Yesterday was the closing date for those wishing to apply for the post of primary school teacher on the island of Muck. In terms of academic workload it must rank as one of the least taxing posts in the western hemisphere, the school having seven pupils, one of whom is of nursery age. When you factor in the location and the conditions in which the successful applicant must live, however – a permanent population of around 30, no proper shop, and cut off from the mainland in bad weather – it is another matter. Exquisitely beautiful though Muck and its sister Small Isles are, living in the Inner Hebrides – or on any tiny, far-flung island – is not for the fainthearted.

Highland Council will no doubt have to sift through a sackful of letters from starry-eyed candidates. The word "idyllic" is always used when jobs in such places are advertised, but anyone who thinks life on Muck is the stuff of romantic fiction or a Gavin Maxwell memoir will have a rude awakening. It comes as no surprise that a teacher from Glasgow, who had accepted the post a few years ago, turned tail almost the moment she landed, jumping aboard the return ferry the next day. The most recent incumbent lasted no longer than two and a half years, but while she has spoken warmly her time there, some might think she still deserves a medal. The demands of living year-round in a place that measures two square miles are considerable.

Our craggy coastline is studded with almost 800 islands, of which only 94 are inhabited. Of these, a mere 14 are home to more than 1,000 inhabitants. While there is a world of difference between Muck and the likes of Skye or Arran, with their substantial populations, there is a great affinity between the smallest isles, whether it’s Eigg with its handful of dwellers, or Yell with 900 or so. On these, the principles of living in a miniscule place whose sole exit is by boat are exactly the same. Far from being an escape from the world, it is a life lived in the pockets and under the watchful gaze of others. For some this community spirit is heartwarming. For others, it can become a claustrophobic hell. By the time a visitor has stepped off the boat and found his landlegs, the news will have travelled. Bush telegraph has nothing on the Hebridean daily express, which one suspects is conveyed by carrier-gulls. Nor are loners likely to flourish. Woe to the islander who wants to have a quiet evening in when the pub is short of a team member on quiz night, or to the amateur accordionist when there’s a shindig and the band missed the ferry. In places like this, privacy is as alien a concept as Neighbourhood Watch.

It was Lawrence Durrell who introduced the term islomaniac to our vocabulary. His passion was for Mediterranean bolt-holes, perennially sunny places where the pace was slow and sensuous, and one could live cheaply while still having fun. In a letter to a friend, he wrote: “There are people who find islands somehow irresistible. The mere knowledge that they are in a little world surrounded by sea fills them with an indescribable intoxication.”

Muck will need someone who fits that description if its children are to have a teacher. To me, the notion of settling on a whale’s back of land in the midst of the Atlantic is little short of terrifying. I’ve spent spells on Tiree, Lismore and Lewis, but it was a mere couple of nights on Coll that made me appreciate just how difficult it could be. My host was a former army doctor and while we were tramping the moors, his lurcher misjudged a barbed wire fence when she leapt it. Back at his house, which had no electricity, he made me hold the dog down while he stitched her belly without anaesthetic, by the light of a paraffin lamp. Since there was no vet to do the job he was obliged to improvise, and in so doing probably saved her life.

The key to island existence seems to be a resilience and inventiveness few of us will ever be called upon to find. You can understand the appeal. In our technology-controlled times, the idea of rediscovering a simpler, more authentic lifestyle is attractive. Islands allow a much closer connection, not just with one’s neighbour but with nature. There’s no chance of forgetting forces more powerful than ourselves when ferry timetables and the arrival of supplies or emergency helicopters depend entirely on the tides and the weather. There is something magical, too, in knowing you share your patch with otters and eagles or can watch porpoises and basking sharks from the beach beyond your front door.

All this is also available on the mainland, of course, but the hermetic seclusion of an island adds depth to the experience, a very tangible sense of inhabiting the same bounded, fragile space as the creatures flying overhead or scurrying underfoot. For these reasons, people often claim islands are a great place to raise children. That may be so for their early years, but by the time they are teenagers, these youngsters will be desperate for a taste of city life. Fortunately, it probably won’t come as such a shock to them as Glasgow did to the man from St Kilda who visited in the 1600s, and stared open-mouthed at women’s high heels, believing their feet to be a different shape to men’s. He considered the cathedral to be a very fine rock, with excellent caves, but couldn’t wait to get home.

I suspect those who yearn to move somewhere like Muck are drawn to the notion of rediscovering some of the most enriching essentials, such as taking responsibility for their day to day existence, getting to know people well, and living cheek by jowl with wildlife. Yet I shuddered when I read that the islanders only got a 24-hour electricity supply in 2013, thanks to a community wind-solar scheme. To my urban ears that does not sound fail-safe, even though I can almost hear the wind howling as it heads straight from the Arctic towards the turbines. Almost as chilling, I can also hear the gossip as it licks from house to house like flames. Nothing one does on an island goes unremarked.

It requires a special temperament to cope with scrutiny and the rumour mill it feeds. For those born off-shore, it probably comes as second nature. For new arrivals, it takes some adjusting. Nature writer Jim Crumley has written that “good intentions do not turn an incomer into a son of the island soil”. Yet without good intentions, islanders would not survive. Those who would live surrounded by sea require stamina and determination and nous. But if incomers were not welcome, or were not up to the task, then half our most bijou islands would be home only to birds and midgies. As Muck’s search for a teacher continues, just one thing is certain. Whoever gets the job will have as much to learn as the pupils.