Seasons on Harris

by David Yeadon

  Then it was my turn for a little recitation: “I found this great little poem about the tweed and wrote it down. I don’t know who composed it but it made me realize that Clo Mor was much more than just cloth…it was the spirit of the island too…something you could never lose…

  “I saw a man in Harris Tweed

  As I walked down The Strand;

  I turned and followed him like a dog

  The breath of hill and sea and bog

  That clung about that coat of brown

  And suddenly, in that London town,

  I heard again the Gaelic speech,

  The scrunch of keel on shingly beach;

  So with buoyant step I went along

  Whistling a Hebridean song,

  I was a man renewed indeed

  Because I smelt that Harris Tweed

  As I walked down The Strand”

  Somehow, for me at least, those few lines captured the whole mystique and magic of the island cloth—a warp and weft not just of spun wool but of interlocked lives, memories, traditions, and experiences, many traumatic and decimating, but shared by all crofters and weavers here, bound together in this wild, ancient, and beautiful place.

  WE VISITED MARGARET MACKAY AS Katie had suggested and she had no hesitation at all in dealing with our questions about the urine-using aspect of the dyeing process.

  “No, of course I don’t use it! What’s the point? There are so many other ways of ‘fixing’ color in the wool fibers—mordant salts of aluminum, iron, copper, and zinc are fine. And some of the dye stuff like crotal—lichen—is ‘substantive’ anyway, and usually doesn’t need a mordant to keep that lovely rich red-brown color…So, pee-pots and maistir barrels are all gone now. Thankfully!”

  We liked Margaret from the moment we entered her entrancing little world of dye-plant gardens and tiny shop, set by the roadside on the edge of Tarbert. The shop was full of her subtly colored balls of wool yarn and her handcrafted cushion covers, peg bags, and collage pictures, and it was barely big enough for a couple of customers.

  She was a teacher originally from southern England who moved to Harris sixteen years ago and had maintained her accent, her no-nonsense “listen to me, class” attitude, her forthright opinions on just about any subject you’d care to mention—and a beguilingly bizarre sense of Brit humor.

  She needed it too. When Anne and I first saw her, crouched witch-like over a huge sooty black cauldron by her little shop, we both had an immediate attack of the giggles. Furious flames were roaring under the contraption, odd things were bubbling about inside, and tendrils of steam were whirling around her like ghostly wraiths.

  “Bubble, bubble, toil and trouble,” I heard myself calling out as she turned and peered through the haze.

  Fortunately she smiled. “Yes, yes—but aren’t I a heck of a lot better-looking than any of Macbeth’s blinkin’ witches!”

  Margaret stepped out from the steam, wiping her forehead. “Crotal is such a nuisance. Needs so much heat to get it started right.”

  And so began a delightful island friendship with one of the last true experts in the traditional art of dyeing in Britain. It would take quite a few chapters to summarize all the subtleties of her dyeing processes, but what impressed us both was not so much the extent of her expertise but the deep-seated respect and affection she had for all the old traditional elements of tweed making.

  “Most people have no idea of the work it took in those days to make a good tweed. I mean when you think you needed three large sacks full of stinging nettle leaves—and I mean leaves, not stalks—just to produce enough dye for one small waistcoat—or as my American students call it, a vest. And the range of plants they used was amazing—they made a lovely deep orange from ragweed; red from the roots of lady’s bedstraw; dark green from hogwort; yellow from bracken roots, and gray lichen or Stone Parmelia crotal for that deep red-brown henna shade you find in so much of the original tweed. And lots of other plants that you still see all around here—marsh marigold, and wild iris—that last one was particularly popular for deep, blue-gray color from the roots—you get a beautiful green from the leaves too, and a pale apricot from the seeds. And then there’s elderberry too, bog myrtle, tormentil, brambles, meadowsweet, dock leaves and roots, ragwort, heather of course, even seaweed and willow bark, and those tall Scottish thistles before they flower—oh, and my favorite standby for a rich lemony-yellow color—peat soot! All dathan duthchail—true earth colors.”

  “Oh, I remember the peat soot,” I said. “When I first visited Marion Campbell she made me stick my finger in a bucket of the stuff. Turned it yellow for a week—I looked like a chronic nicotine addict!”

  “Yes—you would. These dyes really stick. You’ve got to be very careful when you’re boiling the fleeces with some of these plants. I always use gloves, otherwise I’d be a walking rainbow! But now of course everyone’s using chemical dyes—they claim they’re more color-consistent and far less labor-intensive and I suppose they’re right. But it’s sad in a way—they don’t have the subtle variations and color tones of the naturals. It’s only the knitters now who really appreciate these. They’re the ones who buy most of my balls of yarn—and they’re very loyal. Keep coming back and back for more…”

  “Well, I hope the islanders appreciate what you’re doing to preserve their old traditions,” said Anne.

  “Ah well, y’never know with the Hearaich! I married one—Donald MacKay—fortunately he’s a real ‘traditionalist’—we’re some of the last people on the island to still use our own peat bank for most of our fuel. People have got lazy nowadays. Coal is easy and cheap. Cutting peats in the spring—May and June—takes a lot of work y’know—backbreaking—especially for a couple of geriatrics like us! But the press certainly seems to appreciate what we’re doing here—all the dyeing and whatnot. Journalists are always coming and writing about us—National Geographic, Elle, BBC, lots of foreign magazines. They don’t always get it right, though!”

  “Why, is it a complex process?” I asked.

  “No—not really. Getting the right roots and leaves in the right season can be a bit laborious, but basically you boil up the fleeces after mordanting them with salts to help the colors hold fast. The yellows can be difficult—they can fade if you don’t use enough alum. And boiling times can vary. Crotal needs at least two hours depending on the condition of the lichen. Others need longer at a lower heat. But then after the dyeing comes the hard bit—the carding and the spinning into yarn. That’s incredibly time-consuming—and tiring. But y’know, things happen—funny things—that make it all worthwhile. I remember once this little plump man came in—all very polite and gracious—and asked, ‘Will you dye me enough wool to make a waistcoat?’ He wanted a real rich crotal dye. He patted his tummy like a little Buddha. ‘I need it to hold this in!’ he said. So I did and sent it off to him. And then, a couple of months later Donald and I were watching TV—a debate in the London Parliament. And suddenly, there he was, asking questions of the prime minister—and he was wearing my waistcoat. And very smart he looked too. And slim!”

  “Maybe I should get one of those,” I said, doing a Buddha rub on my own rather prominent stomach bulge. Margaret laughed the deep, resonant laugh of someone who loved her life and her work. “Ah, well, y’could be right there! I see you in a mix of marsh marigold, iris root, elderberry…and maybe just a touch of heather.”

  “I’m glad you skipped the nettles.”

  “No, you’re not the nettles type!”

  “And the peat soot…”

  “Well—maybe not the soot…but as you mention peat, you’re always welcome to join Donald and me at our bank…”

  “Where is it?”

  “Just outwith town on the Rodel Road.”

  “You just said ‘outwith.’”

  “Did I?!”

  “Yes—meaning ‘outside,’ I presume…”

  Donald and Margaret MacKay—“At the Peats”

  Margaret laughed. “Ye
s—but y’know, I didn’t realize…oh boy, I’ve been on this island far too long!”

  And it was that laughter and her ironic humor that lured us a few days later to watch—and even participate briefly in—the peat cutting, or “winning,” at their own peat bank a couple of miles south of Tarbert. And mutual giggles were in full force as I valiantly tried to master the subtle art of slicing into the thick, moist, chocolate mousse–textured peat with a traditional long-handled peat-iron (also known as a tuskar or cabar lar). The slicing itself was relatively easy, with the long, thin blade pressed down by foot like a spade, but the use of the clever little hook-like device, or flange, attached to the blade to ease the peat clear off the bank into the hands of the “lifter” eluded me. Time after time my peats would be on the verge of “breaking” (a real no-no) and Margaret would have to rescue them before they crumbled into useless fragments.

  “Look—why don’t I just sit and sketch the two of you,” I suggested a little shamefacedly. Anne nodded enthusiastically.

  “Na’there’s a fine idea,” said the diminutive Donald, desperate to save his bank from my neophyte destruction.

  So, as the two of them worked together in a steady rhythm of cutting, lifting, carrying, and piling each peat in a semi-upright position on the drying stack, I tried to capture the graceful flow of their movements.

  Apparently they’d “inherited” this bank, approximately fifty feet long, twenty feet wide, and four feet deep, from an elderly neighbor who had recently died. The top layer of “turf” had been removed to expose the rich peat, which they now cut into rectangles, about a foot wide and four inches deep and eighteen inches long. Donald told us that “a fair fit man” could manage to cut up to a thousand peats a day, but even at this rate it could take up to fifteen long, hard days to cut enough for the average house during the chill winter months. If the weather is kind, the stacked peats are dry enough in two weeks to set up as casbhic (little feet)—three peats “set tentwise” with a fourth across the top. After further drying they can then be built into “stacks,” ready to be carried in sacks, peat barrows, or even the old-fashioned wicker basket “creels” to the roadside for transport to the cruach peat pile at the side of the house.

  “Of course,” said Donald a little morosely, “on our wee wet isle, the dryin’ can be a bit of a problem, and there’s nothin’ worse than a winter spent tryin’ to burn damp peats. They should to rights be very light—almost like polystyrene—but here…well, y’just never know…”

  They both paused for a rest and a nibble of their lunchtime “pieces”—lovely thick beef sandwiches—which they shared with us. Then I followed Margaret as she wandered away from the bank, turned, and just stood looking at it.

  “Donald’s doing great,” I said. “He must have cut a couple of hundred peats already…”

  Margaret didn’t reply for a while and then, with a chuckle and a sigh, she said quietly, “Y’know, after a few years of this y’get to think of it as just another part of everyday life…until you stand back and look…”

  “Yes,” I said. “It’s like a part of something ancient…something that’s been done here for…countless centuries.”

  “Thousands of years, most likely.”

  We were both silenced by the thought. Then Margaret said quietly, “If you look around at the shape of the moor here you can see scores of old banks. Some are grown over now but the outlines are still obvious. And not so long ago there’d be dozens of people out here in May, before the midges came if they were lucky, helping each other—‘crewing’ they called it—an’ eating their pieces together like one big family…”

  I nodded. Too much here on Harris was changing. Too many of the old ways were being lost.

  Margaret echoed my thoughts. “Well, I’m trying to keep something…with my little business…but sometimes…oh—and did you hear—I meant to tell you earlier—there was an article in the Gazette—Derick Murray’s trying to sell his tweed mill in Stornoway…the one that supplies all the warp to the weavers…”

  “That’s interesting—I hadn’t heard,” I said, shaken by her information, “and Anne and I are going to see him next Thursday.”

  Margaret gave a sad shrug. “Well, maybe you should get there earlier. He may have cashed in by then!”

  WE DROVE BACK TO TARBERT in a subdued mood and found the depressing article:

  The future of the Harris Tweed industry has been thrown into doubt after the main mill owner has put his business up for sale…Managing director, Derick Murray, says he was reluctantly selling the KM Harris Tweed Group after a lifetime in the industry…The group accounts for over 95% of total production of the world-renowned fabric…About 200 home-based island weavers are commissioned by the company.

  “If there’s an offer that’s acceptable I will sell it,” said Mr. Murray. “It will be hard to part with it, but life must go on, that’s the way I look at it. I have got to move some time or other and this is, I think, the time to do it. My kids are not following me into the business and I made this decision as time went on…”

  Derick agreed to an earlier meeting and it was not an uplifting hour. As soon as we walked through the main door and saw the dustily dismissive display of numerous once-treasured Queen’s Awards for Industry on the wall at the base of the stairs, we knew something had gone terribly wrong with this focal point of the island’s tweed industry. And as we climbed the stairs to his office, passing faded black-and-white photographs of tweed weavers at the looms, a sense of imminent disaster swirled around us.

  Derick greeted us in his rather spartan director’s office with a wan smile on his round but heavily lined face.

  To give him his due, he put up a long and loquacious defense of the industry and insisted that “a buyer will definitely be found and no jobs should be lost. I’m talking to a group from Turkey next week. There’ve been twelve other bidders too and I’ve reduced the price quite significantly, so I’m quite optimistic.”

  Unfortunately, the look of wariness in his eyes didn’t seem to reflect the optimism of his words. Finally his exasperation broke through:

  “We’ve all tried so hard! The government and the European Union have helped us retool the industry, bring in the new double-wide looms, develop lighter blends of tweed for the designer markets. But everything seems to be against us. Even our own weavers sometimes. Some were not so keen to use these new machines. But the biggest problem is that no one’s wearing jackets anymore! And…”—he gave a cynical chuckle—“even if they do, one Harris Tweed jacket’ll last a lifetime anyway! And then there’s the British pound—it’s too high. Kills exports. And tariffs—especially those in the USA—they can stop trade so fast. And too little promotion too—there’s a lot of competition out there nowadays. And false labeling—we’ve seen far too much of that, especially in Asian products. And that’s our key lifeline—our ‘Orb’ mark. And China—China’s really turning on all fabric makers. Underpricing everyone.”

  We cut the meeting short. It seemed unfair to question Derick about the future at a time when, from his standpoint, there was no future. At least, not for him.

  “Oh—I keep hearing rumors y’know. Companies want to use Harris Tweed for handbags, upholstery, golf bags, baseball caps…but nothing ever seems to come of them. We’ve been on a slide now for too long…and there’s nothing worse than having all this hanging over our factory workers and our weavers. It’s terrible for them.”

  “DERICK’S A GOOD MAN,” INSISTED cheery-faced Robert Ferdinando at his Celtic Clothing store on Bayhead Street in Stornoway. “A very good man. He’s given everything to that company and what’s happening now is hurting him so much…I actually worry about him. It’s almost too much for one man…he is Harris Tweed. Although he doesn’t own the actual Orb label, almost all the fabric produced here comes through his two factories and his home weavers.”

  Despite his decidedly non-Hebridean accent and his family’s ancient origins in pre-seventeenth-century Portugal, R
obert has a deep affection for the islands and all the pomp and pageantry of Scottish traditional dress. Here, in his small tartan-and tweed-crammed store, he sits weaving meticulous bird’s-eye fabrics on a gleaming modern double-wide loom while his wife, Kathleen, a bespoke tailor, coordinates the production upstairs of elegant silver-buttoned jackets, tartan vests, and those meticulously box-pleated kilts particularly popular with bagpipe bands.

  “For a little over a thousand dollars you can walk out of here in full Highland dress,” said Robert proudly. “The kind that Queen Victoria virtually invented for her own staff and the military—Argyll jacket, vest, shirt, tie, kilt, buckled belt, sealskin sporran-purse, hand-knitted socks complete with a wee dirk-dagger—a sgian dubh—stuck into the right sock, and beautiful, sparkling-black, patent leather shoes, or ghillie brogues. Oh, and we can even provide the underwear—despite all the jokes, underwear is rather essential! Or y’can rent the whole outfit for a day or two and see how you feel.”

  For a moment—just a moment—I was tempted. Anne saw the look in my eyes and tried to convince me how cute I’d look as a traditional bagpiper.

  Robert overheard her remark. “Yes, and isn’t it nice to become a completely different person once in a while!”

  Being somewhat of a proponent of Walt Whitman’s “I contain multitudes,” “multiself” concept, which encourages us to become as many different selves as we, in actuality, are, I was tempted by Robert’s suggestion. And as we chatted with him we realized what a kaleidoscopic, peacock’s-tail range of personas he’d become in his own reasonably young life. “Oh—I’ve morphed around quite a bit—a rather protean eclectic life as a musician, driving instructor, teacher, airline pilot…and a few other selves I’m not quite so proud about!”