Seasons on Harris (47 page)

“Great!” Anne said. “We were worried about him—in fact about the whole tweed industry—when we met him last spring.”

Donald John laughed. “Well he's a different man altogether today an' did y'hear he's got ads out now for new weavers—not just the older ones. They're already back at their looms now, but for new trainee weavers, mind you! Can y'believe that? I can't remember when new people were comin' in to start weavin' in the traditional way. Young ones too. Now that's a real eye-opener, and a good way to get some of our youngsters to stay on-island for a change. D'you remember that lovely old Gaelic saying:
Sann o'n duthaich a thig an cló
—‘From our land comes our cloth.' Would be nice to hear more of that and a little less of ‘to get on you've got to get out' attitude. The island needs its young people. I know it's against all the trends—all the tourists, self-catering cottages, incomers buying up everything, and all that. But it's good to know that there might be a better balance—y'know, of people comin' and goin'. Wouldn't it be a shame for Harris to wake up one morning and realize that there were hardly any real
Hearaich
left! What kind of island would that be now!? God help us and help our tweed is what I say! And it looks like he might—there are bigger orders on the way—so keep all your fingers crossed!”

All great news, but I was struck by his previous comment. What kind of island indeed? Certainly not the kind of island that we were seduced by all those years ago and finally returned to—as enthusiastically as the first time—to celebrate its people, its spirit, and its deep, rich heritage. In a book. In
this
book of tales, adventures, traumas, and island people. A book that has allowed us to discover, explore, and learn the island and its ways far more extensively and enthusiastically than we ever thought possible. And maybe this is an appropriate moment to pay my respects to one of my favorite “travel” books—Henry Miller's
The Colossus of
Maroussi
—by quoting his summation of his own explorations and writings: “I give this record of my journey not as a contribution to human knowledge, because my knowledge is small and of little account, but as a contribution to human experience.”

Then Miller adds this final line, which we echo here on behalf of all the inhabitants of these small, wild islands: “Peace to all men, I say, and life more abundant.”

Black House on The Bays

As we slowly prepared to leave, making farewell visits to all our friends, we decided to invite a few of them to offer some final thoughts and perceptions on what Harris still means to them in their lives—and their hopes, along with a few fears, for their mutual future and a possible “new abundance” here.

Roddy MacAskill—of course—was one of the first. During our stay in Harris we'd spent countless hours discussing just about every aspect of island affairs with him, and I knew from past experience he'd present his opinions clearly and without wile, guile, or gush. Which is precisely what he did.

“You've got to remember who we are—we're still the descendants of crofter-weavers. They're our family—our heritage. That's what almost all of us were—and in our hearts, that's what we still are today despite all the many changes.”

“So—you're still ‘the little island that could…'”

“Weel—if we're not, it's not for want a' tryin'. A' mean, you can't fight everything…. And some of the changes are good. People are livin'a lot better nowadays, gen'rally speaking. And the tourists have helped with that. They bring in a bit o' fresh air y'know…and fresh cash! Nothin' wrong wi' that….”

“So long as Harris doesn't start going Disney!”

Roddy laughed, “Ah, a'don' think there'll be much chance of that on our wee place! We're too stubborn! I jus' wish we could find more for
our youngsters…things to keep them on island doin' worthwhile work an' such.”

“I heard—after Donald John's big Nike contract that really got the weavers back at their looms—there was talk of setting up a training workshop for young weavers….”

“Aye—well, they did—they have. And a few got involved but you never know how long it'll last y'know…although I have to tell you—tweed's really rolling at the moment. Big new orders comin' in—so I heard. Derick Murray seems to be awful busy and Donald John MacKay is quite a local hero…. But, listen—don't just take my word. Go and talk with others—you know just about everybody on island by now…. I think y'might be pleasantly surprised….”

And indeed I was.

Willie Fulton, as I expected, turned my questions about all the new “trends” here—the proposed wind turbine farms, new salmon farms, the Harris Tweed Center in Tarbert, and others—into one of his jokes. “There was this councilman y'see an' he was asked by an impatient incomer why ideas took so long to become realities here—why there seemed to be so much mañana-lethargy around. The councilman thought for a minute and then slowly replied: ‘Mañana, y'say…och, well, I dunna think we have a Gaelic word here as immediate as that….'”

It was typical Willie humor. Apt but good-natured too.

“I do sense a change though, y'know. The rebounding of the tweed—while no one knows how long it will last—it's given us all a little bit of a boost. Wee David's facing up to Goliath at last—So…y'canna write this fine place off yet by a long way!”

Another boost came when I called Robert Fernandino at Celtic Clothing in Stornoway—the man who had sold me my first tweed jacket. He was away on vacation but his spritely assistant, Lorraine, gushed about “all these big new orders comin' in…. it's back in fashion now, y'see. I heard it on Radio One—that famous Irish DJ—he said it's okay to wear the tweed again! It's not considered old-fashioned anymore!”

Derek McKim's reaction as Head of Strategy at the Western Isles Council was a little more studied—but still upbeat. “I don't think we'll
ever get back to the good old 7-million-yards-a-year days—but so long as the ‘niche markets' and fashion houses keep using our tweed, I think we might be all right. Oh, an' don't forget—we've just reopened two small plants, one making parts of wave power devices for Portugal—and a fish oil biotech factory. Quite a few new jobs there—all ‘fine green shoots of recovery.'”

Similar conversations with Margaret MacKay, Morag Munro, Ian MacKenzie at the Harris Tweed Association, Angus Campbell and his weaver-mother, Katie, Catherine Morrison, Bill Lawson, John Murdo Morrison, Alison Johnson and others reaffirmed something of a “renaissance spirit” wafting through the islands.

Iain MacSween at the
Stornoway Gazette
was my key informant as usual and he was even more upbeat than ever. “Listen—I'll read you a bit of what we wrote in a piece a week or so ago,” he said with a grin:

There's lots more but—what d'y' think o' that then?!

“Sounds just like ‘the little island that could' to me.”

“Absolutely!”

And to hear that the normally modest Derick Murray, owner of the two largest mills on the islands, was finally sounding optimistic, verging on triumphant, was a most unusual—and positive—landmark event.

And, of course, who best to offer the last word and speak for everyone on the island than our “local hero”—he of “Nike” notoriety—the irrepressible Donald John MacKay:

“Och, David—y'wouldna believe how things are going here! It's buzzin'—really buzzin' what with all these new orders…. California too—she's comin' in strong. Now they're worried about not havin' enough weavers! Can y' believe? We get great news like this and new worries start up! Anyway Derick Murray's gettin' some kind of appren
tice scheme for new younger weavers so that should help. And last time a' saw him—a week or so ago—he was actually laughin'! Derick laughin'—high as a kite he was! Haven't seen that for a long time. Anyway, to sum it all up—it looks like we're off the cusp for now and rollin' along the right track—at last—at long last! Och, yes, it's wonderful—our tweed is finally coming back!”

And so it goes—a little island, now our little island too—floating on into what could be a future of true “sustainable” balance, pride in its enduring traditions, and buoyant optimism.

And I can hear Roddy's toast: “Na' that's certainly something to drink to! Top 'em up David…
Slainte! and Ceud mile failte!”

Yes indeed. “Good health” to our island—and a “hundred thousand welcomes” to what could be a fine “future of abundance” here.

by Bill Lawson, author of
Harris in History and Legend

T
HE ISLE OF HARRIS, IN
the Western Isles of Scotland, is an island of paradoxes.

It is an island, yet it is not an island, being joined by land to the larger Isle of Lewis—though separated by mountains.

It is an island whose east coast is an incredible terrain of rock-strewn wastes—and whose west coast boasts some of the finest sandy beaches in the world.

It is an island on the same latitude as Estonia or Churchill on Hudson's Bay in Canada, yet we rarely see snow, except on the mountain tops.

It is an island of incredible bleakness in a winter storm, yet the spring and summer coverage of flowers on its
machair
—the Atlantic shore-lands—is a riot of color, and of perfume.

It is an island whose economy is probably at its lowest ebb, yet where there are expensive new houses being built all the time—though mainly by newcomers, for holiday and retirement homes.

It is an island where the young people have to leave, through lack of economic opportunity, to be replaced by people from all over the world, looking for peace and tranquillity.

It is an island whose culture is being eroded at a frightening pace by
the onslaught of modern communications technology and by the replacement of the indigenous people by newcomers, yet it is also a place where visitors come in numbers from all over the world to experience what is left of an older way of life.

It is an island world-famous for the Harris Tweed, yet there are dwindling numbers of weavers left here, and the tweed industry ricochets from crisis to crisis.

It is an island which by all economic measurements ought to be sunk in despondency and depression, and yet has a cheerfulness and ebullience which is a source of wonder to the visitor.

But it is also an island which, if it once gets a hold of you, will stay in your mind—an island which you will wish to visit again and again, to which you will return as to home.

What is the visitor to make of all these facets of the same island? Some come only in the summer, and see the island thronged with tourists, and enjoy summer weather on the beaches and coasts. Others come in the winter, and see an almost-empty island, buffeted by gales and drenched in rain. Some come to see the after-glow of a Celtic twilight, others to hear the Gaelic language in one of its last strongholds. Some come to see a land where virtually nothing has changed for centuries, others to witness the death-throes of a culture under the onslaught of modernity.

Only a few see the island in all its moods, all its weathers, the community in all its strengths and weaknesses. But it is those few who are truly in a position to write about the island as a whole.

David and Anne Yeadon have lived in Harris at all different times of year, in all seasons and in all weathers. They have lived under the shadow of the mountains of North Harris, and beside the sun-white beaches of the Atlantic coast of South Harris, and where they have not lived, they have visited. They have frequented pubs and hotels, they have made the tour of visitor places with the tourists, they have found quiet private places of their own, and above all, they have talked to people—in shops, at the road-side, as guests in their own home, where David is an excellent host, and an excellent chef!

David's understanding of the world and its remote places has been honed by years of writing travel books and articles for
National Geographic
and many other magazines, and he has already published a book on the different aspects of a year spent in Basilicata in Southern Italy. It is of great interest to see what he makes of Harris and its paradoxes—and what Harris made of him!