WE WERE headed for the 'singing sands' on the Isle of Eigg. I had brought my family to this wonderful island to show them what I had discovered earlier this year.

The walk took us across a field where I knew there would be sheep. So we kept our collie dog Ceilidh on a lead.

Halfway along the walk, my 10-year-old daughter stopped in her tracks, pointing to a cowpat.

“Dad, either these sheep have a stomach problem or there are cows in this field.”

She was right, there was a herd of cattle just ahead.

The atmosphere quickly changed. My kids and my wife tensed as they saw the grazing cattle.

“Cows can kill!” said my wife.

“So can toasters,” I flippantly replied, “it’s just a matter of not doing anything foolish.”

But then I saw him.

The biggest bull I think I’ve ever seen. He was magnificent. He was awesome. And he was fearsome.

And he stood between us and the gate to the beach.

But he was just chilling, eating grass, minding his own business.

“It’ll be fine as long as we go round him,” I tried to reassure my family.

But then Ceilidh barked. And barked.

That was it. The bull was no longer chilling, he had noticed us. We were trespassing on his patch. Our dog’s barking was a challenge. So he threateningly sauntered towards us. Panic rose in our ranks and we retreated, quickly.

A barbed wire fence was our only obstacle to escape but, in my adrenaline-fuelled state, I was able to lift my children over it, as well as our dog.

Then I helped my wife Kate. In her panic, she launched over the fence and got stuck, so I helped propel her to the other side. She did an impressive somersault, landing dramatically but painlessly on her back on the thankfully soft turfy grass on the other side.

Then it was my turn, but my right shoe was stuck in the mud. The bull was closing in, so there was no time to waste. I wrenched my foot out of the shoe, which the mud claimed, and fell over the other side to safety.

It was a re-enactment of an incident from my toddler youth, when the same thing had happened to my father on the Isle of Skye. But unlike my father, I managed to retrieve my shoe and we finally made it back to the bothy where we were staying.

That evening, sitting by the log fire, we told the tale of the bull to each other, remembering different details and different emotions, but mostly laughing.

In the morning, as we passed the entrance to the field, my son Lewis pointed and said: “Look, the field of the bull.”

And so my son had named the place of that dramatic incident, which I suspect will be forever seared in our memories.

I’m pretty sure now we were never in any real danger, but at the time it felt different.

But it meant we had a story to share.

Making memories was the point of this extended weekend away on the magical island of Eigg. That, after all, is what matters in life.

We’ve had our challenges of late, big ones like many families do. But they bring into focus what is important.

Not material stuff, not the things we are often told are important, but the simple things, like being together as we share everyday adventures.

I’ve been a parent for 27 years. Five kids. Two grown up and three on their way.

It’s been the moments of shared adventure which have created our family lore. Lore is defined as 'a body of traditions and knowledge on a subject or held by a particular group, typically passed from person to person by word of mouth'.

So family lore is when memories are shared and become part of identity.

I know sadly not everyone has it, but family lore is important in knowing who we are. It’s what binds us together: “Remember when…" “I’ll never forget when…” "Remember that time…”

Because we are our stories.

On Eigg, we took no screens. It was a gift, not a curse. It was a deliberate decision. Family lore isn’t made with the kids playing Roblox or Minecraft while the grown-ups scroll. I suppose that’s obvious, but like any addictions, they are hard to put away.

But Eigg helped us do just that.

Our final day on the island was made of rain and Charlie. His minibus taxi tour guide service of the island is now part of our family lore too; his stories, his cheeky smile, his way of being.

“Rich as rich can be,” I often say, when simple pleasures, and the love of being, combine to enrich a moment.

That’s the trick: to sprinkle our lives with as many such moments as we can. In the end, that’s all we have that gives real meaning.

Our challenges don’t define us, it’s how we overcome them that does.

Our moments, our lore, our stories.

That’s who we are.