Seasons on Harris (7 page)

“So—all this was Viking territory?” asked one of the dozen or so walkers who had joined Bill and Chris at the MacGillivray Center.

And that's all Bill needed to start him off on a fascinating summation of island history. A few in the group, however, were more interested in the wealth of wildflowers already appearing in spring profusion across the honey-scented
machair
, laced in lark song.

“Oh my God, Henry, just look at these wonderful
Dactylorhiza incarnata
[apparently a rare species of marsh orchid]!” Others among them seemed ecstatic as they checked off their discoveries: bird's foot trefoil, ladies' bedstraw, centaury, meadow rue, harebells, knapweed, poppies, and clovers galore—all gloriously swaying about in the lush grasses.

Two others were avid ornithologists, bowed under the load of binoculars and cameras dangling from their necks and exuding paroxysms of delight at glimpses of arctic terns, gannets (skuas), golden eagles, oyster-catchers, pied wagtails, and a host of other more obscure species that were mere litanies of names to us. Until they spotted seals off one of the rocky coastal shoals: “I'm sure that's what they are!” gushed one of them. “Or maybe otters.”

“No, no, they must be seals…it's hard to tell, though…maybe porpoises…”

Without binoculars—which the couple seemed reluctant to share with the rest of the group—we all stared hard at the shoals but saw only the chop and slap of the tide on worn black strata.

Bill was now waxing eloquent about “the real deep history” of this bare, beach-indented sweep of
machair
that wrapped itself for miles around the base of Chaipaval like a vast emerald-green cape. He didn't
seem to have much patience with the rape, pillage, and plundering ways of the marauding Vikings of the ninth century, and as we stood among humpy lumps of turf and small exposed segments of ancient stone walls, he did a splendid job of re-creating life and lifeways here during the Bronze and Iron Ages.

“It's almost like he lived in those times—going back five thousand years!” I heard one of the group whisper to a friend as Bill pointed out the remains of clustered dwellings, shell middens, cooking hearth pits, part of a burial ground, and a heap of round “boiling stones.” These, he explained, were necessary because the primitive clay cooking pots of the early inhabitants could not withstand direct heat, so stones had to be roasted in the fire and then added to the water in the pots to prepare food.

After another mile or so of slow uphill walking on the
machair
, we reached the most dramatic ancient remnant of all—the thick broken walls of
Teampall na h-Uidhe.
Located on a high point with broad vistas in all directions across this lonely, wind-smoothed landscape, and immediately adjoining the circular foundations of an Iron Age dun (fort), the
teampall
, Bill suggested, was founded in the days of the earliest Christian missionaries. “It's possible that St. Columba himself was here, but more than likely it was first built by followers of St. Maelrubha of Applecross.”

Doubtless, with a more learned crowd, there would have been murmurs of recognition at this point. We, however, remained mute in mutual blissful ignorance.

“Y'mean these stones date from the second or third century
AD
?!” asked one of the group finally.

“Well—certainly the stones might, but these walls are what remain of a fortified chapel built by Alasdair Crotach around 1528. He was the clan chief of the MacLeods of Harris who also rebuilt St. Clement's Church at Rodel—our ‘Cathedral of the Isles'—which I'm sure you've all visited…”(Some vague but unconvincing murmurs here from our group.)

Anne and I were moved by the power and presence of this bold ruin built upon the two-thousand-year-old foundations of one of many hermitage chapels and monasteries scattered along the ragged island coastlines of Scotland and Ireland.

Teampall na h-Uidhe

“What a faith they must have had…,” murmured Anne as she stroked the smooth, ancient corbel stones. Bill overheard the comment and smiled in agreement. “Oh, yes,” he said, “makes us all look a little religiously…wimpy today, wouldn't you say?”

There was a hearty roar of laughter from behind us. We all turned to face the beaming bearded face of a thin, elderly man dressed entirely in
black. He had lagged behind for much of the walk, seemingly lost in his musings and constantly stopping to stare at the vista over Northton, Rodel, and the wild lochan-laced spine of the island.

“Sorry—sorry,” he said, still chuckling. “Couldn't help but hear your last remark there, Mr. Lawson.”

Bill wasn't sure whether to smile or apologize. Religious sensitivities
are thin-skinned here, although, even from his brief remark, the man's accent seemed very nonlocal.

“Charles Campbell…er…Reverend Charles Campbell.”

Bill looked even more uncomfortable but gave a noncommittal “Aha…”

“From Melbourne, Australia. Or close by, anyway. But I suppose y'recognize an Aussie accent, Mr. Lawson. Y'must have many of us comin' to you for our family charts.”

Bill's face brightened with relief, obviously pleased he hadn't offended a potential customer. “Oh yes, indeed,” he smiled. “A lot. Canada was the most popular place with the lairds here to send their clansmen in the clearances…but Australia was not uncommon at all.”

“Yes, I know. We've got a bunch of Campbells around where I have my church. And my great-grandfather left here in the late 1800s. And quite a few MacLeods too—their ancestors were pretty disgruntled about being cleared, particularly as this was once all MacLeod territory!”

“I imagine they were,” said Bill. “Do you have family here now?”

“I'm not too sure…yet. That's where I might need your help, Mr. Lawson…”

“Bill,” said Bill, sensing a promising “roots seeker.”

“All right then—Bill. All I know of so far is that my third cousin, Hamish Taylor, lives in the Bays and has a boat there for island trips.”

“Oh, yes—indeed he does,” said Bill with genuine enthusiasm. “He's quite popular with visitors in the season.”

“Well—I'll be meeting him. Tomorrow, I think. And then we'll see where it all goes from there.”

“And are you looking to reclaim your family croft too?!” I said lightly, and then realized that I might be in danger of loosing a “legalistic foray for lost lands”—an occasional island predicament here on Harris.

The minister laughed and his weather-lined face, bronzed to a leathery hide by torrid Australian summers, seemed suddenly younger and animated—“Oh, no, no—that's all past now…I just decided it was time I visited the home of my ancestors while I've still got…well, y'know…oh and, and also…this…”

He opened his anorak pocket and pulled out a very creased photocopy of something printed in an uneven and old-fashioned typeface. “You may be interested in this, Bill.”

He handed the sheet to Bill, who studied it carefully, nodding with professional appreciation, and then passed it to Anne and me. “So typical of the time,” Bill said, with a sad smile and a wispy sigh.

It turned out to be a clipping about a ship that had left Skye for Harris on the sixteenth of December, 1852, to pick up one of many cargoes of emigrants. Parts of the photocopy were blurred, but from what we could tell, it must have originally been written in log form by the captain or one of his literate officers. It read:

The next paragraph describing the voyage was difficult to decipher except for one touching sentence:

We all stood quietly for a while imagining the plight of these crofter and cottar (squatter) families abruptly uprooted from their homes and cast into the unknown of the “new world.”

The minister finally broke the silence. “Well—that was more than a hundred and fifty years ago and, terrible as it must have been for them, many went on to help build fine communities in Canada—and certainly in Australia.”

“Yes,” agreed Bill. “Chris and I often go to visit these places—mainly in Canada and the USA.”

“Well,” said the minister, with a broad grin, “we'll have to see if we can't get you an invitation to come and visit our little town near Melbourne.”

“That would be very nice.” Bill smiled. “Whereabouts are you exactly?”

“Smallish place called Hamilton, just over a hundred miles from the city.”

“Ah,” said Bill.

“What?!” was my amazed response. “Hamilton. I don't believe it. I've been there. Ten years ago…I have an aunt there. She's living in a nursing home on the edge of town. Near that wool museum of yours—that place with ‘the world's largest ball of yarn.'”

“Too much!” laughed Bill. “This is becoming like one of my genealogical reunions!”

 

I
T WAS TIME FOR A SHIFT
of focus. Anne felt the same but was content to catch up with “domestics” and e-mails in our cottage. I needed the open road, huge vistas, and spontaneous serendipities—and the best place I could go to find such diversions was Lewis, Harris's “big sister” isle, land-linked over the North Harris hills. And Stornoway. Focal point of the two islands and a place I'd not seen in over twenty years.

I think Anne was delighted by the idea of having the cottage all to herself for a day and even promised to “make a surprise” for my return. Of course, like the fine wife she is, she had to remind me how much she'd miss me, et cetera, et cetera, but I could tell by her smile that she was not altogether sorry to wave me off on my mini-odyssey.

 

T
HE FIRST PART OF THE THIRTY-MILE
or so drive north from Ardhasaig to Stornoway is by far the most dramatic on the conjoined islands. One moment you're skimming the flanks of West Loch Tarbert and then you're suddenly up and off and climbing the narrow, twisting road high up into the North Harris mountains. Even on a sunny day Clisham and its coterie of great monoliths seem to crowd in with their shadowy
heathered slopes and black broken summits. They're ominous but also gloriously distracting in their brooding power and their multibillion-year-old permanence. The key here, however—a very critical key if you wish for a healthy longevity—is not to be distracted. The road is little more than a paved cart track at first and barely wide enough for one vehicle, so drivers must constantly be looking out for the irregularly spaced “passing places” designed to permit a semblance of two-way traffic. Most drivers are generally generous and polite, and a combination of accurate distance gauging to determine who will pull over for whom, and lots of we're-all-in-this-together hand waving, will generally suffice to ensure safe and uneventful passage over the high watersheds. (Apparently, since our departure, this notorious road has been widened a little—but caution is still advised!)

And then, of course, there are the sheep. Thousands of them—who know nothing of civilized highway codes and gentle manners. Their greatest delights seem to include sprawling themselves leisurely on the road if the pavement is warm, making sudden suicidal chicken-run leaps from one side of the road to the other immediately in front of your car, or, in the case of overprotective ewes, standing in aggressive don't-you-dare postures in the middle of the road while their young spring lambs amble and frolic to the other side. Even woolly skeletons in the roadside ditches (watch out for these—some are deep to the point of being vertical drop-offs)—gory evidence of unfortunate confrontations between vehicles and sheep—seem not to have registered in their minds. To them, these high moors are their territory and we are the barely tolerated intruders. And in most instances they get their way as drivers shrug and meander around sunbathing flocks, barely bothering to honk their horns. Most have learned from long-past experiences that the creatures are not only dumb, arrogant, and self-destructively defensive—but also apparently rather deaf too.

As the road widens (a little) and swoops down the long slopes of Tomnaval and Liuthaid, the vista expands to include the sinuous mountain-bound expanse of Loch Seaforth. A small, elegant “castle” appears—Ardvourlie—built as a hunting lodge in 1863 by the Earl of Dunmore, owner of much of this region at the time, in traditional Scot
tish style. Recently this was for a while an elegant hotel but now apparently has “gone private” again.