and flared jeans, only responded with one word repeatedly "Baron... Baron... Baron..." So that became his name. In his pockets was no identification, only whelks, and with no sign of family, guardians or friends, we took him home. And that is how he became our little brother.