Scotland's Inner Hebrides have always attracted hermits, visionaries, and all those who crave peace and isolation. Henry Shukman celebrates the stark beauty of these isles of contemplation

The Pier Hotel, down by the dark water of the little harbor of Portree, capital of the Isle of Skye, is a plain-looking place. But inside its one-room bar, the atmosphere is anything but plain. The place is jammed, and the pints and whisky glasses have been doing their work. A couple of women sip lagers on stools at the bar and one forlorn man clutches a tall glass of Coca-Cola (how long will he stay on the wagon?), but otherwise the thronged male bonhomie is rising to a deafening pitch. I have to shout my order at the barmaid. Even then, I'm not sure whether she hears or just reads my lips.

The one thing that could dim the din arrives: a ceilidh band. Accordion and bass strike up in the corner, and for five minutes the place gets a little quieter, either out of curiosity or respect. Then the clapping and whooping start, and gradually the talk lifts back to the level necessary to be heard over the music: even louder than before. The Scots may be the hardest-working people in the Western Hemisphere—their passion and industry having given us the television, penicillin, and Long John Silver—but they are among the hardest partyers, too.

On the other hand, their Calvinist heritage also knows how to dampen a party. Just outside the completely packed little pub is the lovely harbor, with a flotilla of brightly colored fishing and lobster boats stirring peacefully at their moorings. You'd think the denizens of the pub might spill outside a little. But the Highland Council has posted a notice "prohibiting the drinking of beverages outside these premises."

"Why?" I shout at the barmaid, pointing to the sign.

"Because they're boring buggers," she shouts back.

Some merrymakers fearlessly skip outside a little later, dancing to a reel, glasses in hand (inside there's hardly a square inch to turn around in, let alone dance). But they're soon filing back in scratching their heads: midges. If you want to be outdoors in Scotland on a calm summer evening, you have to be a smoker. As each person squeezes past, he gives me a couple of light pats on the shoulder to warn me that he's coming. They're not just work-loving, fun-loving people, these islanders, they're friendly, too—soft with Gaelic and Catholicism, halfway to Ireland.

When I go out, with the peaty aftertaste of a Talisker (Skye's own single malt) lingering on the tongue—and the music and babble gentle on the ear now—the sky is still pale but the harbor water is black. Beyond the little fleet of boats, a heavy headland blooms on the water, and the small white houses shine all around the bay. In the middle hovers an island on which a saint once lived as a hermit. The peace of the Hebrides is legendary. It's no surprise that these were the islands where the early Christian saints of northern Europe found a natural home. Meanwhile, to the east, the long island of Raasay recedes into the smoky distance, its hills so jagged that it can only be dragon land. I've been here barely a week and already the rest of the world has evaporated.