HARRIS - Home at last

Tuesday 27th July 1993 - Day 62

I had my last potter around Lochmaddy this morning, posting my most recent pebbles and videotape, before returning to eat my sandwich in the lounge. Mr. Johnson kindly offered to give me a lift to the pier as he was seeing off a French lad who had been staying with them. He squeezed the luggage into the car boot and proudly informed me that the boy had won several prizes in the bagpipe competitions at the North Uist Show.

By the time all the arriving vehicles had been driven off and the departing ones manoeuvred on, the ship was busy with people eager to find seats with a good view. I knew that I didn't want to be anywhere near them and their children and their noise. This was too personal a journey for me to welcome crowds. With most of the best vantage points occupied, I settled for a sheltered spot on one of the lower decks by the crew's quarters.

A little later than scheduled, we set off for Tarbert just after two o'clock. Lochmaddy was slipping away in the sunlight, its houses outlined against the sky. It was only then that I finally realised I was at last heading for Harris: the island that had been drawing me towards it since I left Paris. This was to be the culmination of my pilgrimage. By no means the end of my trip, it was still the moment I'd been waiting for all these months.

Up the rocky coast of North Uist we sailed. It stretched further than I had imagined. As we rounded the tip, an almost unbroken chain of islands seemed to cover the horizon. I strained to look for Berneray where Prince Charles made the occasional retreat before a car ferry opened it up to tourists. In the distance, I could see a beach and a couple of hills. Perhaps that was Berneray, perhaps not. Further to the west through the Sound of Harris, Pabbay poked its two hundred-metre triangular hill out of the sea. The white sails of a yacht showed up against the increasingly murky water, as the grey-tinged clouds grew in number.

Through the mottled sky, a shaft of light struck the southern tip of Harris. A solitary patch of reddish brown at the foot of the nearest hill surprised me. I could hardly believe what I was seeing. Waves of leaden clouds bombarded the scene with dullness and I wondered if my imagination was playing tricks on me. Yet it had to be so. It was the tower of Rodel Church, the most well-known monument on Harris. I was back after nine years' absence. I admit that I cried.

Along the southern coastline stretched a string of white houses which I recognised from my first glimpse of Harris two weeks ago. The island appeared much more mountainous than I remember from my last visit. As blue began to win the aerial battle over grey, the sun lit up huge swathes of bare rock as if it were snow. Rounded peaks ran up the island in a never-ending range of smooth, dappled humps. I no longer thought of my arrival in Tarbert. It was more than enough just to see the island, my island, after all this time.

As we continued up the coast, repeated checks on the view off the starboard side confirmed an east-west split in the weather. Blowing in from the Atlantic, the wind was pushing dark clouds towards the distant mainland which arched round dimly on the horizon. In the foreground, Skye sat like another world with the strange contours and colours of its cliffs just visible through the haze. Sweeping around to the north I saw what must have been the Shiant Isles. Known also as the Enchanted Isles, they are home to the legendary Blue Men who stir up storms and make the sea boil. Legend has it that mariners can only placate them by reciting poetry.

The ship began to slow right down and for a few minutes all was calm. A lonely house sat on the coast amongst the moonrock. The flat surface of the sea was broken by a myriad of dark islets like hump-back monsters guarding the approach to Tarbert. Such was the scattering of rocky obstacles, it was hard to see any safe way through. On the eastern tip of the largest island, Scalpay, a lighthouse stands ready to warn lost vessels.

As we neared land after almost an hour and three-quarters, the wind turned much fiercer than it had been out at sea. From my new position by the bows, I watched the Saint Andrew's flag flutter in line with the ship as we headed directly into the wind. To a backdrop of barren hills, the grey and white buildings of Tarbert came into view in the distance. Patches of light and dark played all around me on the surrounding moonscape. As more of the village became visible, the pier was momentarily illuminated. I felt it was the island welcoming me home.

I continued filming our arrival until the ship had berthed. Having seen other passengers still on the upper decks, I assumed there was no rush and went below to pack away the camcorder. As I reached the side, a mad horde of day-trippers was ready to stampede up the gangway. The ticket collector waved them back and allowed me to trundle down with my bags. The passengers I left onboard, including the young French piper, must have been carrying on to Skye.

Fighting my way through the throng, I began to recognise the immediate area around the pier, even though it has recently been developed. I went up the hill and looked left for my grandmother's old house on the corner. Half a dozen cars were parked where it used to stand. Disheartened, I pressed on searching for the B+B. After walking halfway out of the village, I realised I must have passed it without knowing and retraced my steps to the junction. On enquiring at the nearby gift shop, I was easily directed to Minchview, as it stands almost opposite. Invisible from the road, it hides behind Effie Mackinnon's guest house and Munro's grocery.

An inconspicuous track led up between the two buildings to a five-bar gate. Two sheepdogs noisily raced out from nowhere before I could get in with my bags and I hastily closed the gate, fearful that they might carry straight on down to the road. The face I spotted in the kitchen window emerged in the sloping garden in the shape of a lady in her late thirties. There being no B+B sign, my first words were to confirm that this was indeed Minchview. Mrs. Miller then dismissed the dogs from their guard duty and showed me in.

My room is the middle one of three under the slanting roof. Newly decorated with a dressing table and covered trunk, it is rather small and narrow. A teddy bear wearing flying goggles sits on a shelf above a wooden clothes rail. I soon realised that the ticking alarm clock will have to be hidden under the bed if I am to get any sleep in here. Opposite is the bathroom, apparently shared by all, as neither of the other rooms appear to have so much as a washbasin.

As I unpacked, the sky was beginning to clear. From my window the view stretches right over the Minch to the cliffs of Skye. Closer to home, at the end of the garden, is the back of Effie's Waterstein House where I stayed the last time I came. Next to it stands a tiny tobacconist, then the space left empty by the demolition of my grandmother's house. Although booked fairly much at random, Minchview, a typical Highland-style dwelling, has proved by its very location to be the ideal centre for my journey back to my roots.

Eager to make the most of the late-afternoon sunshine, I set off down the village without delay. I hadn't previously thought about what I would do when I arrived, but at that moment I knew exactly where I wanted to go: up the hill on the other side of the narrow channel, over the stile and onto the grass. From there lay before me Tarbert surrounded by mountains and sea. I stood alone on the hillside for this, the moment I had been aching for all these years: proof that the Harris of my dreams really does exist.

Soaking up the colours and textures, I began to repaint my faded memories, already trying to imprint the scene on my mind before the time comes for me to leave. A dozen tiny boats anchored in the harbour, the war memorial opposite the row of shops and houses, the green roofs of the old people's home where my great aunt Effie used to live on the outskirts of town, all dominated by the wild, lunar landscape.

The town itself amounts to little more than a single street which runs along the northern shores of two V-shaped sea lochs separated by barely three hundred metres of dry land. Linking the north to the south, Tarbert forms the neck of the island.

After a while, I decided to walk up the western half where I once stayed twenty years ago with another of my great aunts. Little of it seemed familiar and I couldn't locate the house. In fact one is currently being built so others could already have been demolished. Back on Main Street there seem to be more shops than when I was last here. Many houses appear to have been renovated or are perhaps entirely new constructions. A road has been added specifically for the roll-on/roll-off ferry terminal.

I returned to the B+B in time for dinner at 6.30pm. The lounge is a rather pokey place decorated with unwanted ornaments from another generation. Hundreds of old books lay stacked sideways on shelves over the dresser. Most relate to travel, whilst the others cover geology, photography, ornithology and various other practical subjects. On closer inspection, I noticed just a sprinkling of novels. A pile of children's games sits in the corner, but there is no television which I remember noting in the brochure. Having been impressed by Mrs. Johnson's culinary skills, I soon realised that Mrs. Miller is also something of a vegetarian expert. In fact there is a certificate on the wall to that effect.

On tonight's menu:

Salad of crisp green apple, grated carrot, sultanas, pumpkin seeds and sunflower seeds in French dressing

Cheese and tomato bread pudding served with dishes of new potatoes in mint, carrots and sultanas, brussel sprouts and red grapes

Hot peach with cinnamon and ginger

When I had finished, I began to examine a folder of tourist information and was joined by another guest who I spotted arriving from my window just after I returned. A tall, thin lady in her fifties, she told me she had driven down from Stornoway. Such an awful place, she said, so lacking in character. And Lewis was so flat, only the Callanish standing stones made it worth visiting. Harris was much more interesting. She intends spending three or four days here before returning to work in Edinburgh. Her prim, dark clothes and eagerness to chatter suggest a friendless, loveless, childless existence; her widow's independence the hallmark of loneliness.

Dabbling in both veganism and macrobiotics, she was eager to find out what the food was like. She had been worried by the remarks of Munro the butcher who she had asked for directions to Minchview. He had given her a strong warning her to steer well clear of the place. I wondered if it was perhaps because the Millers are English or worse still cater for vegetarians. Reassured by my description of the meal, she asked if I had been in any of the local food shops. The health and safety people would have a field day she said. Having tripped over a large box of reeking kippers just inside the door of one place, she found hygiene to be all but non-existent on the shelves.

A bright, inquisitive woman, she was interested in hearing about my trip, particularly in my experiences as a single traveller and non-meat eater. After a barrage of questions about my dietary, academic and professional background, I began to imagine how the kippers would feel being grilled by her. Having tested my knowledge on everything from pulses to pasta and tofu to textured soya protein, she started extolling the virtues of seaweed at length. By this time, I was quite relieved not to have to say any more. Pretexting urgent correspondence, I managed to escape to my room.

It was a perfectly still evening. The dark foreground of the approach to Tarbert emphasized the sun-bathed cliffs of Skye opposite. Illuminated by the fading light, the hills took on a surreal soft texture. Scattered white houses glinted along the coast, winking back a silent message as the ferry returned.

Later a young Scandinavian couple arrived. I overheard them explaining how they have to leave very early tomorrow morning. At least that means I will only have Mrs. Seaweed to fight for the bathroom before breakfast.

Wednesday 28th July 1993 - Day 63

It turned out to be absolutely freezing in the bathroom this morning, which like the bedrooms appears to have no form of heating. Mrs. Seaweed was already in the dining room when I went downstairs. Tureens of cereals were aligned on the dresser with matching bowls, cups and saucers. Mrs. Miller had evidently already been in with instructions for us to help ourselves. As usual, I wanted no more than toast and was surprised to find myself unexpectedly presented with a plate of scrambled eggs, tomatoes and mushrooms, whilst my new-found companion tucked into baked beans with vegan zeal. We continued our conversation about seaweed and salt substitutes, sharing a little of the burnt toast which was brought later.

From my window I could see how Effie had already got her washing on the line at the foot of the garden, but my eyes were drawn to the infamous kitchen. I remember how almost every morning she would dash out to the shop halfway through breakfast to buy more cornflakes, milk, juice or whatever she had run out of, leaving Gaelic music blaring out of the radio to add to the air of chaos.

Some days my great aunt would drop by in a confused state. She used to come down from the old folk's home and knock on the door of her old house looking for her parents in the belief that they were still alive. Once, taking the opportunity of a fleeting moment of lucidity, we managed to explain that we were her sister's grand-daughters. Sadly, the window of comprehension was soon closed and we drove her back to the nurses.

With nothing planned for the day, I decided to make the Tourist Office my first port of call, but there was little information in there that I hadn't read in the folder last night. To add to my collection, I bought a copy of every single postcard on display, before choosing a few to send to other people. Hoping to find a way to Amhuinnsuidhe Castle and Hushinish beach, I asked if there was a Post bus, only to find that there is apparently no call for one on Harris. When they suggested I hired a bike from the hairdresser's opposite, I began to regret having declined the offer of a lift from Mrs. Seaweed who said she was thinking of going there today.

Next, I ventured into the shed-like Post Office in a vain attempt to purchase some large envelopes. However, for once, I found it had none of the extra shopping facilities which I've encountered in most other places. Only a few old birthday cards stood on a rack in a dingy corner. As I left, I glimpsed the adjacent sorting office with pigeon holes as ancient as those I saw on Barra.

A. D. Munro, Butcher, Grocer and Baker according to his sign, was closed, so I went down Main Street to the grocery-cum-newsagent in search of a potential sandwich filling. The place was just as Mrs. Seaweed had described. Inevitably, the box of kippers was still by the door. Cheese and yoghurts sat unashamedly on the shelves with not so much as a hint of refrigeration in the vicinity. A wooden carousel in the middle displayed Mr. Kipling's fancies on one side and packets of mince on the other. The till was adorned with fish sandwiches, recently removed from an unseen fridge, judging by the condensation already forming on the plastic container. Temptation disappeared as soon as I wondered where and when they had been made and if they had sat there all day yesterday.

In desperation, I went down to the Asian-run grocery at the other end of the street. Behind the yellow protective film in the window, there was the usual odd mix of just about everything from tights to tomato soup. They even had some frozen food, but it was such a squeeze around the aisles I couldn't get close enough to the freezer to satisfy my curiosity. I bought my plastic cheese squares from the fridge at the front and made a hasty exit, lest I see anything to put me off.

I peered through the window of another Asian-owned shop, unable to make out exactly what it sells. I saw crockery, light fittings and wrapping paper. Two doors down is a small, white-painted craft shop containing upmarket local gifts where a couple were buying some jewellery. On the opposite side of the road stands a two-storey souvenir and clothes shop. With the postcards I picked up from there, I now have enough of Harris to fill an album.

Having exhausted the shopping possibilities and with the weather still obstinately dull, I went back along West Tarbert to investigate a notice I spotted yesterday indicating the Harris Historical Project. In a large building which also contains a dentist and an advice bureau, I followed the signs upstairs to the exhibition room. Hundreds of photographs had been pinned onto boards around the walls. By consulting the index for the Tarbert section, I managed to find a picture of my great aunt taken with some of her pals at the old people's home.

For those interested in local research, there were books from the genealogy centre at Northton, Nursing Committee registers and stacks of audio tapes (of stories and reminiscences I should imagine, all in Gaelic probably). It was a pity I didn't think to bring a copy of the family tree with me. A young girl was there to help with any enquiries and seemed to be occupied with cataloguing work. As I left, a couple of people arrived, but I wouldn't expect that many stay long without a specific purpose.

Outside on the school playing field, preparations were being made for the Harris Agricultural Show which took place this afternoon. In pure James Herriot meets Lilian Beckworth style, the local farmers were doing their best to sort out numerous cows from a few pens of sheep, whilst others helped erect a small tent and someone inflated a Bouncy Castle.

After making myself a sandwich at the B+B, I walked back to find the street lined with cars and continued out of the town. The road hugs the coast for a mile and a half, climbing all the way. On the opposite shore of the sea loch, a man caught my eye. With no rucksack that I could see, he climbed over a fence by the school and set off across the desolate hillside. Initially moving swiftly and easily, he seemed to be following a path, then began to slow down as the way became more of a scramble over the rocky terrain. I watched him until the road swung inland to the village of Ardhasaig and I lost sight of him.

After passing a hut selling woollens and a map stuck in a tiny shelter evidently used more by sheep than tourists, I saw that the road ahead descended to sea level. It seemed the ideal spot to stop. By now it had turned quite warm with some sunshine breaking through. Offshore, a couple of fish farms scarred the surface of the water and out in the Sound lay the dark mass of the island named after Saint Tarran. Nowadays, Taransay belongs to the sheep left to wander through the chapel remains.

I clambered up the hillside a little way and soon found how water-logged even the driest-looking land can be. Below was the turn-off to Hushinish, along a winding B road which begins by the old Norwegian whaling station at Bunavoneadar. Abandoned in 1930, its huge chimney stands as a reminder of more prosperous times. The main road continues on its way to Stornoway, rising yet further and disappearing into the range of hills which separate Harris from Lewis. Their summits shrouded in white cloud, some stand over two thousand feet high. After resting a while, I made my way back to Tarbert, past numerous oncoming cattle lorries.

As Mrs. Seaweed and I waited for dinner, Mr. Miller appeared to announce that it would be delayed a little. His wife had just received a telephone call to say that her mother was ill. We both agreed that she looked quite pale and drawn this morning. Now we understand why she seems so indisposed to chatter, silently whisking in and out with the tray as she does.

On tonight's menu:

Tuna with green salad and grapes

Cheese-topped green tagliatelle with peppers and tomato plus dishes of sweetcorn, cauliflower in cheese sauce and new potatoes

Spicy kiwi and orange crumble

Thursday 29th July 1993 - Day 64

I woke up to find that the island seemed to have been cut off from the rest of the world overnight. Visibility was extremely poor as misty rain was spread blanket-like over the sea. After another long breakfast with Mrs. Seaweed and tentative enquiries about Mrs. Miller's mother, I packed my rucksack for a day's walking. Since the weather had begun to clear, I decided to film a few shots of the streets in case it was never dry again.

Then, I followed the road leading to Kyles Scalpay, some five miles to the east of Tarbert. From there a local boatman ferries cars over to the island of Scalpay at certain times of the day. Not expecting to walk there and back, I soon realised that I might not get very far at all. The way seemed to be a succession of steep hills, climbing ever upwards, past the occasional house. A sign told me that I had reached the turn-off to the village of Urgha which was hidden from view. With only my tourist map, I couldn't see whether it rejoined the main road or not, so I chose to continue. A few hundred metres after crossing a cattle grid, next to which some sheep pens had been built on flatter land, I found myself looking down on a magnificent valley, its floor carpeted by lochs, its sides half-naked with bare rock. To the left, a track led off to nowhere according to the map. I rested on a massive slab of stone and imagined that if I were an elephant, it would be here that I'd come to die.

White cloud still hung around the hill tops as I descended the road with only a line of old telegraph poles as company. At the bottom, I found a small boathouse. Fishing permits have to be obtained from the Harris Hotel according to a nearby sign. In front of me, a couple had just parked their car and were heading up the steep track over Beinn a Chaolais to Rhenigidale. Until the recent completion of a road on the other side of the ridge of hills, this was the only way to reach the village by land. Apparently from the summit you can see the Shiant Isles.

The sky began to clear as I climbed up the other side of the valley. By the time I reached the top, the two adjoining lochs had been transformed into cobalt blue. Enticed by the prospect of an even better view around the next corner, I continued upwards to find that the southernmost loch ran into a stream leading to the sea. Opposite was the scattering of houses that made up Urgha and I realised that I could have cut across through the village had I taken the turning over a mile back.

Further along, the open sea came into view, together with the coast of South Harris. There seemed little sign of habitation, but fleeting patches of sunlight glinted on the odd car struggling up the road which snakes through the hills. In the distance to the west, I spotted the rooftops of Tarbert with a narrow, unexpected view of the Atlantic in the background. The white-painted upper decks of the ferry caught my eye and I looked at my watch. It was due to depart in another few minutes, so I waited for it to steam past me down East Loch Tarbert. Scarring the deep blue channel with its wake, it headed out into the Minch whose still grey waters were topped by the murky outline of Skye just visible on the horizon.

The road ahead started to descend and after watching a few cars disappear down what sounded like another steep slope, I decided to spend the rest of the day exploring the valley and Laxadale Lochs. A seat looking out to sea had been set in the rock, but it was too exposed to the wind for me to eat my lunch there.

Instead I returned to the enclosed serenity of the valley and sat on one of the huge rocks that form the island's moonscape. The only noise came drifting up from the water where two men were fishing in a rowing boat. Yet they were far enough away for me to imagine that I was alone. Unobtrusive splashes, the sound of wood on wood and indecipherable voices were all I could hear. Looking out over the lochs and hills, I felt as though I was surveying my very own realm, a private haven. At last I have found the place where I really belong. For so long it has been drawing me towards it, pulling me closer with a force stronger than any other in my life. Harris is my island, the home of all my heart's dreams. A part of me has always been here and always will be. Suddenly I realised that when I die, I want my ashes to be scattered here in the Tir nan Og: the Land of the Ever Young. Then I can stay forever amongst the rock and the heather, the sea and the sky, the wind and the weather.

It was a moment I didn't want to end, a spell I was reluctant to break, but I had to move on. Back down into the valley I went to collect more stones in order to retain some physical link with this day. Stooping over the ditches, as the occasional car drove past, I found bottle after bottle discarded by the roadside. After a foray up the hillside for biological relief, as my favourite Skye busman would say, I toyed with the idea of investigating the track to Rhenigidale. The couple I had seen disappear into the hills seemed to have found it tough going and, as I had just discovered, this peaty land can be deceptively wet. Instead I opted for the track I came to on entering the valley and from where I knew it would be downhill all the way home.

The path ran along the shore of the upper loch where another boat was being manoeuvred out. The muddier it became, the more I wondered why it existed. Around a corner, I met a cow blocking the way, then saw the remnants of an old barn. Suddenly I heard shouts coming across the water. Thinking of the anglers, I listened out for splashes, but there were none. Besides, I had lost sight of them long ago as the track twisted and turned taking me further and further away from the road. The shouting continued, but it was impossible to decipher. I just hoped it wasn't "Help" in Gaelic. Nothing moved in the barren landscape. Then high up on the hillside out of a hollow appeared a man and his dog rounding up sheep. No sooner had I spotted them than the hill swallowed them up again as if eager to keep its secrets. I wondered if they came from Rhenigidale, the village that time forgot.

Intrigued by what lay ahead, I followed the increasingly wet track up and down, round and round. Walking over the last bump in the path revealed my reward. The end of the loch was in sight. Behind it in the distance, smooth hills dipped down hiding a river no doubt. On the other side would be the road to Stornoway and the treeless Forest of Harris. To my left rose a craggy peak capped with scree, glistening in the sunlight. I felt that I had stumbled across something no-one else had ever seen for there was nothing human about the primeval wildness of this place. It was almost as if I had discovered a lost valley.

Having come this far, I wanted to hold on to the moment as long as I could. On finding a spot dry enough for me to sit down, I was plagued by midges that the breeze had kept away while I had been walking. Reluctantly, I turned my back on the scene and made towards the road, looking over my shoulder at every corner as each different picture slipped away. Before the track began its last climb, I stopped again, lingering by a giant's rocky seat overlooking the loch. With my face burning from the unexpected emergence of the sun, I stared out over the landscape hoping it would brand itself onto my memory. It was one of those days which, even on its own, would make the whole trip worthwhile.

I arrived back at 5.30pm, early enough for a quick bath to freshen up before dinner. Mrs. Seaweed, it transpired, had driven to Kyles Scalpay and gone over on the ferry. I was glad I had covered less distance, but found so much more.

On tonight's menu:

Egg mayonnaise

Macaroni cheese with carrots, new potatoes and stewed vegetables

Fruit salad

We gazed out of the window as a few boats came in, even a yacht sailed past. In the late evening light, the gannets were out feeding again. Tucking up their wings, they dived into the sea for fish and each time sent up a plume of spray.

Friday 30th July 1993 - Day 65

For Mrs. Seaweed's final breakfast before she heads south, we were joined by an English couple who arrived last night. Having discovered I was a walker, the man asked me about the terrain and I realised that they, like so many others, had probably never put a single foot out of their car. How can they hope to experience the islands without even trying to become a part of them?

A grey start to the day gave way to sunshine and after another potter around the shops, I made my way over to the car park opposite the Tourist Office for the 11.30am coach tour around South Harris. Given the limited bus service, this was my only chance of seeing more of the island. Five or six people had already gathered when I arrived and a dozen of us eventually boarded the bus. As the minutes ticked past, we sat waiting in anticipation, looking at the passengers on the Lewis tour. Then the ferry came in. Hordes of tourists piled on to the two buses. I discovered later that they had come over on a day trip from Skye having bought combined ferry and coach tickets. A Scandinavian teenager sat next to me, having evidently been separated from his family as they were some of the last to get on. Every single seat was taken with probably a few children sitting on parents' knees. The driver seemed totally unperturbed, despite there being a dog at the back. Explaining that he wouldn't be able to give a running commentary, he distributed a four-page, hand-written guide photoprinted on bright yellow, lined paper to every passenger whether their English was up to it or not.

We finally set off just before noon. Two or three miles out of Tarbert, we were high enough for a spectacular view of the ferry leaving for Lochmaddy with Scalpay and the mountains of Harris in the background. The route took us down the east coast along the Golden Road. Explanations vary as to the origin of its name. It was said at the time that it cost so much to build, it must be made of gold. I prefer the more romantic version given in a French guide book which tells of travellers seeing the way ahead paved with gold when it was just the sun shining on the scattered lochs.

Our first stop was to see Harris tweed being made at Plocrapool. As the masses squeezed into the crofters' hut, I went down to a tiny pier to film the view. Opposite, Scalpay sat on the water to a backdrop of hills. When the crowd began to trickle back to the bus, I walked into the hut and came straight out again. Like a caged hamster on a wheel, an aged man sat working the loom with his feet whilst the tourists looked on and his wife waited for buyers at the old wooden counter.

The sky was clouding over now and we continued on the narrow, winding road down the coast. Every turning brought another tiny loch into view. Known as the "Bays", like a sponge forever soaking up the rain and sea, this area appears on the map as miniature fjords. After some ten or so miles, we stopped to drop off two foreign backpackers at the Stockinish Youth Hostel. I remember reading about the place when I was in Paris. The guide book entry warned that the warden of this old village school has no provisions to sell: you must bring your own food in the knowledge that the bus only runs on certain days.

Up and down, round and round we chugged through a dozen townships betraying a mixture of Norse and Gaelic origins: Likisto, Geocrab, Beacravik, Manish. Mile after mile of rugged, windswept terrain surrounded us on every side. Lingarabay is the last place you reach before the end of the road. It is also the proposed site of the largest superquarry in Europe and already bears the scars of the desecration to come.

At Rodel, the former religious centre of Harris, St. Clement's Church sits on the very tip of South Harris. Its square tower, a unique architectural feature in these parts, was what had attracted my eye from the ferry when I first sighted the island. It was very much as I remembered from my last visit when we had to fetch the key from the local hotel before gaining entry. Then, a restoration project was underway on the building's exterior, following on from similar work in 1787 and 1873. Cruciform in shape, the church was built around 1500 by the Macleods of Dunvegan and Harris. The interior is bare, apart from a plaque and three tombs carved in black gneiss. One, a knight in armour, depicts the 8th Chief, Alasdair Crotach, who had it sculpted for himself nineteen years before his death in 1547.

Some of our party climbed up the stairwell in the tower, but with no lighting it struck me as a perilous exercise. With our scheduled fifteen minutes already at an end, the other passengers began making their way back to the bus. Suddenly I found myself alone in the semi-darkness until a boy poked his head around the door and we left together across the sloping graveyard to discover that we were the last to return.

Continuing our circuit, we joined the A859 which swings up the west coast twenty-four miles back to Tarbert and carries on to Stornoway. By now it was nearly 2pm and within a few minutes we reached Leverburgh, named after the soap magnate Lord Leverhulme who set up several disastrous schemes on the island. It is from here that the ferry goes over to Berneray and North Uist, both invisible in today's gloom.

Stopping at An Clachan Centre, the driver gave us half an hour for lunch. A light shower welcomed our arrival and we all filed into the multi-purpose building. The ground floor was occupied by a grocery-cum-Post Office, while stairs led to a tearoom and craft shop above. After availing myself of their facilities and buying four postcards, I realised I would have to eat outside. Where a couple of anglers sat on the banks of a small reservoir, several of us congregated to chomp on our sandwiches. As I studied the map, I found that the hill in front of me was called Roineabhal. This was the name written over the door of my grandmother's old house.

A few miles further up the road, we passed the turn-off to the village of Northton, dominated by Chaipaval which rises a thousand feet out of the Toe Head peninsula. Here, the main road arches round past a loch leading down to almost three miles of golden sand. After acres of craggy moorland, the difference was as dramatic as it appeared miraculous. So sharp was the contrast, the whole bus seemed to gasp audibly in amazement. Where the east is barren and rugged, the west is fertile and curvaceous. The inhospitable lunar waste gives way to a welcoming, smooth machair and an assortment of empty beaches. As the land turned a gentle green and the sea became turquoise, the island's split personality was revealed in all its splendour.

We hugged the flat, sandy coastline, transfixed by its softness. Passing through Scarista and its nine-hole golf course, we saw evidence of today's religious beliefs, as manifested by placards warning "Sunday Golf Strictly Prohibited". Scattered houses stood back from the road, one the birthplace of Finlay J. MacDonald of Crowdie and Cream fame, another the former home of Lord Leverhulme.

Close to Horgabost we stopped for a quarter of an hour at a deserted beach, looking out to the island of Taransay. The driver told us that this was usually the most popular part of the trip, but today with the wind turning ever fiercer and the sea crashing over blackened rocks, not everybody left their seats. A sign indicated Macleod's standing stone on the far side of the sand. Unfortunately, there wasn't time to walk over to it and back before we piled onto the bus to get warm. This was one occasion when stragglers were unlikely.

We climbed the hill and looked down on Luskentyre beach which seemed even vaster than Cockle Strand on Barra. Then, continuing up through Seilebost, we saw trees for the first time. Finally we headed inland again through the hills on our way back to Tarbert. The desolation seemed all the more dramatic after the gentleness of the beaches. Pale boulders lay scattered over the ground in their thousand. Bleaker than all the moonscape I had seen before, this stony desert was truly a scene from another world.

After an excursion of some three and a half hours, we returned in plenty of time for the ferry back to Skye. Most of the passengers already had tickets which they simply gave to the driver in the car park. The handful of us who had not booked, paid our £6 and hurried away into the village. By now it was pouring with rain and I scuttled over to the bank to withdraw some money before it closed for the weekend.

Saturday 31st July 1993 - Day 66

Having learnt from yesterday's bus ride that it was only a couple of miles to the start of the lunarscape, I decided to walk back towards the Golden Road. After a reasonably bright start, I watched as the hill tops in front of me disappeared under a blanket of dark cloud. As the shower went overhead, I sheltered under overhanging rocks near the loch by Diraclett, then continued on. Yet it wasn't so much the weather that I had underestimated, but the fact that it was uphill almost all the way. Up and round I went, envious for once of the vehicles that sped so easily past. In the driveway of a cottage, a German family were loading their car. Further along, another family had pulled over by the roadside and were carrying their luggage down to an isolated house on the coast.

Finally, the turn to the Golden Road was in sight. I scrambled off the road, using the bare rock as stepping stones to pick my way over the boggy, brown moorland. I wanted to be amongst it, feel part of it, experience the emptiness of its vastness. Standing on top of one of the many massive grey slabs, I recalled Buzz Aldrin's description of the moon: "magnificent desolation".

To the north, patches of sunlight fell on the area around Urgha, yet it was impossible to distinguish the road I walked on the other day. Out to sea was the now familiar step-shaped coastline of Skye which looked surprisingly near despite the veil of mist across the Minch.

Although I would have liked to have stayed longer or even pushed on further into the wilderness, I wanted to return to Tarbert for the Harris Gala this afternoon. Fortunately, it was downhill on the way back. As I drew closer, the sound of the pipes came drifting over the water. When I reached the last bend in the road, I realised that it was the Lewis Pipe Band warming up in the car park opposite the Tourist Office. With time in hand before the 1.30pm start, I went back to the B+B for my sandwiches and watched the pipers from my window. Suddenly they were in formation and marching past the house - all twelve of them: two drummers, nine pipers and the band major. I followed at a distance behind the traffic jam they created the length of Main Street.

Inside the school gates, I paid my £2 and went through onto the playing field. Clustered around the edges were the tea tent, beer tent, raffle tent and burger stall. As I arrived, the long jump and high jump competitions were drawing to a close. The final events were the men's and women's 100m and 400m where much spirited running took place by both the Gaels and the Asians. The children were entertained by a Bouncy Castle and a paddling pool filled with hundreds of coloured balls.

There seemed to be only a couple of other tourists - cyclists who I'd seen on Thursday - which made me feel as though I was gatecrashing a private party. I stood for a while mesmerised by youngsters donning Velcro-type jump suits and hurling themselves onto an inflated sticky wall. The man was doing a brisk trade and would throw his customers onto the wall upside down if they weren't too heavy. Despite their kilts, some of the lads from the pipe band were eager to have a go and managed to squeeze into the suits in the back of his van.

Later, the pipe band emerged to march up and down the field, only to disappear back into the school building after a couple of tunes. The chilling wind which had long been whipping up the sea out in the loch had now become unbearable. Unsure as to what was going on inside, I went to investigate. There in the gymnasium, the Highland Dancing competition was just starting. Almost all the seats were taken, except for a few at the back. From what I could gather, there were Novice and Advanced categories in three age groups with four different dances to be performed. Members of the Pipe Band took it in turns to play the accompanying music, whilst two school teachers called up the children. After a while, I went to check that I was missing nothing outside. A girl piper was parading in front of a judge sensibly wrapped up in a raincoat. As she appeared to be the last contestant, I returned to the warmth of the hall.

Everyone else had had the same idea and the place was now packed. I managed to squeeze myself into a vantage point near the stage where the nervous mothers congregated. From the changing rooms behind us, their offspring would emerge to warm up and practise a few flings to whatever music happened to be playing. Although repetitive, the competition was strangely hypnotic. At first, they all looked nimble-footed, then as I watched more closely, I began to discern the more talented ones. Whichever of the four dances they performed, their ability and agility were evident. The judge was obviously an expert. A grey-haired lady in her fifties, she had brought a tartan rug to keep her legs warm and cushion the wooden chair from which she didn't budge for a good three hours or more.

As the afternoon wore on, a bar seemed to have been set up in the gents judging by the amount of traffic and number of cans going in and out. Then finally when all the possible combinations of ages, abilities and dances had been exhausted, the judge handed over her last batch of scribbled scores to the two helpers. It was the first time she had let any emotion show on her face: I had begun to wonder if the woman was capable of smiling. Off she went to an adjacent office for a cup of tea or possibly something stronger in view of the marathon she had just sat through.

Fighting her way back through the crowd, she returned for the presentation of trophies and medals which in itself must have lasted almost half an hour. With neither of the two boys in the competition winning anything, there was a steady stream of girls coming up to the front. Some barely had time to rejoin their seats before being called for the next prize. In one age group, there were only three entrants who each received four medals for the four dances they had performed. Sadly one girl came third in all of them which was a bit of a shame.

Back at Minchview, I shared my dinner table with an elderly American couple who indulged in not only seconds, but also thirds, succeeding in emptying an immense dish of lasagne with very little help from me. Now retired and living near Washington DC, Brad held a position in the White House for many years while Shirley used to work in the National Parks. Having driven down from Stornoway today, they told me that with only a week to spend in Scotland, they had decided to travel as far up country as possible and cross over to the Western Isles. Fascinated by peat right from formation to cutting and usage, they were also impressed by Harris tweed and have bought enough to make themselves some clothes back home. Later they will join up with their Swiss-based son and his family to explore England. Very inquisitive and talkative, they were both interested in my trip and particularly my links to Harris. When they said they were planning to visit Hushinish beach tomorrow, I was able to tell them all about Amhuinnsuidhe Castle where my grandmother worked as a young girl. No sooner had I explained my connection than they kindly suggested I accompany them in their hire car.

Sunday 1st August 1993 - Day 67

I awoke to find that the island was enveloped in mist. At breakfast, Brad bombarded me with questions about living in France and the UK which I struggled to answer to the satisfaction of his inquiring mind.

We set off northwards out of Tarbert to the old whaling station where we turned onto the tortuous B887. Through the hills we climbed and into the cloud. Up, down, round and round we went, ignorant as to what lay ahead. Unable to anticipate the presence of any other vehicles, Brad made his way slowly along the single-track road. At each corner and at the top of each hill, it was impossible to predict which way the road would turn on the other side. I now understand the need for the warnings such as the one I saw near Lochboisdale where large letters painted on the tarmac spell out BLIND SUMMIT. Like a giant roller coaster, the road appeared as a life-size white-knuckle ride made all the more hair-raising by our progress in slow-motion. I wondered who would rescue us if we tumbled to oblivion. Houses were scarce and few people would venture far on a Sunday, except to go to church.

Only once did we come face to face with another car. As Brad had not mastered the intricacies of how to use passing places, we came within an inch of reversing into a ditch, much to the confoundment of the other driver. Later we passed a school and then a hydroelectric station. Not only were the mountain streams gushing with brown, peaty water, but even the land itself oozed with a constant trickle of liquid coming down from the saturated hillsides.

Finally, we reached the castle gates. Brad pulled over and insisted on taking a photograph of me with his camera, then preceded to film me with my camcorder as I stood next to the black and white AMHUINNSUIDHE sign. He seemed unconvinced by my assurances as to how to pronounce it, but accepted that it could well mean "sitting on the river" in Gaelic, as close by a small loch turned into a stream.

Given the inclement conditions, we hastened back to the car and drove on a couple of hundred metres to stop by the "No parking" sign. Strictly speaking at this point the land either side of the road is private, but we knew no-one was likely to come out in this weather and chase us off in the few minutes we would be there.

Built by the Earl of Dunmore in 1868, Amhuinnsuidhe Castle is now owned by a Swiss conglomerate which uses it to entertain business associates and rents it out to the hunting, shooting and fishing brigade. From the foot of the hills, it looks southwards to the two Soay islands and Taransay on a clear day. It was here that as a guest Sir James Barrie started his play Mary Rose.

Brad took another photograph of me and I rushed a little filming as a steady drizzle set in. Although darkened by the rain, the castle was exactly as I remembered: a baronial mixture of elaborate brickwork with half a dozen chimneys and a turret. Across the neatly roped-off grass, miniature cannon face out to sea through crenels in a low stone wall. To the side, the river cascaded over slabs of smooth, bare rock and poured into the natural harbour. Brad spotted something move - it was salmon leaping in the frothy water.

As he hurried back to the dry car, I managed to scratch out a muddy pink stone similar to the one I picked up in 1984 and have carried with me ever since. Then it was time to go. The road continues directly in front of the castle, under an arch complete with round tower, and past a row of estate houses before exiting the village. Having fulfilled my dream to return to part of my past, I know that these few precious moments will be enough to carry me forward until I am drawn back again.

Five miles further on, the road arches around Hushinish Bay and comes to an end at a cluster of houses. Despite the rain, all three of us scrambled down onto the sand. Shirley went beachcombing, spotting dozens of dead jellyfish and amassing a variety of strangely shaped twigs. I headed for the mass of boulders on the far side, manoeuvring around the stream which flows into the sea and collecting pebbles. When Shirley saw what I had found - a grey and pink striped stone with a ring of white which sits perfectly in my hand, she began searching for her own souvenir. Brad and I walked over to the rock pools in the western corner just as a group of teenagers turned up in a van. Intrigued by what might lay further down the peninsula, Brad climbed up through the dunes. I followed, more in case he slipped than through any burning curiosity, but the grass was too high to walk in. After a good hour on the beach, we made it back to the car soaking wet and with sand-filled boots. Brad insisted on investigating a track which leads across the narrow peninsula. It wasn't long before he returned, having only walked a short distance. On a better day, he would have seen the island of Scarp opposite.

We started back and hoped that driving conditions would improve. Passing the castle again, I stared and stared, turning around until it vanished. A little later, we all agreed that it could take us a while to reach Tarbert and that it would be better to have lunch by the roadside. I tucked in to my umpteenth peanut butter sandwich, declining their kind offers to share the food prepared for them by Mrs. Miller. After their sandwich medley came biscuits, fruit and cartons of juice. Not bad considering she said she had nothing in.

What I think was Taransay came and went through the mist and rain. In the space of a single morning, we must have experienced water in over a dozen different guises: Scotland's most fundamental element in all its glorious forms.

It was 2.30pm by the time we made it back to Minchview. Brad and Shirley invited me with them for a drive around South Harris, but I didn't want to impose myself on them any further. Besides, given the weather, I would have seen even less than I did on the bus trip. Recommending they visit Rodel church, I lent them my map as it indicates all the points of interest. In my dry - if still cold - room I set about writing some postcards looking out into the mist. Later in the afternoon, I was surprised to hear a bus revving up in the car park. Knowing the islanders' strict observance of the Sabbath, I watched closely out of the window and soon saw a stream of churchgoers from the villages.

Shortly afterwards, a car bearing French numberplates came up the drive. Having discovered that Brad is takes an interest in everything and everyone, I had visions of having to interpret throughout dinner. Fortunately the woman's English was good enough to cope with his barrage of questions. She teaches International Trade in Poitiers whilst her husband works for Dassault Aviation - one of the main companies I used to translate for in Paris. During the course of our fish-based meal, we learnt that Brad has written a book based on his experience on the White House staff. Serving various Presidents from Eisenhower to Nixon and Ford, he attended the 1949 Paris conference about the Russian blockade of Berlin. I didn't manage to take in all that he said, but noticed the Frenchman's eyebrows raise when he mentioned Molotov.

All four of them are going over to Skye on the 7.30am ferry tomorrow and decided on having breakfast at 6.45am. Mr. Miller came in to collect the dishes and got lassoed by Brad again. It transpires that he will also be on the boat, returning to a project he is working on at Balmacara, near Kyle of Lochalsh as part of his M.A. course in Tourist Management at Sheffield. Apparently he always travels by land and sea due to his fear of flying. Only once has he ever flown: sober one way and drunk the other, but he was adamant he would never do it again whatever state he was in.

As Brad and Shirley retired to pack, I stayed chatting to the French couple until 9pm. They too were amazed at both the Americans' vitality and appetite. We swapped stories about our experiences as foreigners in each other's countries. They seem very taken with both the landscape and people of Scotland. Cape Wrath had been one of the highlights of their trip, together with the Callanish standing stones and the Harris moonscape. After almost a fortnight away from home, they obviously appreciated being able to talk with someone in their own language.

Monday 2nd August 1993 - Day 68

I heard the others leave - albeit a little later than scheduled - when I was still in bed. For once I had the luxury of having the bathroom and dining room to myself, not that it made them any warmer. It continued raining until 11 o'clock, by which time the water running from the taps was decidedly brown. Around 11.30am I thought I would go out for a while and found the Millers preparing to take the dogs for a walk on Luskentyre beach. Having failed to start the camper van in all the wet, Mr. Miller had missed the early ferry and was planning to take the afternoon boat instead. With the engine now reasonably dry, we set off south; the dogs practically foaming at the mouth with excitement. Mrs. Miller did her best to restrain them in the back, but I did have a strange tongue thrust into my ear on more than one occasion.

As they took the turn for Luskentyre, they dropped me on the main road with a rendezvous time which suited us all. I headed towards Seilebost, mesmerised by the lush green, flat expanses gradually being fragmented by the dual efforts of streams descending from the hills to join with the ocean, and the sea seeking to push its way inland. The initial brightening of the weather began to reverse itself, then a steady drizzle set in. Ahead, a way had been blasted through rock for the road, but there were no convenient overhangs providing shelter. As the rain became heavier and the midges more persistent, I had no option but to retrace my steps, comforted by the prospect of sheltering in the telephone box at our rendezvous point. Once in the dry, I stripped off in a Supermanesque gesture and hung my dripping coat over the 'phone. Just as I was starting on my peanut butter sandwiches, the Millers returned to rescue me. By the time we arrived back in Tarbert, it was already brightening up again and within an hour it was as sunny as ever.

Under the clear blue skies, I decided to film the bay by West Tarbert. Above the town, the streams were gushing peaty brown water down the hillside. I walked along the road towards Diraclett and suddenly felt exhausted. After climbing up one of the hills to get away from the road, I waited and watched the ferry in its familiar red, black and white. The mountains of Harris stretched all around, embracing me one last time. Surveying the scene from my stone seat, I knew this was my final chance to feel part of the island before I leave. It was just as I had seen it the day I arrived, just as I will always remember it.

..... Go to the next chapter ......

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May 1998