THOSE who follow my travels will know that I have a particular weakness for remote places, and islands.
They are often bleak, cold and windswept, but this, I find to be a considerable part of their charm and offer a very immediate glimpse into the lifestyles of the islands in questions. It is not that I have anything against warm destinations; I just haven't been to many recently.
Thatch-roofed ‘black house’ on the Isle of Lewis.
It was with a frisson of excitement that I recently accepted the invitation of Visit Scotland to go and explore for three days after their annual travel Expo. The event showcases all manner of interesting Scottish programs, hotels and ides that range from the interesting to the truly bizarre. I go frequently, and love to keep up to date with a travel industry that encompasses a firmament that includes the world class Edinburgh festival and a variety of bed and breakfast operations from remote and improbable islands.
In search of idiosyncrasy I have long wandered the byways and remote islands of Scotland, but to date had not had the pleasure of visiting the Western Isles. Long fascinated with remote and sparsely populated areas that embed vibrant, distinct and frequently downright peculiar cultures, I have coveted a trip to Harris, Lewis and the Uists.
Actually, the names themselves suggest a trip to visit friends rather then geographical destinations, and indeed the islanders were most welcoming. One supposes that they have to be, as life in one of Europe's extremities must appear to be lonely, and full of wistful longing for outside influence, but it is not so.
The islands cradle a culture, both religious and commercial, that has withstood the tests of time. They have embraced "incomers" but strongly protected their rather strongly held beliefs and practices, particularly in the northern region of Harris.
Population decline has long been a problem for many rural areas, and the Western Isles are no exception. I was, however, a little surprised to see how the problem is resolving itself. In the manner of many social problems, over time, they solve themselves. In the case of the depopulation of remote area, the repopulation seems to be coming from an odd source.
I had rarely heard as many midland accents as I did in the isles; it started on the ferry crossing from Ullapool, where large, boisterous and, it has to be said, shabby families were chasing themselves and each other around the ship.
I was idly wondering if they were en route to some sort of bizarre competition of the genre much loved by reality TV companies today, and trying to determine the rules.
Actually, I was rather enjoying making up a series of increasingly improbable tasks for these giant families to perform when my neighbour said in a subdued voice, "Odd that they choose to come and live here, isn't it?"
I had never considered a migratory movement fuelled by the applicability and equality of social assistance throughout the country. A family, chronically unemployed in West Bromwich, could simply pick up sticks and migrate to a rather more attractive and convivial location, where their government cheques will continue to flow, but the scenery is better, and their children will have access to much better schools. And there are a lot of these families, presumably finding a welcome in the isles, bringing young blood to the communities and generally mixing up the gene pool to a rather startling extent.
But I digress. Having set foot in Harris, I headed north, eventually to the improbably named "Butt of Lewis". If you look at a map of Britain, you can't miss it. It is the end of the kingdom. From The Butt, there is only return toward human settlement or certain death from the inclement waters of the ocean.
I, prudently, chose retreat, and spent the night at one of the island's delightful small hotels. Having been suitably admonished for arriving late by the owner, and for recklessly trying to read an aged copy of the Economist that belonged to one of the other two guests, I settled in nicely.
The owners also hailed from the Midlands, and had brought a passion for farming to their new home. They were most interesting, and talked of crafting, communal farming, the difficulties with pigs, the idiocy of European bureaucrats, the inexplicable composition of the British Ministry of Food and, of course, the weather.
I left the property regretting that I couldn't spend more time with this delightful couple and feeling (in the patronizing way of an itinerant observer) comfortable that this recent influx of questioning from England may prove to be the economic salvation of the community.
I drove south, covering as much ground as I could, and delighted by the perfect April weather, actually managed to see St. Kilda. This island, lying some thirty-five miles away from the coast, was inhabited from pre-historical times until the evacuation of the remaining 40 islanders in 1938. Its story is fascinating, and one of isolation, determination and an extraordinary adaptation to life with the few creature comforts that they had.
Personally, a life entirely dedicated to extracting any and all economic benefit from fulmars would leave me cold, but for centuries, the hardy St. Kildans did so. At least those that stayed; in one of the more fanciful stories of migration, it was settlers from this cold, barren rock who ended in Victoria, and the delightful seaside suburb of Melbourne was named St. Kilda in their honour. I could see the same determination in the buildings and settlements of Harris and Lewis, in the settlement patterns, and a life clawed from the sea and the rudimentary farming that could be scratched from the land.
From Harris and Lewis a ferry carries you south to North Uist, the next island in this rather unorthodox chain. It is a land of lakes, scattered hamlets and houses, and airport on a beach (flight time to bed determined by the tides) and breathtaking sunsets. I was fortunate to stay at the Temple View Hotel in Carnish.
I stay in a lot of hotels, but this one stood out from the pack. Owned, not surprisingly by this point, by a couple from the mainland, the property is simply delightfully. A converted residence, with an extension of new rooms, the hotel offers a fine touring base. Friendly, and with a fabulous kitchen, I really could not have asked for a better place to stay. I only wished that a life of observation offered so few chances to linger.
And it was that in the morning I packed and headed to examine the island in minute detail. Odd and hairy cows, a military base, Birmingham accents, a dearth of trees, houses scattered in an apparently random manner, lakes and peat, a glistening sea and the inevitable post office vans scooting around delivering the outside world to the islanders.
I loved it all, and boarded the ferry back to the mainland with some regrets about not staying and enjoying the curious and comforting rhythm of the island for longer.
Nigel Johnson is a Winnipeg writer and world traveller.
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