After a morning spent looking around the shops of Portree, we drove to Uig and took the ninety minute ferry to Tarbert on Harris. Harris is one half of the island of Lewis and Harris, just one of fifteen populated islands in the Outer Hebrides. As the ferry neared the dock, the land on either side of the boat loomed large in verdant green, dotted with the occasional isloated dwelling. The raw beauty of this outlying island chain was at once apparent.
Rather than head straight for Stornoway, our planned resting place for the night, we instead headed south on Harris, our sights set on a beautiful sandy beach, just outside of Seilebost. It had been a long day, with little of interest for the children, so this was a reward for their patience.
We spent a long time on the beach, so when we eventually left, we had to make tempo to Stornoway. It was immediately obvious that we were in a far-flung community of the British Isles, because place names on road signs were primarily in Gaelic. Sometimes, the English equivalent would be written below the Gaelic in smaller print, but very often, the Gaelic would be the only version on the sign.
So, if you’re going to Stornoway, it helps to know that this is Steòrnabhagh in Gaelic. Similarly, Tarbert’s Gaelic name is An Tairbeart.
The drive north across first Harris and then Lewis was unbelievably beautiful. After the complimentary things I have said about the other Scottish islands, I should, perhaps, downgrade all of my previous statements by a notch or two, in order to introduce new marks on the scale to represent my feelings about Lewis and Harris. I have no hesitation in stating that this region is home to what is, for me, at least, by far the most appealing scenery of the holiday so far.
The thing is, in many senses, Lewis isn’t as attractive as, say, Mull. It doesn’t, for example, have a picturesque town like Tobermory. Stornoway’s natural harbour is pretty enough, but the town itself is rather drab. Much of it looks like a rural Icelandic town. Here as there, everything is built to purely practical considerations. Seemingly, aesthetic indulgence is deemed inappropriate.
Perhaps that’s because the people here are notoriously conservative. The sabbath is still held sacred around these parts, perhaps its last bastion in the UK. Delivery of Sunday papers is a relatively recent phenomenon and even Sunday ferry service between the islands opened just a few years ago to protests from the islanders, who saw this violation of the sabbath as the thin end of the wedge. They were probably right, as there’s now also a garage in Stornoway that will sell you a tank of petrol on Sunday, much to the chagrin of the pious islanders. Even the churches here disallow choirs and organ music: that’s how conservative these communities are.
Anyway, none of that matters to me. I like a picturesque town as much as the next person, but I can also turn a blind eye to drab architecture. It’s the land that interests me, what Mother Nature hath wrought. The marks left on the land by mankind are of less interest. The austerity of the architecture does, however, serve as a useful reminder that the people who live here value function over form, content over style. Purpose takes precedence over frivolity, as it should.
Getting back to the point, it was a very enjoyable drive today in good weather, considerably better than the weather we left behind on Skye.
Unfortunately, we rather came a cropper when we arrived at our accommodation for the night. As the door to the guesthouse we had booked was opened, plumes of blue cigarette smoke emanated from within. Ugh.
I persevered and went upstairs with the proprietor to view the room we had reserved. It was barely large enough to swing a cat or, indeed, a small boy by the name of Lucas.
After a quick discussion with Sarah, who was still in the car holding a sleeping Lukie, we decided to drive back into town and try to secure something better.
As we left, I had a sinking feeling in my stomach. Stornoway had been by far the hardest of the towns on our itinerary in which to book accommodation. If it had taken a great many phone calls to find someone who could put us up for four nights three weeks ago, how much harder was it going to be now?
We drove around to a few of the hotels in town, but pained expressions greeted me at every enquiry I made. The helpful receptionists kindly called around all of the other hotels and B&Bs in town, but it was hopeless: every bed in town appeared to be spoken for.
The prospect of forcing the children to spend the night in a tiny room that reeked of cigarette smoke filled me with dread. We drove along Cromwell Street and I stopped in at the local tourist office, which appeared to be shut, with a member of staff hoovering the floor at the end of the day.
Luckily, despite appearances, the office was still open and the man with the hoover turned out to be a very helpful gent who listened to our plight and seemed hopeful of being able to help. He made it immediately clear, however, that there would be no chance whatsoever of finding a room in Stornoway.
He called a couple of numbers and quickly managed to find us a room for the night in a small B&B in the village of Barvas (Barabhas), about a 20 minute drive north-west of Stornoway. I jumped at the offer. It was only for one night, but getting a roof over our head for tonight was my immediate consideration. We’d tackle the other three nights on the island in due course.
After a dinner during which our stress levels slowly returned to somewhere close to normal, we drove out to Barvas, a nondescript little place full of small concrete houses finished with pebbledash.
As luck would have it, we fell on our feet: our guesthouse turned out to be very nice. We received a warm welcome from the proprietor, a lovely old Gaelic-speaking lady called Kristeen Macdonald (they’re all called Macdonald around here – we could be related), and found ourselves staying in a spacious room in her house, which she shared with a dog called Max and a very friendly cat whose name I didn’t catch. Lucas was very taken with both.
We slept soundly, relieved and grateful that things had worked out for us. We’ve never abandoned booked accommodation like that before, but I wasn’t going to have my children (or their parents) breathing fag smoke and stinking like a dirty ashtray.
This morning, I was treated to a home-cooked full Scottish breakfast. I initially declined the black pudding, but this was met with some disdain and the suggestion that “a big man” like me ought to be able to handle it. Not wanting to fall out of favour with a local lass, even one old enough to be my grandmother, I buckled and agreed to have the black pudding added to my plate. I was assured that I would not regret this, since the article in question was Stornoway black pudding, absolutely the best!
I have to say, when it turned up, it did taste better than the few portions of black pudding I’ve previously eaten. I still wouldn’t actually order the stuff, but it did taste quite good.
After breakfast, I started to ring around hotels and guesthouses in the hope of finding accommodation for the next three nights. Amazingly, I hit the jackpot on my first call and found a hotel in Stornoway that could offer us a family room for the full three nights. I wasted no time in reserving it.
We were now free to start our day and, as luck would have it, having slept in Barvas meant that we now had a head start on the day, as we would have been heading out this way, anyway.
Today has seen us drive all around the north of Lewis, all the way out to the beach at Port of Ness, to the arse-clenchingly high sea cliffs upon which stands the lighthouse at the Butt of Lewis (no doubt an amusing name to any Yanks reading), down to the ponderous standing stones of Callanish (Calanais), out to the vast, expansive beach at Ardroil, around the scenic loop that takes in a number of picturesque villages, including Kneep (Cnip), and finally back to Stornoway.
This circuitous route took us a good 200 km today, perhaps our longest drive since going from Newcastle to Edinburgh on the first day of the holiday.
BBC Radio Scotland rarely leaves our car radio, although the children seem to prefer BBC Radio nan Gàidheal. Whenever this station plays fast, foot-stamping, headbanging cèilidh music (cèilidh is Gaelic for a right good knees-up), both Eloïse and Lucas coo and immediately start swinging from side to side and back and forth in their car seats. They both love music and it’s inspirational to watch how they are moved, quite literally, by it. During our last dinner on Skye, there was a cèilidh band playing in the pub in which we were eating and the children loved it. It served to heighten my awareness of my responsibility to expose them to as many different kinds of music as I possibly can.
I, myself, have been making quite a few musical discoveries around these parts and am looking forward to purchasing some CDs of artists hitherto unbeknownst to me. These islands are fertile grounds for good musicians.