No trees grow in your islands of towering rocks which have been the world to you all your life. You do not know what trees are, you haven't seen one, not even in pictures. It'll be all sunshine in the morning then, just for a few more hours, it'll be as stormy as hell, with wind so strong that some of your sheep will be swept away to the sea and drown. You do not know it, but subsequent archeological studies indicate that remote as these islands are, your ancestors had inhabited the same for about two thousand years before you were born. In fact the locals like you prefer to call the place "Hirta" yet the origin of this name is also vague. It is not known how these group of rock islands in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, about 100 miles off the Scottish mainland, got their name. Much later did your place have a postal service but even then it took months for mails to travel in and out of the islands, from origin to destination. There's no TV or radio or books or magazines anywhere around. You do not know what is happening anywhere else in the world. You're supposed to be a British subject but you don't know English, don't pay taxes, you don't know what money is and are not touched by any governmental regulation.
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