Seasons on Harris (24 page)

“There seem to be touches of Cézanne…and Georges Braques in them…,” I said hesitantly. I'm always a little nervous when discussing “influences” in art. Some artists can be rather sensitive about such things.

“Oh, really—you think so?” Jane said. She giggled too, so I think she was pleased to be included in such elite company. “Thank you.”

At that point Peter interrupted our little art-soiree chat with an invitation to go see some of his projects, with a warning that “it might be a little muddy.”

Muddy it indeed was, but we soon forgot the gooey going as Peter pointed out some of the nuances of his work on the twelve-acre croft. Much of it was over our heads—references to dual-purpose cows; “natural weaning” for the calves; “maintaining family groups”; reduced castration of male sheep to increase breeding rams and the rare Hebridean stock; strict rotation schedules for potatoes, hay, and other crops on the lazybeds and higher pastures; and even the creation of a small bird-conservation area for the protection of the increasingly elusive corncrake, already nesting on Peter's land.

It was a hard, gloppy slog up the steep slope of his croft, leaping across newly dug drainage ditches and avoiding pernicious patches of bog by hopping from tussock to tussock through the spindly marsh grass. At the high end of the croft above the Harlingtons' home, the rough-and-tumble land began to meld with the weed-smothered remnants of old black houses. Little was left other than stumpy humps of ancient and thick stone walls, but it was obvious that over the last few centuries, a thriving crofting community had existed here.

“Some of these ruins have pre–Bronze Age origins,” said Peter. “There are burial cairns and standing stones all around here, many with cup-and-ring markings. This place has deep echoes.”

We stopped to look more closely at the rubbled remnants. A chill wind skirmished through the marsh grass, making the brittle blades rattle like old bones. Peter watched us closely and then said quietly, “Presences…can you sense them?”

Anne nodded a little warily, remembering our strange drive across the moor. I too felt that beguiling aura of layered life and death. So many centuries, so many stories, so many existences scrabbled out of this primordial, peaty earth.

“I love it up here,” Peter said quietly. “I feel we're part of something so enduring, solid, and honest.”

Peter's enthusiasm was contagious—about the land, about his little croft slowly being revived from the decay of decades, and in particular about his carefully nurtured livestock. In fact, he identified so strongly with his animals that when he discussed castration, you almost sensed he was talking about himself.

“I don't believe in it at all,” he said stridently. “The meat is much tastier if you leave them ‘intact.' The fat can be a bit gamey but a shoulder or a leg from our own breed will be the best you've ever had. And these St. Kildan sheep—at the moment we've got ten ewes and one ram and fourteen lambs—they're smaller, hardier, and unlike most other breeds, they love these tussocky grasses here—which is good because we've got an awful lot of tussocks. Also, they're very selective about how they eat the heather compared to other breeds. They don't tear it out by the roots, so it keeps on growing.”

“How have the other crofters reacted to what you're doing here?” asked Anne.

“You know, that's been one of the best things in these last two years. So many come by for a chat and we exchange ideas. And they'll tell me some of the things that their great-great-grandparents used to do to make the croft better. I feel quite privileged. And they seem to enjoy my classes too—particularly the women at the flower and garden classes. Things are changing quite a bit. Old gardens and
inbye
grazing land around here were previously unused but are now being turned over for new plantings. It's very encouraging.”

“So—no
dis
couragements?” I asked.

“Well—I suppose, in any experiment like this, there are bound to be disappointments…frustrations. I mean y'wouldn't believe, for example, all the new European Union regulations about how we can—actually, can't—use our own milk. Can you believe this—even if I fully pasteurize our milk, I'm the only one in the family allowed to drink it! And I certainly can't sell it. And cheeses—forget about it! I looked into building our own small cheesery, but wow—when I saw the books and books of regulations, I realized that they weren't interested at all in supporting small farmers. It seems they just want to wipe us all out. I don't know how the small farmers in countries like France and Italy even manage. I
mean, there are so many of them over there and they're getting smothered in these mountains of regulations that none of them can afford to implement—or even understand.”

“So, what's the future for the small farmer—crofter—in places like Harris and Lewis?” asked Anne.

“Well—we'll have to see how all this works out, won't we? I mean, that's why we're here—why we came. To make it work. To show it can be done. To prove you can live a reasonably self-sufficient life on a few acres with very little money. Which is, of course, the essence of the old crofting life. Simple, basic, wholesome, healthy—entirely the result of your own hard work and the community spirit of the other local crofter families. That's what it was all about then…and if we're lucky here, that's what our lives will be all about too…now.”

“It's very…inspiring,” said Anne quietly. “You're giving something back to a way of life that's almost vanished.”

“Well, we're not advocating a mass ‘return to the land' movement. That's far too visionary—and irrelevant—to what's going on today. No, it's really all about choices, I suppose. We're trying to show that this way of life is still viable as an option, not a necessity. And for me—for us,” said Peter, extending his arms to encompass the whole beautiful tableau of this small corner of Lewis, “this is definitely
our
option. This is
our
choice.”

 

T
HE
“H
ARLINGTON
S
PIRIT
”
REMAINED WITH
us over the ensuing weeks, and when Celia and Robby, a couple of close friends, decided that it was time to leave the familiar comforts of their New York home and visit us at our island cottage, we knew that Peter and Jane's croft would be one of the first places we'd take them. And not just for a cursory tour but for one of their gargantuan dinner feasts.

We, and they, were not disappointed. Jane had transformed the small dining/living room into a scene fit for a regal banquet: brightly colored place mats spread across their antique oak dining table; gleaming cordial and wine glasses; freshly cut flowers from the garden; two enormous home-baked loaves still warm and aromatic from the huge Aga oven at
the side of the room; candles glowing in the early-evening twilight; and bottles of wine and sherry ready for immediate imbibement.

It was a truly memorable gastronomic experience. First—after a platter of cheese and homemade pâté hors d'oeuvres—came a huge steaming tureen of sorrel and squash soup peaked with dashes of tarragon and nutmeg, which Jane ladled out into our brimming bowls. We floated chunks of her walnut and oatmeal bread across its thick, silken surface and let them suck up all the gentle flavors. Then (there should have been a trumpet fanfare at this point) Peter marched in with an enormous haunch of richly marinated, nut-crusted venison and proceeded to cut thick, juice-dripping slices. Rich, gamey aromas filled the cozy room and we salivated as plates of steamed home-grown vegetables, roast potatoes, deep chocolatey venison gravy, and a relish of pureed Carloway red currants floated their way around the table.

Silence reigned as we ate, interspersed with moans and gasps of overindulgent delight. Chairs creaked and bellies rumbled, but we steadfastly continued on into the dessert course—that great mounded Christmas pudding–like Hebridean delight known as steamed Clootie dumpling, served with whipped cream, slices of the Harlingtons' pungent homemade cheese (deliciously illegal, of course—according to those interminable EU regulations), and a marmalade-like side relish of fresh oranges, lemons, and sweet dark treacle (a very British oddity, similar to blackstrap molasses).

There was silence again as we enjoyed the thick, rich dumpling and then—applause! Sudden, spontaneous, and utterly deserved. Jane and Peter stood and bowed, and I'm sure we would have stood too if it weren't for a strange affliction of chair-bound lethargy.

How we got back home to Harris much later that night after such Lucullan indulgence I can't quite remember, but as the four of us stood together outside our cottage bathed in soft nocturnal fragrances and that strange half-light of those island summer nights, Robby added the final oratorical flourish to the evening's proceedings: “Now, if that's your typical Hebridean dinner,” he said between gentle burps, “we're staying!”

Celia groaned—but it seemed to be a groan of happy satiation…

S
O MANY FINE WRITERS HAVE
been bewitched by the beauty and mysteries of the Harris seashore that I thought it only fitting, before describing our own “bewitched” state, to share some of their descriptions, perceptions, and enticing images that possess true “take-home” longevity.

I begin of course with Finlay J. Macdonald's immortal memoir of his Hebridean childhood,
Crowdie and Cream
. Perhaps more than any other book, including Compton Mackenzie's comedic
Whisky Galore
, the word pictures so carefully crafted by this raconteur extraordinaire and maestro of island memoirs have enticed outsiders for decades to this remote place and enabled them to sense the enduring traditions and bondings that existed here deep in the old crofting days. Of the vast west coast beaches he wrote: “The relentless rocky moorland gave way to flat green pastures fringed with golden beaches…. As far as the eye could see there was nothing but beautiful emptiness—I was a miniature fluff of infancy on an infinity of sand…”

Bill Lawson, our genealogical-guru friend and one of the island's most respected historians, lives virtually on the sands and writes of their unique spirit in his enticing book
Harris in History and Legend
:

Alison Johnson and her husband, Andrew, best known for the restoration of the old minister's “manse” overlooking the
machair
and beaches of Scarista and its transformation into Scarista House, one of the most celebrated small guesthouses in the Hebrides, seem to have an ongoing love affair with these great golden west coast beaches. In their early twenties they relinquished their mutual “degree collecting” at Oxford, combined their varied interests and life goals, and formulated a visionary plan of action: “We could buy a large and derelict old house (architecture) near the sea (sailing) and in the country (rural living), restore it ( joinery), and run it as a hotel (cooking.)”

And this is precisely what they did, although their arduous, calamity-filled odyssey between dream and reality, so humorously described in Alison's evocative book,
A House by the Shore
, can only make one boggle at the boldness of their achievements. At one point Alison admits to utter “shell shock—a dreadful feeling that everything is completely out of control, and the recurring question ‘What on earth are we doing here?' Andrew,” she adds, “even favors a spell in prison to facilitate reflection!”

Fortunately, they found their reflective times in rare interludes of peace among the great sandy infinities immediately below their tiny jewel of a creation. Even on a chill winter's day, Alison manages to capture the enduring magic of this evocative shore:

And while the mysteries of what such creatures were indeed doing remained, this young couple eventually disentangled their own “what are
we
doing?” dilemmas and sold their guesthouse, and have remained on-island ever since, with Andrew now offering sailing boat trips off the Sound of Harris islets.

After meeting the Johnsons in person at their home near Leverburgh, Anne and I recognized the emergence of our own what-are-we-doing restlessness. The sands and the sea were calling us—so we decided to house-swap for a while. Our time at the MacAskills' Clisham Cottage at Ardhasaig, with its magnificent postcardlike living room vistas across Loch Bunavoneadar to the burly wall of the North Harris mountains, had given us daily nurture. No matter what the weather. And we were certainly presented with an overabundance of weather due in large part to the malicious microclimate created by these impressive bulwarks. The Atlantic air, often saturated after its three-thousand-mile journey across open ocean, suddenly stalls against these bare gneiss buttresses, struggles to rise over them, and in doing so invariably becomes cloud-bound, soggy, and desperate to relieve itself of its watery burden. Which it did with great and enthusiastic regularity. Right on top of Ardhasaig village and, of course, our little cottage in particular.

Now, such a predicament of localized climatic zeitgeist in itself can
create undue house-bound frustration. But when coupled with glimpses between our clouds and teeming rain shafts, of gloriously blue skies over the great west coast beaches only five or so seagull-soaring miles to the south—it encourages one to wonder.

West Coast “Pancake”
Machair

So wonder we did and finally made our decision to move for a season to another small cottage we'd discovered at Seilibost—away from the road, nestled in dunes, perched idyllically on the very edge of the beach, with vistas across mile after mile of those creamy infinitudes of Lusken
tyre Bay. The cozy little house said a distinct yes to us and we immediately said yes back.

“Perfect!” Anne smiled, eyes gleaming in anticipation.

“Unbelievable,” I think I said, and meant it.

“Welcome!” said Catherine Morrison, the owner.

And so, a deal was done and the move was made after long farewells (“only for a wee while,” we promised) with the MacAskills. For all the fuss and kindness they showed us, you'd think we were emigrating to the far side of the planet. Although, we admit that as we hoisted the last box into our car and hugged Dondy, Katie, Joan, and Roddy one by one, we experienced moments of hesitation and uncertainty. Little Clisham Cottage had been a much-loved haven for us, and with Roddy's store immediately across the road, Katie's guesthouse and restaurant just down the hill, and Joan's kitchen of delights right next door, we wondered for a fleeting moment why we'd ever thought of leaving.

The rich scarlet glory of that first Seilibost sunset, bathing our new home—and us—in an ethereal amber glow, quickly dispelled such trepidations and squirrelly anxieties. We stood together, then sat holding hands, on the cusp of the
machair
, where the wildflower-bedecked grasses ended abruptly in a swirl of striated rock strata. The faintest of perfumed breezes in that little tidal ripple of warm air preceding the setting sun ruffled our hair. Anne smiled but said nothing. I felt root-shoots emerging. We had barely arrived at this beach cottage on the lip of the bay and already I sensed its seductions. Then somewhere, way in the distance, deep in the
machair
on the fringe of the “blackland moors,” came the strange, eerie rasp of the corncrake.

This increasingly rare species of bird, a migrant from African wintering grounds, seeks out the “ragged land” for its elusive nests—places lush with rushes, reeds, nettles, hogweed, and wild iris beds. It is an extraordinarily shy creature, often heard at dusk throughout the spring and summer but rarely seen. Except in one particularly amusing incident recounted by Finlay J. Macdonald. In this short anecdote from his book
The Corncrake and the Lysander
, he reveals the layered depths and complexities of Harris folklore:

Anne smiled when I reminded her of Finlay's tale. “It's like there's a meaning in every detail of island life,” she half whispered, as if reluctant to disturb the silence of our golden dusk.

And there was nothing more to be said. We had come to our new home and we were very happy.