An island sitting only two miles off the coast of the mainland in the middle of one of the strongest tidal streams in the world must be regarded as a prime development site when everyone is scrambling for renewable energy.

If and when the Pentland Firth tidal energy project really gets going, it would not surprise me to see Stroma turned into another Flotta or Sullom Voe. For better or for worse...

I particularly wanted to see the island again before it becomes industrialised. Only 60 years ago there was a large, thriving community; 10 years later everyone had left and only the sheep wandered in and out of the empty crofts whose doors had been removed to prevent the animals getting trapped. Now the cottages are a couple of feet deep in sheep dung with deep piles of pigeon droppings providing insulation in the lofts. On Eilean nan Ron, evacuated in the 1930s, the dung is nearly twice as deep. How long has a cottage been abandoned? You can tell by the sheep dirt.

I'd been waiting for a calm day of neap tides, and finally an opportunity came with one of the lowest tidal ranges of the year and a forecast of light winds increasing to no more than force four. If I paddled across at slack water both ways, I'd have a good five hours on the island. It would be only my third ever visit, my last two having been with groups in a hired boat. The notorious currents of the Pentland Firth exceed five knots between Stroma and the mainland, with tidal eddies and overfalls around the island.

But at a neap tide the currents are much less and if I timed it right my only real concerns would be for the weather and the state of the sea.

Well, at seven in the morning at Gills the air was calm and the sea almost smooth. I paddled out of the harbour at Gills and headed for a point just east of the island, two miles away, so that as the westerly current picked up it would take me in towards the harbour. Even in such benign conditions I was feeling a little nervous at making the crossing on my own. Suddenly there was a huge splash behind the boat. What was that? A seal? Then, briefly, a big triangular fin rose out of the sea about 50 yards in front and disappeared again. There was, of course, no real cause for concern. It is most unusual for killer whales to bother humans, and, indeed, I'd only once been told of a kayaker being tipped into the sea by one.

With no other excitement, I paddled into the harbour at Stroma and beached the boat shortly after eight. It was a lovely morning – bright, broken cloud, clear air, gleams of sun across the sea and the islands. A great morning to have an island to myself to explore.

First, I set off down the old, grass-grown, road leading north towards the lighthouse. The sheer number of houses always amazes, all empty, most ruinous. Only three or four properties on the island have been renovated and are kept in good condition for occasional visits. The church is derelict, a forlorn phone box stands in front, glass broken, door open, paint faded to grey with a telegraph pole bereft of wires. Those who visited the Caithness artists' exhibition may recall a good painting of the scene, with the phone box restored to its original red! Behind the church lie a few wrecked cars. But the adjacent manse is in good order and nearby cottages, too, have been restored, as has the old school a few hundred yards to the east. I carried on down the road towards the lighthouse, enjoying the views across shimmering seas to the Orkneys.

The famous Gloup, where the sea rushes through a cave into a big circular depression in the moor.

Some deserted places, especially those dating back to the Clearances, can have a very sad feel to them, but this is not the case on Stroma; the island has a lovely sense of peace and quiet. The people left willingly, seeking a better living in the mainland and some still return for visits every summer. The whole island is run as a farm, with wandering sheep and cattle, and people are always travelling back and forth as weather permits.

To the west of the road is the famous Gloup, where the sea rushes through a cave into a big circular depression in the moor ringed by cliffs. The nearby Little Gloup is a much smaller and more sinister hole leading down to dark, hidden depths. The lighthouse is automatic now, the foghorn towers empty but still with the notice warning "Noise"! You used to be able to stand on Dunnet or Duncansby Head on foggy days and hear the foghorns bellowing to each other across the water. The ferocious "Swilkie" whirlpool was hardly stirring; if I'd had the nerve, I could easily have paddled right round the island.

The eastern side of Stroma is mostly green fields, with low broken and slabby cliffs and a few fluffy-white fulmar chicks huddling on ledges near the top. I wandered back along the coast to the harbour, detouring to investigate the ruined crofts on the way. Many years ago, in one of the lofts, I found a box of school exercise books, opening one revealed immaculate drawings of chemistry experiments from Wick High School. All such have long been removed, now there is just the explosive flapping of pigeons making a swift exit and the scuttle of rabbits and sheep.

Thick banks of nettles bar easy access. A few of the interior partitions and box-beds remain, the odd pane of glass still glints in a window. The views, out over the sea to the Pentland Skerries and the isles of Burray and South Ronaldsay, are unchanged. It was good to see one of the crofts being renovated, with even some potatoes and broad beans growing in the garden.

Rounding the south-east corner of the island with the graveyard and old Kennedy mausoleum, I climbed up to the ruined and roofless Baptist kirk and then, passing the harbour again, walked on to the other corner of the island where even on a day of neap tide the water was flowing fast across the skerries by the Stroma beacon. Large numbers of grey seals were hauled out on the rocks, their mooing calls echoing across the island. Well-defined circles in the short maritime heathland were nothing supernatural, just the prepared greens of the nine-hole Stroma golf course which had been played a couple of weeks earlier.

Cliffs rise higher on the western side. Here is a long, very narrow slot of a geo and a stack where the wreck of a boat, which ploughed into the cliffs at full speed on a fine night some 20 years ago, can still be seen. I climbed back up to the highest point of the island near the church for a last look at the panorama of sea and land, then headed back down the road towards the harbour, noticing now that quite a stiff breeze was blowing in my face.

A mere 15 mph-or-so southerly wind was quite enough to make the sea a lot choppier than on the outward crossing. I didn't mess about and headed straight for Canisbay Church on the far shore, little white horses breaking over the boat. Once in the lee of the land I could take my time again, and potter along the coast past Gills towards St John's Point, especially enjoying the seals which left their rocks to swim out and investigate, surfacing and diving with splashes and grunts. At Gills, a big and very noisy digger on a barge was dredging up rock to deepen the channel for the new catamaran ferry, due to arrive shortly. The operation looked just a little dangerous as the machine reached far down to grab huge shovels of rock and water which it dumped onto the increasingly listing barge. Keeping well out of the way, I paddled back into the harbour and beached the boat just a few yards from the car.

Yes, a visit to Stroma is still like stepping back 50 years into the past... it's a lovely island. But it's unlikely to be like that for much longer, a pity as every year there are less such spots on this overcrowded, frantic globe...

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