IN THE Hebrides, legend is a peculiarly inconstant beast. Perhaps it has something to do with the ever-changing light. The skies here never turn out the same way twice, and neither do the old stories. Some say the great Columba sailed straight from Ireland to Iona, others that he stopped off on Islay where he cursed a fisherman's bay for refusing him any salmon. Today, the lochs on Islay's west coast remain empty of salmon, but there are plenty of big-beaked oystercatchers, marsh heron and barnacle geese around. Almost any route round the island reveals roe deer, wild hare and pheasant. Seals can be spotted in rocky bays, and ravens, buzzards, and chough dart across the farmed fields of cows and sheep. The geese are everywhere.

Kevin Wiggins, whose job it is to count the gaggling multitudes for Scottish Natural Heritage, is "getting his eye in", estimating a flock of white-fronted geese to be around 1100-strong as we drive by the water's edge. "If there's been a full moon, you can catch them first thing in the morning, sleeping in late," he says. "It's a strange sight. Very dramatic."

Goose-counting is only one of Wiggins's many jobs. He does a bit of fencing, forestry and also acts as one of Islay's volunteer firefighters. But his chief concern is the little bit of hillside above Port Charlotte he is able to call his own.

Raised in East Kilbride, he and wife Liz decided in 2003 to start a very different way of life. The Wigginses are among 100 young families to have recently left Scotland's towns and cities to take up crofting. It is arduous, unrewarding work, but they are determined to succeed as self-sufficient farmers.

So long has the practice been in decline, its demise has often seemed inevitable. Yet the Crofters Commission claims some success in attracting a new crop of young people to establish crofts or take up those assigned by ageing family members. The Highlands and Islands Croft Entrants Scheme, which entitles couples to apply for start-up agricultural and housing grants once a business plan is accepted, is slowly beginning to bear fruit. Another 400 or so couples are on the waiting list, eager to start anew whenever a piece of land becomes available.

For the Wiggins, the journey has also been a kind of homecoming, since Liz's father still maintains a croft in Port Charlotte, and was able to sub-divide two fields to his daughter and son-in-law. Liz had been working as a primary teacher on the mainland for 15 years, but felt the time was right to return. "When we started our own family we decided it was a good idea to come back, so the children had that contact with their grandparents," she explains, while feeding her 10-month old daughter Grace in the kitchen of their little white bayside cottage.

"I began to appreciate what I had left behind all those years ago. It's a safe, secure environment for the children. It's the friendliness and the freedom, and the help of a very supportive community. Islay is a wonderful place. We just enjoy life here."

Kevin, who struggles to fetch a decent price for the cast ewes and blackface sheep he breeds, is confident the couple made the right decision. "There are no regrets," he says after a few cups of tea. "Being stuck in an office? No thanks. I love working with animals and always wanted to give it a go. It's not always easy, especially with margins so tight. No-one's going to make a huge profit in crofting, so you have to supplement your income with other things. But there's always plenty to do on Islay."

It has certainly been a busy weekend. Kevin was up at 3am on Saturday to catch the ferry to attend the last of the old sheep auctions at Dalmally. On Sunday morning, he was called to help extinguish a fire at the ferry terminal. And now one of the ewes has contracted a debilitating disease, leaving Kevin with an unpleasant evening chore. "Right," he declares, still not looking the least bit tired. "A bite to eat, then I'm off to shoot a sheep."

As we drive up the dirt track to the sheep shed, five-year-old Thomas Wiggins, cycling alongside on his BMX, falls into the mud. A massive grin appears from the pile of muck. "Would you look at that, he's delighted," says his father, who starts grinning himself. "He's the outdoors type I suppose. He came to the last sheep sale with me. No-one minded. They were just pleased to see young folk involved."

Scotland's ageing population is an especially pressing concern for the crofting community. Many dwellings are held by those of retirement age, and very few descendants are waiting keenly to take up the laborious mantle. Of the country's 17,000 registered crofts, no-one knows how many have land lying derelict. But it is not unusual to find only five of six crofts worked in a township containing 50 of them. Inactivity is the fundamental concern of the inquiry set up earlier this year in the wake of the much-criticised Crofting Reform Act.

Ever since the Clearances, the amalgamation of land into larger estates has led to a decline in the kind of small-scale agriculture that still runs through the veins of the healthiest rural communities. Its advocates maintain that crofting preserves population levels, stimulates economic life, and protects a diverse array of natural animal habitats.

IT certainly puts a fair amount of pressure on the new recruits, especially on Jura, where the population of just under 200 is perilously low (it was once 15,000). Compared with Islay's pretty pastures, neighbouring Jura is a rugged land, its colours even more at the mercy of the weather's moods. The southern Paps change from autumnal browns to steely greys, depending on the wind and rain.

Martin Boyle and his partner Deborah Bryce moved here in 2005, tempted by the opportunity to build their own home in the wild open spaces. A graphic designer and production manager living in Paisley, 33-year-old Bryce decided that she wanted to do without the safety of routine. "It was definitely a gamble, because it was such a step into the unknown and I had a lot to leave behind," she explains.

The gamble paid off. "I'm a lot happier than before," says Bryce. "The structure of life in the city was like clockwork, whereas now you're taking life in your own hands, doing different things your own way. It's important not to misconstrue it as a romantic ideal because it's not for everyone. It's a wonderful opportunity, but it's certainly not a fairytale."

But as we walk to the croft dwelling the couple are building on the Knockrome township, a rainbow appears over the half-built house. Until it is finished, they are living with Boyle's mother, who has subdivided her fields in order to give them a start.

Boyle, now 30, persuaded Bryce to join him on the island he grew up on by telling her Jura had palm trees. "I said, Oh really?'" she recalls, reviving her scepticism for a second. "But sure enough there were three of them. Actually, I didn't really need persuading. Every time we visited Jura, it got harder to leave. I just got a feeling I belonged here."

Bryce even got over her traumatic first taste of clearing out the silage and mulch for her in-laws' cows. "They said it was lovely and fresh, but it was rotten and horrible. It gave me heartburn one day when I had a bit of a hangover. I breathed it right in my lungs and thought, My God it's powerful'," she says, laughing and choking on the memory. "But I do like being in the country. If you don't mind getting stuck in, it's enjoyable. I don't miss shopping and going to the gym as much as I thought I would."

A typical day now for Boyle, who has his own construction business on the island, starts at 7 or 8am helping feed his mother's cows before heading out to work. Then there is more work to be done on the house, followed by piles of paperwork in the evening. "We don't have much time for a social life at the moment," he says, though the couple are still recovering from the island's rowdy ceilidh the night before. "But it is great to be back. It wasn't until the entrants' scheme came up that it seemed like a sensible move. Not having to purchase a plot of land at market value made it seem possible. And if you are planning on starting a family like us, there doesn't seem like a better place to raise kids than Jura."

Despite the available assistance - up to 50% of agricultural payments for equipment, road access, sheds, fencing and stock protection - the bureaucracy can be daunting. There are also strict initial limits to the amount of livestock allowed on each croft. Bryce and Boyle are hoping to start with a couple of cows of their own next year.

The Crofting Foundation is determined to make it clear to the Crofting Inquiry Committee that land is being priced beyond the reach of young people, despite the grants, as crofts are sold off to speculators. "We can't find enough crofts to get genuinely interested people started," says director Hugh Donaldson. "The value of land has become so inflated by the right to buy and people buying land for retirement houses, that the agricultural value is being lost. Crofting is not actually about ownership. It's about maintaining a tenancy and passing that on to a family member. If housing speculation is allowed free rein, crofting will disappear. There will be no more crofting."

The Crofters Commission has come under fire at town hall meetings for not regulating decrofting or discouraging those out to make a profit on land. Yet commission chairman Drew Ratter, himself a lifelong crofter on Shetland, is positive. "Crofting is a good chance for young people to get on the property ladder," he says. "The Highlands and Islands have been in depression for a thousand years. It's only in the last decade that things have turned around. There's now a huge amount of community activity, buy-outs and ventures, and the whole ethos of crofting works incredibly well with all that."

He also emphasises the merits of diversification, and is encouraged that some new entrants are building polytunnels and presenting business plans for horticultural pursuits such as herb cultivation or growing soft fruits. One couple in Caithness are even keeping alpacas, a llama-like breed of goat. "The enthusiasm new entrants are showing is excellent. It's not so isolated a way of life as it once was. Now people have broadband connections so they can do new types of work as well. Crofting was never purely about agriculture. It's the young people and their ideas that hopefully mean the Highlands have a bright future."

Back on Jura the term "cyber-crofting" - coined to promote the idea that supplementary web-based businesses would help repopulate remote parts of Scotland - seems out of place. The internet transmitter has been down for three days. Deborah Bryce, still keen to pursue freelance graphic design work, says the slow connection speed means she struggles to download files, open flash video pages or complete online forms without being timed-out.

"Cyber-crofting makes me laugh," says Martin Boyle. "It's been enough of a struggle getting electricity put in. You do have to be inventive, but basic agriculture is still at the core of crofting. There's probably too much promotion of diversification through things like holiday complexes and chalets. Without agriculture, the land can go to rack and ruin, and that would be devastating."

Even if it does take her 10 times as long to read emails, Bryce accepts that Jura's remoteness and rural character are unchanging aspects of its appeal. "It's about the natural beauty and diversity of places like this, about different ways of doing things. There are very few places left that aren't over-run by development. The beautiful thing about crofting is, you make it on your own."

The word "beautiful" is the simplest way of describing the landscape and light. "You usually take the place where you live for granted, but here, you look outside and realise what a wonderful place it is," says Liz Wiggins. Her window offers views of the tide leaving Port Charlotte bay, and a lighthouse stark against the blue sky. Visitors, she says, always comment on the beauty of the place. "Yes," she tells them. "We know."