Seasons on Harris (46 page)

Gannet

“I'll do dinner,” I said by way of apology. They were both appropriately empathetic and then left.

Silence descended like a shroud. But more silky gossamer than funereal. It was that scintillating silence of benevolent solitude—what Adam calls “the sheer, solid stillness of the islands.” I finally had the place all to myself. I was free to let Adam's “ecstasy of being alone” work its magic.

As indeed it did.

My long, slow, and meandering stroll up the valley led eventually to the cliffs at the southern tip of the island. They were not as high as the towering ramparts on the eastern flank, and the basalt column structure was far less articulately formed. Maybe the magma had emerged more
slowly here from the great subaquatic rift. Apparently the cooling rate of magma greatly affects its molecular and columnar structure. But the soaring vertical shafts were precipitously powerful nevertheless and crammed with birds—mainly gannets as far as I could tell—resting on every minuscule black basalt ledge and turf-topped cranny they could find. How could they possibly breed, sleep, feed, and nurture their chicks on such tiny appendages of rock, I wondered?

They seemed equally curious at first about my presence too on the grassy edge of the cliffs. Despite my attempts to sit quietly without moving, they would take turns skimming my head and performing aerial acrobatics immediately in front of me, using the rush of air up the cliff face to help them whirl and spin with barely any movement of their wings. Just the slightest adjustment in feather-tip profile was enough to send them forty feet into the air above my head and then down in a return plunge, swoop, and hover in front of me, as if to say, conceitedly and complacently, “Bet you can't do that.”

And the odd thing was that, watching them and the apparent simplicity of their aeronautical agility, I began to think “I wish I could…I bet I could…” It was a dangerously seductive sensation.

But eventually they seemed to accept my intrusive presence and floated off to perform more productive activities, such as dive-bombing the ocean for fish or alighting gently as thistledown on their family ledges to nestle with their mates and then stand rigidly like sentries, proud guardians of their tiny slivers of rock.

I have no idea how long I sat there. A seductive sense of Shiantism timelessness crept in. A stilling of things. I had nothing in particular to do and nowhere special to go. The day was all mine and I realized that, while being with Adam and Harry was a delight, the island now had me all to itself and was quietly offering glimpses of its own special moods and magic. And all it asked in return was that I watch, see, and remember.

I think, in addition to the pleasures I gained from being with the birds and admiring the strength, wildness, and durability of this small island, it was the sounds that I remember most of all: the thick, lush sounds of ocean breezes captured and channeled upward by the cliffs; the skittering swish of wavelets on the small pebbled beach far below; the deep thump
of larger waves on the vertical cliff face that vibrated through the rock; the serpentlike hiss of the explosive surf sprays; the guttural growling of larger rocks and boulders deep under the sea-savaging tidal flows as they moved together, rounding down each other; the silky, wind-skim sounds from birds' wings as they passed close over my head; the chitter and chuckle of small streams as they trickled, almost invisibly, through the marshy tussocks on the cliff tops; the sudden cessation of those sounds when the streams plunged over the cliff edge and released their waters to the air, spuming, like a confetti of rainbow-sparkling diamonds, down into the ocean hundreds of feet below.

Much later on in the afternoon, I wandered again, wrapped in a sumptuous silence, among the ancient stumps of dwellings, sheepfolds, and shell middens in the lower part of the valley. And here I sat for a while, ensnared by emotions, and scribbled fragments, observations and “rememberings,” hoping to carry them home, hoping to retain “fragments of Shiants” to refresh, restore, and revitalize my spirit when I returned to familiar surroundings and the daily round of more mundane activities.

“So—how was your day?” asked Harry cheerfully when I had finally dragged myself away from all these musings and returned to the cottage.

All I could do, I think, was to give him a goofy grin and mumble something about the validity of Adam's phrase “the ecstasy of being alone.”

“So you didn't miss us at all?!” said Adam.

More goofy grins on my part.

“Well,” he continued, with his big smile, “we're whacked out and starving. Any chance of your dinner being ready in the next day or so d'y'think?!”

That got me refocused. I forgot I'd offered to cook our evening meal and here I was, still afloat in my “rememberings” with one major “remember” already forgotten.

“Grub's up in no time,” I said, wondering what the heck I'd planned to prepare.

In fact, although I say it myself, the meal did come together remarkably quickly. And, if our collective grunts and sighs were any indication, we all ate long and well in our cozy kitchen with its flickering candles,
dancing shadows, flaming coal fire, and the rich aromas of crisped-top roast beef mingled with glasses of fine burgundy.

Conversations rambled on deep into the night with a generous mix of confessions, life-illuminating perceptions, and ribald humor when we started to take ourselves a little too seriously. We knew we'd be leaving the following afternoon, and although our time together had been brief, we all felt reluctant to face that prospect. The islands had indeed worked their magic on the three of us, despite the fact that I knew I'd barely tickled the surface of their secrets and deep seductiveness.

 

S
OME OF THE LAST THOUGHTS
of our brief odyssey are left to John Murdo Matheson, the burly, red-cheeked sheep farmer whose sheep roam the wild cliff tops and hidden dells of these islands.

Angus had brought John and a few other friends over with him when he returned to pick us up for the return journey to Tarbert. Among the group were his sister, Katherine, who along with his mother, Katie, is one of Harris's most noted tweed weavers, and the famous “Charlie Barley” of MacLeod's butcher shop in Stornoway, whose father created the still-secret recipe for the finest black pudding in the Western Isles.

It was a lively return trip. Angus took another long detour around the islands and the nesting birds greeted us once again with spectacular aerial displays, curling, wheeling, and diving in their thousands, with puffins performing more of their massed, wave top–skimming antics on cue.

One young man decided to sing a raunchy limerick of celebration that he claimed to have copied out of the visitors' book at the cottage:

Not exactly the most subtle of verses, but it certainly amused most of the passengers. With the possible exception of John, the shepherd, who had spent an hour or so roaming the cliffs to check on his sheep, and was now explaining to me the enticements he often experienced here. His deep awareness of the myriad nooks and crannies, hollows and crags, ancient dwellings and sheep enclosures was a match even for Adam's encyclopedic knowledge and appreciation. For such a large and obviously strong man, he spoke with remarkable quietude about the carpet-like richness and variety of the flora here, the remarkable deep-diving, fish-catching abilities of the shags that constitute the second-largest “shaggery” in the British Isles, the great stillness that I too had sensed here as the wind dropped and the seas calmed at sunset, and his deep love of being here alone “in a place that wraps itself around you and doesn't want to let you leave.”

I'd sensed that too despite the fact I'd only been here a couple of days and much of that time in the company of two extremely sensitive, loquacious, and perceptive men. Our conversations had been loud, long, laughter-rich, and tinged with that beguiling intimacy of a shared, and deeply moving, experience. We had cooked with pleasure and care for one another, supped generously together, meticulously cleaned up the cottage and the adjoining fank, and sloshed through the marshy fringes and among the strange humpy remnants of ancient occupancies of the Central Valley. We'd explored the newly exposed mysteries of the “new” beach ripped open by that furious January storm, and shared comfortable silences outside on the velvety sheep-cropped grass, bathed in the bright, warm afternoon sun or glazed in silver moonlight under star-filled night skies.

There were so many small delights and experiences during that short period. The absence of normal diversions and distractions seemed to have expanded our time together to something beyond time. A still timelessness unrelated to clocks and calendars; a period of “powerful absences” that enabled the island spirit to ease itself into our own spirits and expand them—pushing out the boundaries of our oft blinkered perceptions and nudging them into new patterns of awareness and appreciation.

As reflected in the visitors' book, others had obviously sensed similar
emotions here. One wrote: “Time does not exist here on the Shiants.” Another described how “our little-huge world here could not be simpler—eating (anything!), drinking, sleeping, bog-hopping, driftwood-collecting, seabird and seal-watching, fresh unspoilt air, clear spring water to drink and sun, rain, drizzle, and gales all in the same hour.” Someone else had written, “I am afraid as I sit here alone in the warm sun that I will never experience this again” and another, “Magic lurks here on this Prospero's isle.” I could sense the happiness that these islands and this little cottage have brought to so many. It's in the air, it's in the walls.

Maybe the last lines should be Adam's, expressing the depth that the Shiants offer in each single moment—in each precious perception:

That was the one key thought that welled up inside as I remembered Adam's words—we all “own” nothing except the freedom, intensity, depth, and beauty of each moment and each memory. And, for me, as well as for my new friends, the Shiants provided these in abundance…

W
ELL—YOU'LL BE GLAD TO KNOW
—it's finally happenin,' David! At long last!”

“Sorry? Who is this?”

“Have y'heard already? Ah…maybe y'have…”

“Heard what…who is this?”

“The tweed!”

“What tweed?!”

“It's back…”

“What do you mean…hold on…who is this and what are you talking about?”

There was a pause at the other end. I could hear heavy breathing.

“David, this is Roddy. Roddy MacAskill.”

I was suspicious. It didn't sound like Roddy. The voice was too high and he was talking too quickly.

“Where are you calling from, Roddy?” I asked, I guess as a kind of test. We weren't used to crank calls in the Hebrides. Especially about tweed.

“From the office…up from the shop…right across from you!”

“Oh…okay…sorry, it just didn't sound like you.”

“Aye, well, maybe I'm just a wee bit excited.”

“About tweed?”

“Yes, about tweed. And about Donald John and Maureen…the MacKays…the weavers down at Luskentyre…”

“Yes, we know them well. Lovely people.”

“Well…looks like they've gone and got things going again.”

“With the tweed?”

“Yes, David.” Roddy's voice seemed a little exasperated with my slow grasp of what sounded like very important—and good—news…about the tweed. “They've gone and got us a huge order from Nike—y'know, the people who make all those trainers…or what d'y'call 'em in America…”

“Sneakers.”

“Aye…those things.”

“And what is Nike going to do with the tweed and its sneakers?”

“Och, I don't know all the details yet. Why don' y'jus' call Donald John. He sounds like he needs a nice calm voice like yours to soothe him down a wee bit.”

“Is he okay?”

“Sounds like he was having a heart attack t'me. Y'know how fast he talks. Well he was going a mile a minute…like he was running a race in a pair o' those Nikes!” Roddy chuckled at his own impromptu humor.

“Okay, I'll give him a call and get the details. Sounds interesting…”

“It'll be more than interestin' if it all works out. It'll give our weavers some real work for a change!”

“And your tweed factory at Shawbost too? Are you still involved in that?”

“Oh aye, sort of…on and off, y'know…” Roddy was always a little cautious in revealing too many details of his considerable mélange of business activities on the island.

“Well, that could be a bit of a lift for you, then?”

“Ay, well, maybe…but it's the weavers I'm thinkin' about. This could be what they've all been waitin' for—for far too long now. Far too long…”

“Okay, Roddy, thanks for the tip. I'll call the MacKays right now. See what the story is.”

“Aye—why don' you do that…and then pop round later…around dinnertime. We'll have a wee dram or two to celebrate.”

“Sounds like a grand idea!”

 

“Let's call the MacKays and get the real story,” I said to Anne, who was standing beside me, intrigued by all the possibilities of a sudden tweed revival on the island. “Although from what Roddy just told me that might not be so easy.”

It wasn't. Donald John picked up the phone and Roddy was right. His voice was half an octave higher, and his Hebridean accent even more pronounced than ever, with words tumbling out chaotically. “Ah yes, wonderful news, isn't it, David…hold on…Maureen, it's David from Ardhasaig and—hold on again—there's someone at the door…oh, okay…David, sorry, it's all a bit of a madhouse at the moment…no, no, you don't need to call back…it's jus' that…Granada TV is coming this afternoon…they want something for the evening news…and then the BBC…Maureen, when's the BBC comin'…Friday? Yeah, tha's right. Friday. They're talkin' about a half hour special—a TV documentary about it all! Can y'believe it…everything's going so fast…hold on—he wants me now, Maureen? Okay…tell him I'll be out…can you speak with David and Anne…David, I've got a newspaper reporter here. Maureen…you speak to them…David, Maureen's comin'…I'll catch up w'you later.”

Maureen's slow, measured way of talking and her clear English Midlands accent eventually allowed us to extract the essence of the story, which went something like this:

“Well, y'know how Donald John is always looking out for new clients and designers—y'know, people who'll bring in new fashions and new ways of using tweed. He's met so many people—I think he's told you—Vivienne Westwood's designers, Selina Blow, Timothy Everest, Miuccia Prada…a lot of clothes people from Japan, they love his new patterns he designed just for them, also quite a few Germans and Americans. The orders are not always large, but they've been consistent. And we've managed to farm out some of the work—to help other weavers. And Donald John has always been true to the tweed. You know that.”

The Pride of the Tweed

“Yes, we do,” I said. “He's a stickler for tradition.”

Maureen laughed, “Oh, that he is. And he's been asked to do all kinds of things—y'know, weave in fluorescent colors, mix the wool with cashmere and suchlike, make an ultra-light fabric for young buyers…but he won't do it. He says there are a lot of tweeds—so called—around the world, done in all kinds of ways—mainly made in factories—and with all kinds of weird stuff mixed in the weave. But he says he'll only make his tweed the way that Harris Tweed is supposed to be made. Otherwise what's the point!? And there are three weights nowadays anyway—standard, light, and bantam-feather—so there's plenty of versatility already. And, as you know, he even makes his own bobbins of yarn and sets up his own warp—doesn't use any factory-delivered warp ‘hanks.' Anyway, word must have got around and a few months ago we got this call from the Nike company, asking if they could send someone over to look at samples and see how the tweed is made on the island—to check its authenticity, I suppose. So we said yes, of course, fine, c'mon and visit,
and so they came and then they went and nothing happened, so we forgot all about it.

“Anyway, when was it? Last week, last Wednesday, I think, we suddenly got this e-mail”—[Maureen had long ago discovered the value to her wide-ranging customers of having a computer with e-mail access]—“bet most people don't know we have an ‘electronic cottage' here now! Donald John wasn't too keen at first but I told him, if we're going to keep this business going and you want my help we need a computer. It's either that, I said, or I'm going to carry you off back down with me to my part of England to try another line of work! So—he agreed and now I've got my little work station where this e-mail arrived last week—from Nike—asking for nine hundred and fifty meters of our special tweed pattern—Donald John designed it himself—a lovely sort of sage green with touches of blue and red in it, the kind of amber-red y'used to get from the old crotal dyes. And we thought—well, that's nice. That'll keep us busy for a while. Donald John turns out thirty yards a day on a good day on his single-wide Hattersley in the weavin' shed out there. So we said yes and told them the price. And they didn't quibble or anything—they just said fine and when could they expect the rolls. And we told them. And everything was peachy until we got this second e-mail the next day…”

“Oh, no,” said Anne. “Bad news?”

“No, no. Just the opposite! They said they'd made a mistake in the first e-mail. They'd missed a zero, and they actually needed ninety-five hundred meters—that's nine thousand five hundred meters—can you believe it?!”

“Fantastic!” I said. “A very healthy order!”

“Yes, it is. And, from what they told us, there'll likely be more orders…a lot more…”

“Congratulations to you both…you deserve it,” we said, almost in unison.

“Thanks…now how about comin' down for a cup of tea to celebrate?”

So we did, and despite numerous phone calls and Donald John dodging in and out of the house like an excited rabbit, Maureen managed to prepare a brimming tray of tea, cookies, and homemade cake.
We felt guilty taking up their time in the midst of all this entrepreneurial uproar. But somehow Maureen found the tranquility to sit calmly with us by the fire.

“It's been a hard few years—for all the island weavers, really. You know this well by now—you've talked with them. There used to be over four hundred, y'know, in Lewis and Harris—it was a useful income for the crofters. Something they could do in the evenings after dinner for a few hours. Then everything slowed down. The worst was when the American market collapsed. That was the daftest thing, but somehow they'd got stuck with a huge overstock of tweeds in the Stornoway mill and someone had the bright idea of selling it cheaply in bulk to clear warehouse space. And somehow it ended up as jackets selling in places like Wal-Mart in the USA! Can y'believe it?! Top o' the line Harris Tweed in Wal-Mart! Well—y'can understand what it did for the high-end trade…y'know, in the posh clothing stores. It killed it stone dead. People wouldn't pay five hundred dollars for a Harris Tweed jacket on Fifth Avenue in New York when you could buy virtually the same thing—admittedly tailored in Asia somewhere—but the same cloth, for less than a hundred dollars in a Wal-Mart!”

Maureen paused and gave a sigh of exasperation.

“Anyway…it took a long while to recover from that…but if this Nike thing works out we'll be well and truly on the map again, I hope. 'Course we can't do it all ourselves so we're going to partner up with Derick Murray at his Stornoway factory and let him find the other weavers we'll need to complete the order—then who knows what it could lead to? We've already had one other sneaker company calling us and asking for samples…and Nike says this might be just the start…there's some other new ideas they're working on and they asked just this morning if we thought we could manage to produce another five thousand or so meters of the same pattern. So…it's a little bit exciting at the moment as y'can imagine. I mean, this could be a whole new beginning for us all here—if we can interest the younger generation and get rid of the fuddy-duddy image of tweed a bit. Trainers might just be the answer, eh!?”

“Oh, and there's also the knitting too, y'know. That's really coming up nowadays! The small factory up at Carloway is starting to produce as
much tweed wool for knitting now as it does for weaving. S'quite amazing. Apparently it's all the rage, not only in Britain but in Europe too. Knitting classes and clubs sprouting up fast as barley stalks. Ruth Morris—that island girl who created the famous Roobedo store in Edinburgh—has bought plenty of tweed from us and sells a lot of the new knitwear. And there are knitters sprouting up again all over the island—Mairi Fraser and Katherine Llips's Isle of Harris Knitwear store in Grosebay sells a lot of their creations now. An' there's Heather Butter-worth and her Kells Tweed Company—oh, and Tweeds and Knitwear in Plocrapool too. And of course there's Margaret MacKay at Soay Studio in Tarbert—I think y'know her—she's done wonders for keeping and teaching the old traditional dyeing techniques from local plants and selling her knitting wool. Beautiful, subtle colors she produces—quite different from the chemical dyes. 'Course there was a time when every weaver would dye his own yarn but that's long gone now. I think, before Margaret came, the last weaver who was still doing it was dear old Marion Campbell.”

“Oh, Marion—yes—we met her years ago. She let us spend a whole afternoon with her. Couldn't get her peat-soot dye off my hands for days. Lovely, gracious lady…”

“Yes, she was. It was a sad day for us all when she passed…but anyway enough of all this—c'mon, have some more tea, and eat up the cake if y'will. I hate putting cut slices back in a tin…they say it's bad luck to do that. And right at the moment, we prefer whole dollops of good luck for once!”

 

A
S OUR TIME DREW TO A
close on Harris, we visited Donald John and Maureen one last time to say our farewells and to find out how the whole Nike episode was working out.

This time there was an aura of calm confidence in their little house. Even Donald John seemed to be talking at a slower pace, smiling brightly, and full of new hope for the future of his own tweed making and for the island industry as a whole.

“Did y'two see the local paper yesterday? What our Derick Murray
just said? He's like a new man now. He's given up all his ideas of sellin' up his two factories. Here”—he reached for the paper—“this is what he told the
Gazette
: ‘I'm far more confident than I was for a long time. And I'm sure this will be a great success and bring the industry back. Harris Tweed means everything to me. I've been at it all my life. If you are committed to an industry like this you are committed to the whole island.'”