Pancake flat and with an extraordinary deep hole punched in its heart, the small island of Stroma sits amid stormy seas and boiling tides, its once cosy croft houses in a state of collapse with sheep and birds for occupants.

For centuries it supported a thriving island community in the middle of the Pentland Firth.

Almost entirely self-sufficient, it was home to hundreds of hardy islanders whose skills at making their distinctive barrel chested yoles – boats designed to handle the extreme tidal forces - was matched by their bravery as they defied the whirlpools and turbulent waters to fish and pilot others to safety.

Once the home of Vikings, Stroma’s islanders’ way of life was not so unlike those on the island of St Kilda, where the challenges of staying put against the temptations of a far more modern world just a boat trip away, would prove too much.

This year marks 60 years since the last Stroma family climbed into a tiny boat and set sail for new lives on the other side of the Pentland Firth.

They took the same the passage as dozens of others who, having tried to remain on an island just two miles west of John O’Groats, found the lure of a regular wage, local high schools, jobs, shops and proper health services just too attractive.

For Catherine Byrne, one of the last babies born on Stroma and whose family left in 1956, the island - with its towering rocky cliffs, ancient remains, and partially collapsed sea cave called The Gloup which left a giant pit in the ground and shelter for illicit stills and smugglers - is still ‘home’. “I am a Stroma person,” she says. “I do still see myself as being from the island.

“It is a bit like St. Kilda, the houses are falling down and the roads are now grown over. And it’s sad that people had to leave. It would have been nice if they could have stayed.”

Stroma, far closer to the mainland than St Kilda, is perhaps a lesson in just how easily fragile island communities can wither and die without investment and nuture.

At the start of the 20th century, it supported a vibrant population of 375. Within 40 years the number had slumped to just over 100 and by the early 1960s, just 12 remained.

When the last family, the Robertsons, departed in December 1962, the island became a giant sheep farm, with once lovingly tended crofts and farms left to the forces of nature.

Crumbling from the outside, visitors to the island who peek inside decaying homes can spot the remains of box beds, overturned tables, chairs, storage tins and in one case even an old sewing machine.

It's not the Stroma of Catherine's childhood, with close-knit families who made the most of what the tiny island had to offer.

“It was brilliant there for children, but a hard life for the adults,” says Catherine, aged six when her family left. “My parents ran the croft and they had a boat. My father would catch lobsters to sell and we had a cow called Dolly, sheep, a horse, chickens and drinking water from the well.

“When I was a child, Stroma was like a patchwork quilt, with all the fields of different colours. Now it’s just green grass.”

These days the island church, where Catherine’s grandfather was minister, still has its roof but the windows are gone.

A 17th century mausoleum which once housed mummified corpses preserved by the constant spray of salty sea water, still stands, while a wrecked red phone box is one of the few signs of ‘modern’ life.

Yet one report from the John O’Groats Journal dated 1859 spoke of the strong bond with the island which kept islanders from leaving despite the lack of trees, shrubs or flowers.

“Unadorned as it is, few of the natives would willingly leave it for a sunnier spot,” it said.

Stroma, which takes it name from the Old Norse Straumr-øy meaning "island in the stream”, had been inhabited since prehistoric times, with ancient stone structures dotted around the island, and a ruined chambered cairn at its far north end.

Mentioned in the 12th century Orkneyinga Saga, a Norse fortification, Castle Mestag, sat on top of an isolated rock stack almost 15ft from the main island cliffs; elsewhere are remains of an ancient earth and stone fort.

But while hardy families remained for generations, often taking advantage of the goods which spilled ashore from the all too frequent shipwrecks, the harsh conditions and lack of facilities such as a harbour - only built in 1956 after six years of wrangling – took its toll.

The winter of 1937 brought their isolation into sharp focus. Violent gales and storms lashed the island, destroying seafront houses and washing boats 100 yards inland.

To add to the islanders’ stresses, influenza ripped through the population, with just one exhausted nurse on the island and supplies of food dwindling.

With no telegraph of telephone communications, a Morse message was sent to a passing trawler appealing for help.

Arrangements were made for a doctor – one Dr. Findlay, as it happened – to make the treacherous journey on board the Thurso lifeboat to treat the worst affected of the 200 inhabitants.

Being cut off was not unusual. In 1949 one newspaper reported a “Fag Famine”, when the weather prevented deliveries to the island shop leaving empty shelves and no cigarettes.

A combination of factors meant life of Stroma eventually became too uncomfortable.

“A lot of people said the construction of the harbour was too little, too late,” says Catherine, one of the last children to attend Stroma’s tiny school.

Dounreay’s construction tempted some with jobs on the mainland. Another issue was the need for children to leave the island for secondary education.

“Children would leave Stroma to go to school, then university or they’d join the Navy and didn’t come back,” adds Catherine.

“Unlike in St Kilda where people left at the same time, people left Stroma in dribs and drabs. The ones who stayed started to think that everyone was going and no-one was coming back.”

Catherine, her parents, Joe and Syble McCaughey, older brothers George, James and little sister Marjory, packed up their belongings in 1956 for the crossing that would take them to a new life on the mainland.

She can’t remember much about leaving, but a faded photograph shows the McCaughey family tucked into a Stroma yole, her father’s arm raised in a final goodbye.

The last family, the Robertsons left in December 1962.

For Catherine and others, there’s an air of what might have been.

“Some people thought that if Stroma was part of Orkney rather than Caithness, the island would have been far better off. Fair Isle is roughly the same size as Stroma, it has a bird observatory and an airport.

“Stroma really had nothing. It’s quite sad.”