LEWIS - Stornoway and the standing stones

Tuesday 3rd August 1993 - Day 69

I took one last walk around the village this morning, picking up a couple of loose stones from the rock behind the site of my grandmother's old house, before returning to collect my bags from Mrs. Miller. With no more guests arriving until tomorrow, she was all set to enjoy a day of respite. Needless to say, the 11.30am bus to Stornoway waited for everyone to disembark from the ferry, so it was nearer noon by the time we left. It was surprisingly busy and continually stopped to pick up more and more people from unmarked spots along the way. After passing the Amhuinnsuidhe turn, we began to climb high into the mountains and up into the low cloud. I saw occasional glimpses of a frighteningly hostile land. Surrounded by mist and rock, I could feel the temperature dropping. Rain splattered against the windows when the road reached its highest point. Even the locals fell silent as if aware of the presence of something greater than themselves. After ten bleak miles, we descended to sea level at Ardvourlie Castle on the banks of Loch Seaforth which marks the boundary between the two islands. I was glad there was no sign telling me exactly when we entered Lewis simply because it meant that I didn't know when I left Harris and so couldn't say goodbye.

Yet the land became noticeably, almost boringly, flatter. Despite the houses that lined the road, this was still very much a wild, windswept place. Known as the island of heather, it is probably the largest water-logged peatbog in the world.

Some thirty-seven miles and over an hour after leaving Tarbert, we drove into sprawling Stornoway. Larger, greyer and busier than I remember, it seemed even less inviting than the landscape. Had the sun been shining, perhaps it would have made a better first impression on me. With the help of a street map inside the front cover of my free tourist guide to the Western Isles, I had little difficulty in finding Matheson Road. Locating the house proved more of a problem as many of the dwellings, camouflaged by leafy gardens, seem to prefer names to numbers. Mrs. Macleod welcomed me in and I soon realised I had picked another winner.

Sandwiched between the two double rooms, my room is beautifully furnished and spotlessly clean. I have a washbasin, thick towels, clock radio and television complete with remote control and this week's TV listings magazine. The bathroom, which I share with the occupant of the other single room down the corridor, is luxuriously immense: shower as big as three 'phone boxes, bath with shower attachment and bidet, all with gold-coloured fittings.

Having arrived on my trek from the bus station around 1.45pm, I rested for a while, then set off to explore the town. So many shops! Three supermarkets, three banks, health food shop, bakery, sports shop, chemist, newsagents, cafés, plus all sorts of places that I haven't seen in weeks such as a carpet warehouse and furniture showroom, even an Indian Tandoori restaurant and a Chinese take-away. At last I have been able to buy some padded envelopes in which to send off my videotapes and stones. To my relief I also found several hairdressers and managed to book an appointment in one for tomorrow. In the Tourist Office I bought an OS map and picked up all the local bus timetables. Then for dinner I had a huge plateful of haddock, potatoes, carrots and cauliflower cheese in the Crown Inn near the fish market.

Wednesday 4th August 1993 - Day 70

It was another grey day and breakfast was an equally grim affair where no-one seemed very inclined to talk. Having now developed a hacking cough (divine retribution for going out on Sunday), I had neither the energy or desire to make polite conversation. The orange juice, toast and marmalade were much more welcome than the company.

I spent most of the morning walking through the grounds of Lews Castle. This light brown, mock-Tudor folly was built in the nineteenth century by Sir James Matheson who purchased the island in 1844 with part of the fortune he accumulated from the opium trade in the Far East. The surrounding trees and greenery were planted in thousands of tons of soil that he had shipped over from the mainland. In 1923, only five years after buying Lewis, Lord Leverhulme gifted the building back to the people of Stornoway. Today, visitors are not allowed inside since it is used as a technical college, but during the summer months, demonstrations are given in shearing, weaving and sheepdog handling. From the labyrinthine grounds, the view stretches across the harbour to the main part of town and the start of the Ui peninsula. Gazing at the flat, grey, semi-industrial setting, I suddenly realised how I miss the hills.

On the way back to the B+B, I looked in the craft shops, collecting all the postcards I could find of the Callanish standing stones. For lunch and dinner, I bought myself some salad including vegetable spring rolls and onion bhajis, then went for my long-awaited haircut which at £5 was a pleasant surprise after five years of Paris prices. Having seen little of the rest of Scotland herself, the young girl sounded very interested in what I thought of the places I've visited, although if the truth be known, she probably found the whole idea of my journey somewhat bizarre.

Thursday 5th August 1993 - Day 71

A slightly brighter start to the day both weatherwise and around the breakfast table. The lady in the other single room has turned out to be much less austere than she appeared yesterday. Very sympathetic about all my coughing and spluttering, she explained that she is visiting her sister for the week and has been press-ganged into some frenetic sight-seeing.

I went back to Lews Castle to shoot some film and then booked a seat on the West Coast tour leaving at 2pm. After treating myself to a "proper" sandwich from the local bakery, I sat to eat it by the Town Hall. Who should walk past but the couple I met at breakfast this morning, shortly followed by a couple who had stayed overnight at Minchview last week. All four were waiting for the afternoon boat to Ullapool which I was able to watch sail out as the tour bus left from the ferry terminal.

About thirty of us had congregated by the row of telephone boxes where we had been instructed to wait. By this time, the clouds had been blown away and it became so sunny I needed to wear my sunglasses. The driver was a serious sort of lady who told us it was the best day they'd had for two weeks.

We took the A857 and headed north across endlessly flat moorland. Either side of the road, peat was drying in the sunlight. The lady explained the highly labour-intensive cutting and stacking methods as we passed one of the new machines which Brad and Shirley had told me about. Sucking up the peat and removing most of the water, it produces tubular shapes rather than the more traditional "bricks". Lewis is a virtually treeless island thanks to the scorched earth policy of Magnus III, known as Magnus Barelegs because he adopted the Scottish kilt rather than wear Viking trousers. All attempts at reforestation have inexplicably failed.

After twelve miles of watery bogs, we turned west to visit the Black House Museum at Arnol. This is one of the old croft dwellings which were built without so much as a window or even a chimney: the smoke from the open peat fire went directly through the thatched roof. Inside its double stone walls, filled with earth for insulation, lived both the family and their animals. Although we didn't have enough time to make paying for a visit to the interior worthwhile, I was able to see the associated barn and stockyard to the rear. Exposed to every weather system coming in from the Atlantic, the rounded house overlooked the blue glassy top of the ocean laid out less than a mile away.

Continuing along the main road a short distance, we came to the Whalebone arch formed by the jawbone of a blue whale that came ashore in 1920. Further on, we had a twenty-minute stop at the Shawbost Folk Museum. Situated in an old church, it began as a school project in the 1970s and was never dismantled. It houses various artefacts from days gone by including farming tools, kitchen implements, irons, a loom, even a crofter's bedroom and photos of a Norse watermill which was restored. From here onwards, the land became more uneven. In fact I was surprised that the west is so densely populated with numerous townships running down side roads leading to the coast.

The next time we turned off the A858 was to head for the Carloway broch, an Iron Age round fortification some ten metres high in places. It was a short climb up the craggy hillside to the remains of the dry stone tower with its double walls and tiny entrance. Men on scaffolding were working on the tallest side as their radio blared out the dance hit "Back to reality". Below, by the village, was a loch and then the open sea. In the distance, black clouds gathered over what must have been the mountains of Harris.

After another twenty minutes, we were driving down to the standing stones at Callanish. Not only was it the final stop on today's bus tour, but also on my pilgrimage for this was the last of my Hebridean magnets. Fascinated by their origin, I had long wanted to return. We came to a halt on a headland overlooking part of a huge sea loch. The dark clouds stayed in the south as if kept at bay by a spell.

Against the backdrop of an azure sky, fifty-three pale grey stones of Lewisian gneiss stood in a curious cruciform. The heart is a central circle of thirteen tall stones where excavations in the mid-nineteenth century uncovered a chambered tomb reported to have contained human remains. From there four limbs run out in line with the cardinal points of the compass. Pointing northwards lie two parallel rows of stones which form an avenue of unknown significance.

Together with eleven smaller sites scattered over the surrounding moorland, the main circle seems to have been an ancient astronomical observatory. Detailed calculations have shown alignments with the sun and moon at various times of the year which could have been used to predict eclipses and the coming of the seasons. Curiously, it appears to be situated just south of a sort of lunar "arctic circle" inside which the moon fails to rise above the horizon when it reaches its nineteen-yearly southern maximum. Dating back over four thousand years, Callanish ranks second in terms of importance only to Stonehenge.

Yet today it was hard to appreciate the mystery of the stones or the beauty of their ancient setting. I had forgotten that there were houses so close by and a tea shop in an old black house. Now there's talk of a paying visitors' complex which will spoil the place yet further. Together with our crowd, a coachload of Dutch holidaymakers made up the majority of those wandering around. Despite notices requesting people to stay on the new perimeter gravel path, most were trampling everywhere, particularly in the centre which is becoming increasingly worn.

For half an hour, my patience was tested to the limit as I moved about in various attempts to obtain some tourist-free pictures. A professional photographer had obviously been waiting all afternoon with the same aim. Just as the circle finally became clear, his two children popped up right in the middle. Fortunately they managed to run out of the way before the next dopey tourist strolled into view and he was able to fire off some shots before packing away his tripod.

How wonderful it would be to live nearby and see the stones when everyone has gone, to watch them change with the weather, the season and the time of day. At first, I thought it a pity that the service bus doesn't enable independent day trips to Callanish (due to the vagaries of the timetable, an overnight stay in the village is required), but on reflection, perhaps it is just as well.

I left by the side gate and picked up a pebble from the roadside before reluctantly climbing back onto the coach. The driver turned the beast around and the magic ebbed away. I strained to look over my shoulder at the diminishing shapes whilst we sped past a couple of the lesser circles barely visible on the moors.

Soon we came across a small forest threatened by a deadly parasite which has attacked the precious few trees which remain on the island. Then it was back across the open moorland and into the suburbs of Stornoway where the lady dropped us off after a round trip of some forty-five miles lasting almost four hours. In the warm evening sunshine, I cut through the back streets to avoid the tourists and returned to the B+B for one of my makeshift salads.

As I closed my curtains before going to bed, I looked out to find the moon rising over the house opposite. She must have been full only a few days ago, yet it has been a long time since I last saw her. I closed my eyes and imagined that I was alone but for my companions the stars, amongst the standing stones at Callanish.

Friday 6th August 1993 - Day 72

A very rainy day. I continued with my barking seal act at breakfast, then went out to do a little more shopping. Whilst browsing through the newsagent's to avoid a shower, I bumped into the lady who is staying at the B+B for the week and was introduced to her sister and brother-in-law. On my return, even watching television was too much effort, so I spent the afternoon dozing.

Saturday 7th August 1993 - Day 73

Posters plastered around town this morning proclaimed that the annual Fish Festival was being held from 12 til 4pm. After another spot of shopping for supplies and with the weather turning brighter by the minute, I set off to investigate. The indoor fish market housed stalls selling prawns and displays about the RNLI and local fishing. Outside a coconut shy and kiddies' paddling pool had been set up with balloons being sold for a charity race.

I made my way around the back to find a seal complacently bobbing up and down between the multicoloured fishing boats decorated with pennants strung from stem to stern. Further along was berthed the Fishery Protection Vessel Suliken. Unlike Royal Navy warships in their battleship grey, this was painted a peculiar greeny grey. Only the upper decks and bridge were open to the public, but I found it worth the visit. Of particular interest to me were the navigation instruments, radar, satellite and radio communications, having often had to translate operating manuals for such equipment. The computer had printed a list of ships that had recently been boarded for inspection. I noted that they were mainly British and French, but there was also one Norwegian vessel. To the side, a chart indicating the authorised fishing quotas was pinned up.

The rest of the pier was taken up by a huge white cruise ship registered in Nassau. The gangway to the Royal Viking Princess was guarded by a security camera and one of the sailors. A "NO VISITORS" notice made it quite clear that there was no chance of a guided tour here. As I walked alongside, I found that the lower deck of cabins was conveniently at eye-level. Inside one of the plush suites, a couple were feasting on a table covered by salad dishes. On the upper decks were signs to the Elgar cocktail lounge and the Grieg piano lounge which appeared to have a ceiling covered in thousands of tiny lights shining like stars. A far cry from the CalMac ferries I've been travelling on.

Since the castle grounds arch around the inner harbour, I walked over there to eat my lunch in peace and watch the proceedings opposite. By now it was time for the ferry to come in from the mainland. The liner, which was occupying the ferry's berth, was sent out into the outer harbour to tread water for half an hour. When the ferry was ready to steam out again, it was followed by the lifeboat, several fishing boats, a dredger, a yacht and three little motor boats. All of which looked to be wreaking havoc for the captain of the cruise liner who was trying to turn through 180 degrees and manoeuvre his way back to the pier. In the midst of the commotion, several seals popped their heads out of the water. Perhaps they were expecting to get some fish, but were more likely to be run over given the general chaos.

As I walked back through the town I saw several rich Americans and Italians returning to the liner, as well as one scruffy individual laden with carrier bags full of beer from the Co-op who walked straight onboard, so he must have been one of the passengers too. Later the fishing boats started running trips out to the harbour entrance. My initial interest was extinguished when I saw them close up: the term rust buckets sprang to mind. With the tide being low, people had to clamber down the rungs in the harbour wall to reach the nearest boat, then climb over two or three to reach the one that would take them out to sea. Not advisable with an expensive camcorder on your back I thought. Despite this, there was an ever-increasing queue. Yet I had serious doubts as to whether it was safe or even legal for these vessels to carry passengers. But then I suppose the lifeboat was close at hand.

Instead, I decided to watch the tug o' war competition which seemed much safer, particularly when the crews of two fishing boats started a hosepipe fight. Around 4pm, the red and white coastguard helicopter thundered into action overhead. A man standing next to me said that it had been on an exercise with the ferry the other day and winched someone off. With its headlight ablaze, it whirred over the lifeboat and disappeared back to base, whereupon I thought it was time for me to do the same.

Sunday 8th August 1993 - Day 74

This morning the breakfast table was enlivened by the presence of a Spanish couple who were moving on to Harris today and anxious to find out what it was like. I told them they would think they had landed on the moon which flummoxed them completely. We were joined by a chatty young Englishman who has come trace his grandmother's Lewisian roots. The conversation turned to the islanders' strict observance of the Sabbath. All pubs are closed of course, but even hotels won't serve meals to non-residents. The local Indian restaurant had planned its first Sunday opening for today, but has bowed to pressure from church leaders and postponed it until next week.

It was a wet and windy day, but I felt obliged to go out, if only to give Mrs. Macleod a chance to clean my room. Rather than wander around the centre again, I walked through the leafy backstreets towards the flat marshes on the north-western edge of town. Groups of people dressed in their Sunday best stood around under umbrellas. As it began to rain more heavily, a bus appeared to take them to church. In the distance I could spot the lights of Stornoway airport and decided I had come far enough. Back on Matheson Road, I came to one of the five churches that can be found in this part of town. Unaccompanied psalmic singing drifted out onto the empty streets in a plaintive wailing which mirrored the falling rain like a primeval, heart-rending lament.

Monday 9th August 1993 - Day 75

Another dismal day. More shopping and rest. Time to finish off my final postcards from the islands.

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

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May 1998