The sun rises at 5-30 over the edge of the moor, throwing a shadow from the croft-house a quarter of a mile down the fields. Dew glistens, anyone abroad this early sees a white halo refracted around the shadow of their head. Early sun gleams on distant hill and mountain slopes, Knockfin, Armine, Klibreck, briefly Summer-green and sharp in the clear air.

Midges gather round the moorland sheep, they toss their heads and flick their ears, eating hurriedly and moving on to the next, greener, tuft. There is yet little wind. The low sun shines over great drifts of heavily scented meadow-sweet by the roadsides, here and there mixed with the red of willow-herb or ragged robin. Miles of quiet verges have been lined with white for weeks, first cow-parsley, then hogweed, now ground-elder and meadowsweet.

The creel-boat is setting out from the harbour, wind is forecast for later. Little waves lap the white shell-sand beach, across the bay are the red cliffs of Dunnet Head, beyond are the rounded hills of Hoy. Terns fuss, piping oyster-catchers fly low. Along the low clifftops the the odd late flower of pink thrift is still in bloom, with patches of wild thyme, while the oyster plant with its fleshy leaves and bright blue flowers sprawls over slabby rocks near the sea. A few yards inland, dense thickets of hogweed and nettle give way suddenly to the short grass of cultivation where hay has been cut and baled.

The creel boatman hauls in the night's catch, Lobsters and crabs are now scarce as a result of over-fishing by large operators. But it's a way of life. Half a mile away a tractor sweeps up swathes of cut grass to deposit round bales every fifty yards, making silage while the sun shines.

It's not yet eight. From the 'Hoy View Lounge', the lorry-driver crossing on the 'St Ola' sees the 1200 foot cliffs of Hoy slipping past the window, he smokes a last cigarette over coffee before getting ready to disembark at Stromness. It's been a good smooth crossing. Meanwhile, sixty miles further south, the refreshments trolley makes its third trip along the early-morning train as it rattles down the raised beaches to Brora. Seals and cormorants bask on the rocks and an early golfer tees off on the links.

Curtains in the house are tightly drawn against the bright sun, for some it is still night. Baby rabbits nibble on the roadside by fields of ripening barley. The oats look, as ever, as if they'll not quite make it. Bumble-bees fly to and fro in the garden, potatoes are growing, gooseberries and currants are ripening, carrots are ready for eating, soon too the peas and broccoli.

From the bakery a smell of chocolate-cake drifts out across the town, from the B&B the smell of frying bacon. On the crowded campsite the first camping gas stoves and Primus stoves are hissing, sleepy caravanners goggle at the view across the blue sea to the sharp, sunlit hills of Hoy.

Six buses in a row, several hundred cars one, two, three, overtaking, 60-70MPH, nine miles in ten minutes. The Dounreay rush is on, from bed to plant or office in 25 minutes, pop music or news of the latest war on car radio. A young herring-gull lies dead in the road, each car in turn veers to miss it. Down, over the bridge, round. Under the bridge the river flows quietly, the waterfall little more than a trickle. Salmon jump in the bay, awaiting the rains.

The morning draws on. Bumble-bees fly to and fro in the garden. There's a light breeze from the South-East and a bit more haze, now its getting really warm. Shops are busy, the Co-op car-park is full, the trolley queues are lengthening. The tourist caravans and caravettes are on their way, to stop and start and pull in and out of passing places all the way to Tongue and Durness. A piper plays to the crowds at John-o Groats.

Blue and brown butterflies flutter over the flowery East coast slopes - harebell, Grass of Parnassus, bedstraw , yellow rattle. Honey-suckle clings to the cliff-top. A family of eider ducks, the young now well grown, waddle into the sea from the empty, stony beach. Anemones wave pink fronds in rock pools. Puffins fly to and from their burrows on the stack. The last of the young kittiwakes, black and white, take to the air from the ledges.

The moorland deer are restless, pursued by clegs and clouds of flies. A rare family of grouse feeds in the heather. The keeper, hopeful for the twelfth, is out counting the meagre numbers, buzzing up the shallow grassy strath in his all-terrain quad. The peat is already stacked. Dragonflies dart over dubh-lochs. Diver-chicks are now hatched, but one of the pair succumbed to the arctic skuas which nested nearby, the remaining chick swims close to its parents. Suddenly the peace is smashed by the screech and roar of a pair of low-flying jets, just 10 minutes out of Lossiemouth. Nothing takes the slightest bit of notice. The quiet descends again.

Bell-heather and cross-leaved heath are in full bloom with early ling on sunny banks.Soon the road from Loch More to Dalnawhillan and Glutt Lodge will be lined with purple and scented with honey for all its 12 miles.

Now the south-east wind is strengthening, cold mist drifts in and out of Wick. Further west the wind, blowing over miles of sun-baked moor is hot. The afternoon sun, beating on flat office roofs at Dounreay raises indoor temperatures to the mid-eighties. With blinds drawn against the sun and doors propped open, desk workers sweat at computer screens. On the foreshore, great banks of yellow balsam soak up the afternoon sun. Between John-O-Groats and Burwick the wind is good force 7, against the tide, the sea is turning wild and chaotic. Day-trip tourists to Orkney on the 'Pentland Venture' will have an interesting return crossing.

Evening draws on. Westward the sun lowers through the haze of smoke carried from cities hundreds of miles to the South, before disappearing behind thick high cloud. Over much of Caithness the air is now fresh and cool, with haar still lingering on the East coast. Hooked cirrus clouds are moving in overhead. At Armadale and Bettyhill the wind has dropped, the air is warm, humid and sticky. Midges swarm, tourists seal themselves inside tent or caravan. The rain is spotting in Tongue, there's cloud on Ben Loyal. Ten miles west and Foinaven is lashed by wind and driving rain, the Dionard is high, the salmon are jumping. In Strath Hope the campers cower out of the wind and rain. Thick fog and drizzle shroud Cape Wrath.

Nights are starting to draw in, by 10pm dusk settles over Caithness. The tractor is still out on the hill, headlights blazing, the farmer will be baling till midnight. It's still dry in the east, but rain is forecast. A neighbour is flattening silage in the clamp, driving the tractor up and down and up and down, making the day as long as is has to be. Old cars and taxis throng the streets of the town, youngsters gather, catcalls come and go. The 'Ola' slips into Scrabster harbour after its sixth crossing of the Pentland Firth, a little late with the strong winds. Two trawlers are setting out. Peat reek drifts from the croft chimney. Curtains are drawn, lights are out - already night for some. An August day in the far North.

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This is one of 75 essays on the Far North available in the book "Ralph's Far North" for £14.45. Visit www.curlewcottagebooks.com for more information.