Seasons on Harris (40 page)

But it changed everything. Someone had remembered I was here in this unfamiliar house and not at Clisham Cottage. And someone had cared enough to bring the spirit of the season to me on this cold black night, and in the middle of a power cut too.

God, it's a strange place, this Harris, I thought, but then suddenly felt a rush of love for the island—and all the people on it.

“God bless us, every one!” I said aloud, quoting that beloved last line of Dickens's
A Christmas Carol
.

 

W
ITH THE RESTORATION OF LIGHT
and a modicum of warmth after those two frigid days (I finally managed to master “the creature-in-the-kitchen”), my lonely mood lifted and, in full-color hindsight, I guess Hogmanay turned out to be a time of fine fun and frivolity, couched in luxuriant waves of indolent lethargy. In fact, ironically, we possibly had more fun here in Harris than the tens of thousands of frustrated revelers in Edinburgh who had gathered for the annual megacelebration of music, dancing, fireworks, and feasting. Because it never happened. A sudden storm of epic violence tore into that poor city, ripping up show tents, felling trees and miles of seasonal decorations, and scattering the drenched and freezing crowds who never got to dance to the big-name rock bands or applaud the “massed pipers,” or even sing that epic Robbie Burns ballad of “Auld Lang Syne” on the midnight cusp of the New Year.

There was plenty of singing, dancing, and kissing, though, and antics of a slightly more exotic nature, at our local community center dance in Tarbert. I enjoyed prancing around the floor with some of the lovely ladies here, with Sammy MacLeod's band playing reels so fast and furious that you felt you were going to spin yourself and your partner right out the snow-laced windows. And I took a few toasts with my friends down at the Clisham Keel, a dram or two with Roddy, a delightful evening listening to the tales of John Murdo Morrison (an invaluable island informant for us) and Catherine Morrison (owner of our Seilibost cottage). And I also remember a dozen other memorable Hogmanay
interludes that, despite Anne's absence and the ghostly creaks and groans of beams and rafters at night in my temporary home, I recollect enjoying immensely here, on my little island, celebrating the immortal words and sentiments of Robert Louis Stevenson: “So long as we are loved by others I should say that we are almost indispensable; and no man is useless while he has a friend.” And despite the fact that my wife and best friend was off-island, I certainly don't remember ever feeling “useless” during that delightful season.

H
ARRIS THRIVES ON ITS MEETINGS
and public discussions. These constitute the pumping blood—the adrenaline—of democratic island life here. They are boring, fascinating, tedious, inspired, dogmatic, perceptive, tautologically excessive, sonorously self-important—and long. Invariably they are all far too long, unless Morag Munro is the chairperson, in which case the often rambunctious, outspoken, opinionated participants will invariably become subdued by her strict, no-nonsense, headmistress-like demeanor.

Morag is only a small lady and, in a one-on-one chat, a delightfully modest and impeccably polite individual. But put her and her tightly bunned hair and her stern bespectacled face in front of a restless
Hearaich
crowd in the local community center and the meeting will quickly come to order and usually stay ordered—and even brief—if she has her way. Which she usually does. And such a skill is vital here on an island awash with issues of dire consequence, from the (still) ongoing debates about the Lingarabay rock quarry, the allocation of bus contracts (lifeblood of island mobility), and the future of fish farming, to the purpose of the asyet-unbuilt Harris Tweed Center site (a real boondoggle project), the proposals for those vast wind farm developments, the ever-increasing demand of incomers for new housing permits, and that constantly divisive issue of Sabbath ferry sailings (so far, still strictly forbidden).

If Morag is in charge, such critical issues will be dealt with efficiently (if not finally—nothing seems to be final here) and fairly. But if Morag is
not around, as at one particular meeting Anne and I attended, things can become a little more unfocused, almost to the point of blindness—or certainly severe blandness.

It seemed a simple enough agenda according to the handwritten signs on the local shop windows: “How we should organize the arts—and the artists—on the island into a coordinated, new fund-supported program for progress and enhanced expression.” A straightforward, even inspiring initiative, one would have thought, particularly in the light of these new funds apparently being offered by external grant sources.

However, that was not to be the case, and we, as relatively impartial observers, only wished Morag had been with us.

Maybe someone had closed the doors to the small meeting room at the Harris Hotel a little too early on in the proceedings. Maybe the resultant fog and misty condensation on the large windows overlooking the harbor and the shaggy-grass hills across the road introduced a somnolent note into the presentations and discussions. Or maybe the free coffee and shortcake biscuits did not inject enough caffeine and sugar-laced energy and enthusiasm into the two-hour-long gathering.

Certainly, that flyer had been enticing, suggesting new strategies for stimulating the arts on the island. Well, Anne and I thought, there are certainly enough artists and craftspeople working in homes and studios all around Harris to warrant a lively evening's debate on future possibilities and potentials.

But it soon became clear that the dozen or so artists and craftspeople who attended quickly became a little blurry-eyed and fuzzy-headed, as the charming young lady who had recently been appointed to spearhead these “new initiatives” here seemed determined to emphasize the intangibles rather than the pragmatics of her project.

She first tried to explain about the “cultural rights and entitlements” for artists: the need to “level the playing field” for artistic opportunities; the amalgamation of notoriously territorial arts councils and cultural institutions; the need for radical redefinition and “infrastructural enhancements”; and the challenging role the arts had to play on Harris in education, health, cultural development, and macro/microeconomics; and so forth. It all began to sound a bit like a university tutorial with an
avid student trying to impress her peers with sweeping generalizations punctuated by key buzzwords of the month.

Eventually she realized that her hesitant delivery and academic phraseology were not exactly sparking the ardor and involvement of the participants who had gathered so expectantly in that little room, now distinctly overheated and moist with trapped air.

“Best o' luck,” mumbled a young man, who I later learned had once played a similar kind of coordinator role to the newly appointed presenter. He told me that despite fine aspirations and intents, he had actually spent most of his time ensuring that funds were available to cover his own salary for the next fiscal year. “It really takes it out o' ye,” he half whispered. “There was so much crap flyin' around…no one seemed to know what I was doing…and no one wanted to know…”

Finally, there was an outburst of frustration: “C'mon now—let's get down to nuts and bolts,” said Willie Fulton, one of our favorite island artists, and obviously in a puckish mood that night. “What exactly d'y'think you'll be able to do to help us all?”

The young lady seemed a little disconcerted by such a direct line of questioning and turned to a second presenter from the “High Arts” element of the Scottish Executive at the national level (or something like that). “Well—maybe you could follow up on that, Robert…,” she said pleadingly, and then escaped to get herself a cup of urgently needed coffee.

Willie Fulton—Artist

And, bless him, Robert certainly tried. He had a pleasant, laid-back manner, but he still seemed to
feel that a description of the “larger picture of opportunities” was essential “to establish a content and context for localized initiatives.” And so he told us that the arts included
all
the arts—music, drama, dance, visual arts, crafts, and so on; that meetings and “dialogues” would be set up at all levels to develop “integrative analyses and responses” and “route maps” that reflected a “redefined infrastructure” that in turn would “permeate in a most dynamic fashion down to the local and individual levels.”

We all soon realized that this was actually a meeting to discuss the mechanism for creating more meetings and reports and studies, while the local artists, craftspeople, and other embryonic cultural entities waited to see what could and would be done. If anything.

Willie was on his feet again, a little more dark-browed and impatient this time with all this limousine-liberal vacuousness: “So I ask again—what d'ye think are the local benefits—the real nuts and bolts that could help us out here? In Harris.”

Robert still didn't get it. He launched on again with his clammy fog of rhetorical references to “coordinated funding” (not
new
funding, he emphasized—a bit of a letdown there—but primarily a more effective use of existing funds), his role as a “catalyst for change and cooperation,” the potentials for “far more integrated action here in Harris,” and the creation of workshops for policy formulation, blah-blah-blah…

“Och! Forget it! We'll do it ourselves!” mumbled Willie. And that finally hit the right note with the small audience. They started to talk among themselves, leaving the two presenters to leaf furiously through papers and booklets and notes to see if they could find anything a little more tangible and pragmatic to suggest in a frantic effort to regain their stature as truly useful “catalysts.”

But it was too late. With mumbles about “buckets of hogwash,” “gushy gobbledegook,” and the “bland leading the bland,” the locals were off discussing their own priorities and concerns in a spirit of collegiate conspiracy, and the ideas poured out—subsidized local visits by theater, dance, operatic, and other national institutions; subsidies for creating more artists' studios; help to promote artists' works in the major cities and “getting the goods to market”; and the need for a local com
munity arts cooperative center and gallery to display the remarkable range of on-island talent.

“Maybe that's what we should build on all the land they've spent millions on filling down by the harbor for the Harris Tweed Center,” mumbled Willie again. He was certainly enjoying his own role as “catalyst.” Other ideas included the distribution of “art and craft trail maps” for visitors, indicating the location of island studios and workshops; funds to support evening classes in the arts for everyone; funds to create new annual local arts events; new types of employment in arts-related activities for the young to stem the tide of their out-migration; more use of Web sites and online gallery guides; the creation of interactive arts journals; and on and on.

In the end, life, energy, and ideas filled the tiny room. The doors were opened to remove the fog and condensation, discussions eased out into the hotel bar, and the island artists in their little groups were fast becoming a splendid example of do-it-yourself local initiatives and innovations.

Even the two presenters looked pleased—and relieved. They climbed off their high horses of hyperbole and joined in the fray of discussion and debate. I heard Robert at one point waxing eloquent about the island being “one of the richest cultural hot spots in Britain,” and Willie responding with an uncharacteristically enthusiastic “Aye, y'damn right there—we jus' need to use it more!” Nods of agreement all around.

Well, Anne and I thought as we left the hotel in a rather bubbly mood, it's definitely a start. So many plans and projects for Harris and the other outer islands have vanished into the great maw of bureaucratic territorialism, half-baked concepts, outrageously inept implementations, and even occasional gaudy scandals of greed, graft, and corruption. But this time, if the artists themselves keep priming the fires of initiative and action, who knows—things might actually begin to change…

But we couldn't forget the skeptical words of the ex–arts director: “Best o' luck!”

 

A
COUPLE OF NIGHTS LATER
I was discussing this meeting with two old fishermen in the Clisham Keel. They shook their heads and chuckled
and said they'd heard so much about these kinds of “improvements” over the years that they couldn't be bothered to listen anymore. A third man overheard our conversation and muttered something in Gaelic. The two fishermen laughed and one told me, “Och—it's an old proverb:
‘Cha thainig gaoth riamh nach robh an seol feareigin'
—‘Whatever wind is blowing will fill someone's sail.'”