Seasons on Harris

by David Yeadon

  There was a pause, and then, realizing that a trap was possibly being set by the crafty old Scotsman, he mumbled, “Macintosh.”

  “Wha’—a dinna hear ye.”

  “A Macintosh,” said the Englishman a little louder.

  “Veery gude, young man. Invented by our ver’ famous Mr. Charles Macintosh of Glasgow. An’ of course, I see you’re wearin’ a jacket of the great Clo Mor. Our Harris Tweed. Known the world over. An’ now—how did y’get ’ere t’day?”

  “What—here, to this pub?”

  “Aye, of course. Where else?”

  “By car.”

  “And what makes y’car move d’y’think?”

  “The engine.”

  “Aye, well, there’re plenty of engine parts made by Scottish inventors, but what helps your wee car move along the ground?”

  “Wheels. I suppose you’ll tell me Scotland invented the wheel too…”

  Silence—but an ominous scowl on the old man’s face.

  “Okay—tires.”

  “Now tha’s right. Now y’thinkin’! An’ who, may I ask, invented your tires—the inflated ones?”

  “I have no idea at all—and I’m honestly not sure I really care,” replied the Englishman, maintaining his quixotically arrogant stance.

  “Ah—weel. That would be our dear Mr. Dunlop now, wouldn’t it? Another fine Scottish gentleman.”

  No comment here from the Englishman, but one could sense a distinct deflation of bloated bombast.

  “An’ what did y’car drive on t’get ’ere t’day?”

  “Roads?”

  “Weel, yes, that’s true—roads. But what were the roads covered with?”

  “Tar.”

  “Weel, actually, the proper name is macadam—as in Mr. John MacAdam—and before w’had petrol motors, what kind of engines did we use?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” said the Englishman with increasing frustration. “Steam?”

  “Veery gude, indeed. Y’re doin’ well, young man. An’ d’y’remember who invented the steam engine by any chance?”

  “Er…Watt. James Watt.”

  “From…?”

  “Scotland, I suppose.”

  “Naturally. From Greenock, actually. Near Glasgow.”

  “Fine. I get your point. But that’s just a few things.”

  “A few!? Is that what y’think now? Well—may y’should remember a lot of other things too, like the telephone invented by our Alexander Graham Bell, and then the television by our clever Mr. Baird, an’ the bicycle, an’ penicillin, an’ the Bank of England—now that’s a surprise f’ye, isn’t it—but that was started by our Mr. William Patterson of Dumfries.”

  “Yes—however…,” said the Englishman, showing signs of a fragile psyche fraught with fractures. But the old man was on a roll.

  “And that fine sandwich y’re eatin’…what’s in it?”

  “Beef.”

  “An’ what kind o’ beef would you be thinkin’ that might be?”

  “No idea.”

  “More likely, it’ll be our famous Aberdeen Angus. And if it’s not, it should be. And if you had marmalade with y’breakfast, that’s Mrs. Keiller’s creation from Dundee—isn’t it?”

  There was no response at all now from the Englishman, so the old man continued: “And I won’t bore you with all our great writers and poets like Robbie Burns, Sir Walter Scott, and Robert Louis Stevenson because I’m sure y’know all ’bout them. But the greatest book of all—we can claim that, too. And what d’y’think that might be, young man?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. The Bible, I suppose.”

  “And you suppose correctly! My, what a fine brain y’have. Y’could almost be a contender for a Scotsman…and who was it that made sure the Bible was translated into a language w’ could all understand?”

  “I forget.”

  “No, c’mon now. Think a wee bit. King…?”

  “King…James.”

  “Yes! Well done. And which one of the Jameses d’y’think it was?”

  “Eh…the Fifth…no—the Sixth.”

  “Ah, that’s right. My—y’should be in one o’ those millionaire quizzes. And where d’y’think the good king was from?”

  A long, reluctant silence followed.

  “C’mon now. Y’ve got most of y’other answers right so far.”

  “Okay. Scotland.”

  “Well—now there’s a fine young man! That wasn’t too difficult at all, was it? And of course, there’s a lot more, y’know—a lot more, to be sure. Many other inventors we have. Great engineers and builders. In fact, if y’study y’history carefully, y’ll see that the British Empire—y’know, all those great sweeps of red that once covered the world maps in school classrooms—well, who d’y’think really controlled all that? Y’know—managed it, made it work…made it very, very profitable…who d’y’-think that might have been, a’ wonder? Who?”

  The young Englishman couldn’t help but be amused by his own folly at being trapped into such a dialogue and he smiled but said nothing.

  “Aye, weel, y’ll know all these people I’m talkin’ about—all these clever Scots—we had so many. And now I’m chust thinkin’—didn’a we have some wee kind o’ drinkin’ bet on all this? I’ve forgotten now…,” said the elderly gentleman, with a beguiling grin.

  The Englishman laughed. “No, we did not, but what would you like anyway?”

  “Och, a wee dram would be chust fine. An’ ver’ gude o’ ye t’ask, laddie!”

  “Fine,” said the Englishman gracefully, and rose to go to the bar.

  “I’ll have Talisker—if y’d be so kind” (a very fine and expensive single malt whisky made on Skye).

  “Okay. Talisker it is, then.”

  “An’ while y’re at it, might as well make it a double. All this talkin’ makes y’so thirsty, d’y’ken.”

  His beaten opponent smiled, “Oh, yes, I do indeed ken.”

  I heard a male voice whisper to someone at at an adjoining table. The lines had a familiar ring—something from a Jack Nicholson movie, I think: “Smart-ass! And if he’s so fuckin’ smart, how come he’s so fuckin’ dead. Dead by Donnie!”

  “And what a blush on his face!” murmured another with dismissive flippancy. “Brighter’n a baboon’s bum!”

  I was about to leave the Keel after that diverting little incident, but saw someone signaling to me from the bar. It was Angus MacLeod, who, with his father, runs this lucrative little complex of pub, restaurant, hotel, and self-catering cottages. Angus was a handsome, young, sparkle-eyed individual with a great sense of humor and a welter of island tales, although, to give him his due, he always claims his father tells them much better than he does.

  “So—did y’see old Donnie up to his tricks?”

  “Is that who it is…he’s a sly old so-and-so.”

  “Och—y’ve no idea. Gets ’em every time. Hardly ever needs t’buy a drink hiself. Sometimes it’s sad to watch ’em gettin’ snared. But they all usually end up laughin’ and drinkin’ the night away with ’im. He’s harmless—but he knows how to get the hook into ’em.”

  Angus and I had chatted on many occasions. Anne particularly enjoyed his company. He seemed to have little of the island “angst” that we detected in many of the older residents. He’d lived an active and varied life, even spending some time in Manhattan—and having a wild old time there too. “Can you imagine that?” he once told us. “Coming all the way back to Tarbert from a magnificent place like Manhattan. But I missed the people…the spirit of the people here and the family closeness. Most of my friends still live on-island and those who’ve left don’t have a quarter of the fun that we have. We’ve got the boats, the fishing, surfing, singing, drinking, climbing, football—you name it. And even the winters—people laugh at me for spending the winters here because we close down much of the place, but I look forward to it. Best thing is, what happens is the closeness, the hard core of the community—we’re all still here and we take it deeper a
nd we have an even better time! And there’s always stuff going on. I’ve done quite a bit of acting. BBC. I got involved in that crazy Castaway project on Taransay.” (Castaway was one of the first Survivor-type reality TV shows, of which there are many tales on-island here, particularly those told by Bill Lawson.) “And I got a part when they made the film of Finlay J. Macdonald’s book Crowdie and Cream, and I got a couple of lines in that film The Rocket Post. Do you remember that story?”

  I did, but Anne didn’t and she asked him to tell us about it. So Angus recounted how a German inventor, Gerhard Zucher, in 1936, tried to persuade the British government that mail and medicines and the like could be easily and cheaply delivered to remote islands by rocket. He claimed that such a device would survive any kind of wind and weather and he set up a demonstration on the nearby islet of Scarp, but unfortunately the rocket and all its contents of letters and supplies blew up. Twice.

  “Poor guy,” said Angus. “He never seemed to get much luck. He went on to develop rockets for the Germans which did some damage to London during the Second World War, but for some reason, Hitler didn’t like him and had him ‘liquidated.’ It could have been a great film. From the bits I saw, it was a great film. Cost over ten million pounds to make. Originally there was going to be a real heavy-hitter cast—Albert Finney and Sean Connery. But something went wrong—in fact, everything went wrong and somehow the money vanished, and even the incomplete film itself vanished. It’s been found again recently, and there’s even talk of releasing it, but I’ve heard that my lines were cut so I guess I’m never going to be famous as a film star. I’ll just be stuck here with my dad, lookin’ after all our locals an’ watchin’ the tourists come in—and get fleeced by Donnie.”

  “Well—they certainly seem to like this place. By the way, how did it get its name?”

  “Oh,” said Angus, with a grin, “that’s quite a story. The Clisham was a tough little cargo boat owned by my great-grandfather. Used to run coal and salt. Originally it was owned by some Dutch gin runners—a ‘gin cutter’ is what they used to call it at the turn of the century. And once it was runnin’ booze and tobacco and perfume off the coast of Ireland and the coast guard grabbed ’em and impounded the boat in 1901. They imprisoned the crew and were selling off the boat cheaply so my grandfather bought it and he used it sometimes to run all the way to Poland for coal. Eventually it got beached and was pretty much destroyed in a storm. All that remained was the keel—the iron keel—which we still have just across the road. So we named this place after the boat and my grandfather.”

  “And have you seen many changes since you got back from New York?” asked Anne.

  “Oh yes, maybe too many. Tweed is one of the saddest things. I don’t think it’ll ever die, but it just doesn’t seem to be a modern kind of fabric at the moment. Maybe if y’mix it with cashmere an’ things…problem is, it’s too strong and heavy. It lasts forever! Y’buy one jacket an’ that’s it for the rest of y’life…but…I hear there are some new things happening. It may have a comeback…again. But tourism, I suppose, is definitely the key to our future. The challenge is balancing what brings people here—the remoteness and the solitude and the wild beauty of the place—with the increasing number of people who may want to visit. I tell them it’s not for everybody. It’s magnificent, but you have to be able to handle all those days of rain and wind—and midges! Not everybody can see its beauty in the wind and rain…but we don’t want a Spanish tourist–type market. We need what we have. We possibly also need another Lord Leverhulme to come and get us organized again. There’s always lots of meetings going on and lots of new projects thrown about—most of which we Hearaich seem to oppose. But I don’t think we do it just to be difficult. I think we all know that this island, despite how strong it looks, is still fragile, and keeping a balance here between the wildness and all these wonderful new schemes and dreams of the ‘white settlers’ and others is our biggest challenge.”

  “Well, Anne and I certainly sense an awful lot of pride here on this island.”

  “Oh aye, there’s plenty of pride about,” said Angus, laughing, “and with people like Donnie around braggin’ as to how we Scots invented everything an’ run the whole blinkin’ world, that pride’ll never die!”

  We toasted Scottish pride.

  Then Angus, still laughing, said, “Listen, have y’heard this one. Could apply to quite a few of our regulars here.” He gestured toward the huddle of dram-and-chaser geriatrics at the bar. “This old guy comes into his local and spots a fine young thing at the bar. ‘Oooh, that one’s for me,’he thinks, but a long day’s drinkin’ has not done much for his mental agility, as he leans over and slurs out, ‘’Scuse m’miss…but plis would y’be tellin’ me now—do I come here often?’”

  Angus was right. That could just as well have happened—and possibly has—at the dear old Clisham Keel.

  4

  A Day with the Lobstermen

  LOOKS LIKE A NICE CALM DAY,” I said in morning-buoyant mood. Very early morning, actually. Quicksilver-light time. Around 6:00 A.M. The traditional Hebridean time to go prawn fishing or lobstering. And The Minch did indeed seem calm, blue and sparkling despite gauzy frills of dawn mist around the rocky inlets, and I was looking forward to my first day out on a fishing boat with three experienced reapers of the deep.

  My jaunty comment elicited no response other than a whispery grunt from Angus Campbell, the tall, forty-two-year-old owner of Harmony, his fishing boat, a foxy kind of grin from his leaner brother, John, and a wee chuckle from Duncan, their apprentice and third cousin removed on their mother’s side. (Or something like that. Everyone seems to be related to everyone else on Harris.)

  “Did y’have y’breakfast already?” asked Angus in what I assumed was a kindly expression of concern for my gustatory well-being.

  “Actually, no. Just coffee,” I said. “But I brought sandwiches.”

  “Best keep those for the time bein’. Until y’get…adjusted,” said Angus, his large chin wagging ominously.

  “Adjusted—to what?!” I asked with neophyte nonchalance.

  “To the sea, man…to the sea.”

  I stared again eastward across the twenty-mile-wide Minch toward Skye. Had I missed some key indicator of trepidatious conditions out there? A spiraling water spout? A surging tsunami? A boat-sucking whirlpool?

  “Looks smooth enough from here,” I said complacently.

  “It’s not here I’m talkin’ about. It’s there. Out there five miles. Can y’see those whitetops?”

  I stared again. Yes, I could see something but I assumed it was just lines of sun-glitter striations across the water. Signs, I assumed, of a benevolent calm.

  “I thought it was just reflected sunshine.”

  “Ah, did y’now?” said Angus, now with the same foxy smile as his brother. “Well—we’ll just have to wait and see, won’t we?”

  I had a feeling I was being made the butt of some undisclosed joke, so I changed the subject. After all, I was a guest on their boat and maybe a not particularly welcome one at that. It had been Angus’s wife, Christina, a sprightly individual with a generous spirit, who had suggested the idea and nudged Angus into acceptance. Reluctant or otherwise, I wasn’t sure. This is what he and his crew did for a living every day, and maybe the idea of having some curious outsider getting in the way of hauling up his fleets of creels—hundreds of creels—didn’t seem as enticing to them as it was to me.

  “So, what are the plans for today? Prawning? Lobstering? Or what?” I asked.

  Angus grinned benignly. “No, no lobstering today. To do that we’d have to be on the west side of Harris, going out into the Atlantic from the other pier in Tarbert. Seabed’s rocky there and lobsters like rocky hiding places. We’re on the east side today.”

  “So that means prawns?”

  “Prawns it is—they like the sandy, muddy bottoms. Though maybe not so many today. The creels have been out too long and the bait will be eaten up by now. We cou
ldn’a get out for the last five days. Weather was too bad.”

  “So if the bait’s gone, the prawns won’t come to the creels?”

  “Right.”

  “But what about all the prawns that ate the bait in the first place? Won’t they still be in the creels?”

  “Unlikely.”

  “But I thought they were designed so that once the prawns got in, they couldn’t get out again.”

  Another smile, a little patronizing this time. “Well—y’d be right if it were lobsters. They’re too big to get out. But the prawns—actually they’re langoustines—like small lobsters, claws and all. They’re small and they’re pretty canny. They can get back out easy ’nough and we end up with hermit crabs, starfish, and whelks. Nothing we can sell.”

  Something seemed a bit wrong about all this. Why design creels that can’t keep their catch? Especially when bad weather is a regular state of affairs in these parts and boats can’t always go out to collect their catch on a preplanned basis? I put the question to Angus but all I got was a shrug of acceptance, as if to say “That’s the way things are and that’s the way they have been from time immemorial.” It was the kind of answer you get to a lot of questions—perfectly logical questions—on Harris. You accept it after a while and either stop asking questions or wait until you find someone with a broader purview. So, I stopped asking questions, settled myself into a sunny corner of the boat near the small cabin, and watched as the three of them went through the preparations for our journey out into The Minch.

  Which, as Angus had hinted, was not calm at all.

  In fact, as soon as we chugged out of the narrow rock-bound harbor, the change came. The docile demeanor of our forty-foot-long boat was quickly lost as a vigorous swell sent her lolling and rolling into five-foot waves, white-crested and erratically rhythmed.

  “That’s The Minch f’ye,” growled Angus from the wheelhouse, carefully studying half a dozen electronic devices that gave him depth analyses, warnings of pernicious subaquatic rock ridges, weather forecasts, fish-shoal indicators, our GPS position down to a few yards, and even the precise location of his precious fleets of creels, miles farther out in the now truculent waters.