by David Yeadon
And so tweed may yet be the key, once again, to island survival…and what a fine, uplifting, heartwarming story that would make…
Postscript on the Seasons in the Outer Hebrides
The weather here, however, is not exactly what you would call by any stretch of the imagination a “heartwarming story.” But if you possess an agile sense of humor, the seasons here are indeed rather amusing. Without humor and a degree of stoical tolerance, they can be irritating to the point of mild apoplexy. Rarely during our year on Harris did we find the predictability of more pliant climes, shaped and formed by larger global influences, although admittedly, with all of today’s complex cause-and-effect and often contradictory warming/cooling trends, predictability even on a global scale is becoming increasingly muddled and topsy-turvy.
The islands of the Outer Hebrides hold sway over their own climatic quirks. These are the first bastions of land that surging Atlantic air masses face head-on. Muscling in mostly from the west and south, they are abruptly confronted by such wall-like impediments as the mountains of Barra and the Uists, and—more dramatically—the great bulwark of Clisham and the North Harris monoliths. While all these upsurges tend to protect the Scottish mainland from climatic excesses, anything can happen in any season here, and invariably does. The only steady, mitigating element in this chaotic confusion is the North Atlantic Drift, or Gulf Stream, which at least, and with an admirable degree of constancy, soothes the more outrageous excesses of climatic exhibitionism. Thanks to its benign benevolence and despite our latitudinal location equivalent to the middle of Canada’s Hudson Bay or Russia’s northern Siberian wastes, rarely did Anne and I experience significant winter snowfalls or ice storms on the lower portions of Harris. The mountain crests, of course, were often pristinely snowcapped during the winter months, but the passes usually remained open and ice-free. What our northern latitude did guarantee, however, were long, dark days through those chilly months when a weak, liquidy sun barely rises above the horizon for a few half-light hours and then slips away again around 4:00 P.M. These were the cocooning times when domestic “nesting” became the social norm and cozy peat fires were kept well stocked throughout the days and nights.
Spring invariably slips in slowly with feathery “mizzle” (mist and drizzle) and glorious double rainbows, as lambs appear on the machair and moors—bright white dots of new, frisky life among a slow greening of the land. Of course, one must expect the unexpected during this season—particularly in the form of near-hurricane force winds. As a friend told us, “It’s impossible for those who have never lived here to recognize the impact of our winds on the lives and moods of the Hearaich.” And the residents long for summer. But summer seems to take forever to arrive. Sometimes it never does, at least not in terms of tan-quality heat and sear. At other times, warm, blue days float sublimely through much of July and August. And the days certainly lengthen—that’s a guaranteed, and very welcome, norm. We’re not quite in the “land of the everlasting sun” here as we would be farther to the north in Norway or the remote Faeroe Islands. But it’s certainly close, with dawn arriving around 5:00 A.M. and sunset (barely setting) around midnight. Energy returns too (despite the incessant dawn and evening flotillas of tiny blackfly-like “midges,” of which more later). You feel refreshed, invigorated, and reluctant to accept the normal rhythms of rest and sleep. You stay up into the early hours, reading, listening to fine music, or the welcome certitude of the BBC World Service and occasional Gaelic radio (Radio nan Gaidheal ) and TV (Telebhisean Grampian), richly strange in their mellifluous, musical language.
Then, as the year begins to slip away and the days start their darkening decline through autumn (to the accompaniment of the hormone-crazed cries of mating red stags on the brittle-air moors) and back into the doomy-gloom, bruised-cloud days of winter, your body once again responds to climatic realities and sleep becomes longer and deeper. Of course, inevitably, in the thin winter sun—more like a watery gruel at times—colors fade in the land with only the heather and broom providing some solace against the dunning down of summer’s spectral glories.
But, within these broad rhythms of seasonal shift come all those other amusing/frustrating (depending upon your demeanor) and zany idiosyncrasies of Hebridean weather—roaring rooftile-ripping, branch-snapping gales; sudden snowfalls and hailstorms in mid-May; torrential cumulonimbus downpours in the midst of summer beach barbecues; gloriously warm and blue days deep in the fall; and strange, stickily humid afternoons in the winter half-light. And once in a rare while, we might even enjoy one of those amazing displays of the Aurora Borealis, or northern lights.
That old cliché “If you don’t like the weather, wait five minutes” is all too true here. In fact, there were many days when, if we perched ourselves high enough on a North Harris peak, we could watch a whole simultaneous panoply of climatic displays, from furious thunderstorms to blue Caribbean-calm and just about every variation of mood in between. Such bizarre occurrences are described perfectly in an old Gaelic proverb: Latha na Seachd Sian—gaoth is uisge, cuir is cathadh, tarnanaich is dealanaich is clachan meallainn (the typical day of Seven Storms—wind and rain, snowfall and blizzard, thunder, lightning, and hailstorms).
However, when the winds shift and air masses move in from the east, rather than the Atlantic west, a more consistently benign pattern of clear skies and fresh invigorating breezes often prevails—to the relief of all the Hearaich folk.
As Anne and I were both born and bred in Yorkshire, England, we were all too well aware of what we used to call “porridge” weather. Our dreaded forecast in Yorkshire was invariably the “dull and mild with scattered showers” type, as that would often become the daily norm for weeks on end. That pall of clammy gray cloud, hundreds of feet thick, would move in and just sit virtually motionless and seemingly forever, blocking out the sun and turning otherwise perfectly normal neighbors into stooped, morose, and muddy-minded strangers.
In Harris, this was a relatively rare event due to rapid fickleness of climatic eccentricities, a fickleness that also makes Harris one of the windiest places in Europe. And while this can be a little traumatic for the populace in general—and hardy shepherds in particular out alone on the high, treeless moors—such rampant energy makes wind-power enthusiasts and “venture investors” salivate at the prospect of those proposed vast wind-turbine “farms” scattered across the bleakly flat moor and peat plateau of central Lewis. They see billions of dollars’ profit in such wind (and ocean-tidal) harnessing and harvesting. The locals are not yet quite so starry-eyed by such prospects—but the potential infusion of “new money” into these economically beleaguered islands is a rather tempting proposition nevertheless.
“Anything that’ll make things a bit easier out here would be a godsend,” one crofter told us as he mentally calculated the bonus of “rental rights” on his otherwise unused land.
“Tip end of the wedge,” grumbled one particularly outspoken “Green.” “There’ll be no birds or wildlife—or beauty—left!”
“When wind is just about all we’ve got nowadays out here,” said one ex-member of the West Isles Council, in a particularly dour mood, “I say—use it! Today!”
“Listen—when global warming really hits,” predicted one weather-conscious outsider, “they say we might even lose the Gulf Stream—and the winds!”
Anne and I decided to celebrate the current climatic quirks of Harris and all its seasonal uncertainties and just enjoy each fickle day to the full.
THE FIRST SPRING
Gearrannan Blackhouse Village
1
Learning the Land
FIRST WE HAD TO FIND an island home. A good place to live.
I’m still not exactly sure what it was about Clisham Cottage in the village of Ardhasaig on the west coast of Harris, four miles or so north of Tarbert, that made us impulsively pick up the phone in New York and call the MacAskill family, owners of the place.
In front of us on my studio table we
had this colorful brochure of self-catering cottages on the island, each with a photograph and listing of key features. The initial entry for Clisham Cottage read: “A superbly appointed cottage in a beautiful coastal position overshadowed by dramatic mountains.”
Appealing, of course, but so were the other fifty or so offering such enticements as “Short drive from the cleanest beaches in Europe; a truly secluded traditional Hebridean retreat; thatched black house–style cottage in breathtaking scenery; a delightful water’s edge escape…”
We couldn’t even remember the village of Ardhasaig from our first visit. Of course, “village” is more of a legal than aesthetic term here. On the islands they tend to be rather straggly, croft-by-croft affairs with none of the cozy cohesion of English equivalents.
Anyway, we called, lured by some indefinable enticement ghosting behind the brief lines in the brochure.
“Hello, good afternoon. This is Dondy MacAskill speakin’. How may I help ye, please?”
Lovely female voice. Mellow, young, musical, and with an enticing Scottish lilt that possessed the mellifluousness of a Robbie Burns poem coupled with the freshness of ocean breezes. Well—that’s perhaps over-doing it a bit. But it was certainly a very friendly voice.
“Hello—did you say ‘Dondy’?” I kind of mumbled. “I don’t think I’ve heard that name before…”
There was a warm chuckle at the other end. “Well, now—it’s really Donalda…but everyone calls me Dondy. So, how can I help ye?”
“Ah—Donalda…that’s a new one for me too.”
Anne was sitting beside me, giving me one of those “so what’s happening?” looks. She’s much better focusing on the nub of things. I tend to get distracted by details. Left to my own devices, I’d possibly be prattling on for ages about the weather, or the latest world political scandals, or anything other than the original reason for the call.
“Yes?”
“Er…oh, I’m sorry. Listen, I was just calling about that cottage of yours—Clisham—and I wondered…”
With Anne prompting me by scribbling questions on the notepad by the phone, I finally managed to get a pretty comprehensive overview of what was on offer, cost, availability, and all those other vital details required for intelligent decision making.
Except I’d already made my decision. As soon as I heard Dondy’s voice and name. Of course that’s not quite the way I put it to Anne when I finally replaced the receiver. “Well,” I began in a tone that I hoped suggested careful research and a rational approach to house selection, “I think generally it seems fine. There are three bedrooms…”
Anne watched me with that curiously bemused smile of hers that tells me she’s way ahead of me and my ramblings.
“You like her, don’t you?”
“Who?”
“This…person…on the other end of the phone.”
“Donalda—well actually her name’s Dondy—apparently that’s what they call her. And…yes, well, she sounds nice…but that’s not the point. She says the views there are fantastic—way across a loch and the Harris mountains…and…”
“And you’ve already decided you want it?”
“Why don’t you let me finish? Dondy says her father owns a small shop right across the road and—”
“Sounds fine. Let’s do it!”
“But darling, I still haven’t finished—”
“It’s okay,” Anne said impatiently, “just book it!”
It’s hopeless trying to deal with this kind of dialogue in a rational manner. My wife had already, as she invariably does, perceived the heart of the matter and made the only possible decision under the circumstances.
“Oh…okay. If you really think it’ll be what you—”
Anne gave me that bemused smile again, along with a big hug, and went off to make a pot of tea.
And so Clisham Cottage was booked, sight unseen, but with all the intuitions intact. Well—my intuitions, at least. And all Anne’s feminine intuitions about my intuitions…Ah, isn’t marriage wonderful?
CLISHAM COTTAGE WAS PERFECT FOR US and our occasionally rather lazy dispositions. Anywhere else on the island we’d have to travel miles for staple groceries, newspapers, wine, or anything else necessary in the course of daily life. But here we had it all at the MacAskill store and gas station directly across the road, brimming with island delights as well as all those oh-so-British oddities: mushy peas, treacle sponges, Marmite and Bovril, HP Sauce, jars of Colman’s delicious mint sauce for the Harris lamb we hoped to enjoy, a tempting array of British and Scottish cheeses, home-cured bacon, Branston pickle and pickled onions, kippers (smoked herring), and even tiny Christmas puddings slowly marinated in rum and brown sugar and ready to be served with golden custard and Devon clotted cream. Plus an array of all those seasonal game specialties too, such as local venison, grouse, partridge, salmon, and shellfish.
The cottage itself was perched on a bluff just below the road and contained three good-sized double bedrooms, two elegant bathrooms, and a large L-shaped living room/dining room/kitchen with a broad sweep of windows overlooking that vista we had hoped and prayed for out across the Atlantic (with our own local salmon farm) and that dramatically wild wall of the North Harris hills. A brief glimpse of the land immediately below the cottage suggested merely an overgrown slope rolling down to the loch of ancient moors, marsh-dappled with spikey tussocks and errant streams tumbling between outcrops of that ancient bedrock. But as we looked closer we noticed rubble-strewn hummocks, bulges, and indentations. And, as we walked the land we realized we were treading on the remnants of old massive-walled black houses, overgrown lazybeds once richly fertilized by kelp from the bay and meticulously cultivated for grain, potato, and turnips, and the foundations of circular sheep fanks—all the ancient accoutrements of the traditional crofting life here.
Immediately adjacent to the cottage was the MacAskill family home, a large Victorian-style mansion well buffered from the strong Atlantic winds by a dense cluster of trees. And, to add occasional gourmet splurges to what we intended to be our simple island lifestyle, there was the recently opened Ardhasaig House, the MacAskills’ small six-room hotel, a hundred yards or so down across the steep sheep pastures and already the recipient of glowing gastronomic reviews in travel guides and magazines.
Roddy MacAskill, the seventy-one-year-old patriarch of the family, was a small, stocky man with a mischievous gleam in his eye and a sly smile that suggested someone who had gained great satisfaction from creating his small empire of store, self-catering cottages, hotel, transport business, and rock quarry back in the Harris hills off the Stornoway Road. He greeted Anne and me with a warmth and friendliness that we’d not expected quite so soon on an island renowned for its social reticence and occasional indifference (even antagonism) to “outsiders.”
Roddy MacAskill
Within minutes of our arrival, we were sitting comfortably in his lounge with Joan, his wife of forty years, whose twinkling smile and warmth made us feel part of the family from the moment we entered. Of course her rapid production of a tea tray laden with her home-baked shortbread, bannock cakes, and cookies, and Roddy’s insistence that “a wee dram” (how familiar that phrase became in the months ahead!) may go down well too, created a mood of benevolent bonhomie that became a permanent delight of our friendship.
The only problem on that occasion, for me at least, was the dram-drinking ritual. Had it been vodka or rum or sherry or brandy or just about any other libation of choice, everything would have been fine. But unfortunately—and inevitably—it was the time-honored tipple of usquebaugh—fine blended Scottish whisky—“or a wee fifteen-year-old malt, if y’d prefer…,” said Roddy, wafting a bottle of highly regarded Macallan in front of us.
Deep down somewhere I think I’d dreaded this moment. For reasons far too embarrassing and revealing to explain, Highland whisky was my psychological and physiological nemesis in the arena of alcoholic delights.
Well, I thought, I’m not going t
o spoil our first get-together with our hosts, so if I keep eating Joan’s cookies, maybe they’ll disguise the taste of this nefarious stuff and I’ll bluff my way through without any social faux pas.
And strangely enough (with Anne, who was fully aware of my aversion, watching me nervously), it seemed to work. The stuff didn’t taste as bad as I’d expected. In fact, all in all, it was rather an enticing experience.
“Ceud mile failte,” toasted Roddy.
“And you too,” we responded, having no idea what he’d just said.
“It’s an old Gaelic greeting—‘wishing you a hundred thousand welcomes.’”
“Ah well,” Anne chuckled, “then it’s definitely ‘and to you too’!”
Roddy laughed. “Drink up! I’ve got a really special blend I’d like you to taste.” Fortunately at that point in the proceedings the door opened and in walked the rest of the family in the form of the MacAskills’ three adult offspring: Katie, the cuddly, beaming-faced manager and chef-supreme at the hotel; David, the handsome, worldly-wise, off-island entrepreneur in the IT business, and—at last!—the lovely lady Dondy herself, whose mellifluous vocal lilt had lured us (me) to Clisham Cottage in the first place.
It was a most memorable evening, which—to our surprise and delight—included a splendid impromptu dinner prepared by Katie (“Well, actually,” she modestly and blushingly admitted, “it’s mainly leftovers from tonight’s dinner for the guests…”).
And of course it also became our first on-island indoctrination session into the ways of the Hearaich, the long, convoluted Harris history, and, most touching of all, the love that the multigenerational locals have for their beautiful wild island.