It gives me
great pleasure to tell the tale of my recent return visit to Shawbost, Lewis. This
is my version of events. I didn’t manage to squeeze absolutely everything in,
because I want to save something for when I return in the future. Look out Shawbost,
that’s all I can say!
MONDAY
My Lewis
adventure got underway when I braved a spin over to Leven, in darkest Fife, to
pick up the Shawbost skiff kit. I’d been swithering about taking my van over on
the ferry but thought that if I did then I might as well arrive with a skiff.
Although my van’s not big, I brought Jenny Skylark into the world the same way,
so I know that if the sheets of ply are cut a certain way, then it all fits
in…eventually. I’d dragged Row Porty’s Calum along for a bit of help and this
turned out to be a shrewd idea when a timber lorry pitched up at Alec Jordan’s looking for assistance to offload 2 pallets of
wood. I’d recommend this one as a spectator
sport. Far easier than doing the lifting :-)
With the kit
loaded and the lorry unloaded, we headed to Alec J’s to see his latest form of
transport – a massive equine beast by the name of Blackie! Seriously, the man
has bought himself a horse and it’s a proper giant – neigh joke!
WEDNESDAY
After 2
sleepless nights worrying about my van disappearing, I awoke to find all was
well. I had a lovely drive to Ullapool in mostly sunshine and was blessed with
very few tractors, caravans or Sunday drivers sharing my road space. I arrived
at Ullapool in good time and in blazing sunshine. Doesn’t the sun always shine
in Ullapool? It struck me that the last time I saw this beach in daylight, it
was covered in a brightly coloured carpet of skiffs and skiffers and resonated
with the sound of cheering supporters. Today, it was calm and peaceful and I’m
delighted to report that my ferry crossing was too.
THURSDAY
Thursday was
the day I revealed all. Yes, I opened my van and let Shawbost see what a skiff
kit actually looks like. There was no time to waste and we eagerly unloaded it,
with some looking a bit perplexed that a glorified airfix kit could become a
beautiful boat – and it will.
Hard work done, we got back to find the neighbours had arrived. A right scruffy bunch at that.
They weren’t for wasting any time either and no sooner
had the boat arrived than in was making it way down to the beach to where it
belongs, the sea. There was a few rows out to the reef line and back, but it
was a lovely nite, so well worth it.
FRIDAY
Well, where
will I start? We all gathered outside the community centre first thing in the
morning and what a bonny bunch we were.
I’m going to
call this day ‘Tricky Friday’ because we were presented with so many fantastic
options that it was very tricky to choose between them. There was the choice of
a tour round the Harris Tweed Mill with the charismatic Ian Mackay, a guided
tour of the Arnol blackhouse by the very knowledgeable Angus Macleod, a tour of
the Norse Mills by local expert Dr Finlay Macleod, or an escorted row around
Bernera with Ian Macaulay senior. A
tricky choice indeed. I have decided
that 2014 will be my year of discovering new places in a skiff, so after much
deliberation, I opted to go rowing. This would have meant that we missed out on
the promise of a delicious lunch, but thanks to our thoughtful hosts, a giant
picnic of goodies accompanied us.
Here is a report of the trip from King Plod (so called because he leads the Saturday plod trips) himself, Andres, who has clearly swallowed a few adjectives in the writing of this;
“We
were able to row from Carloway over to Little Bernera, where we landed on a
pristine white sandy beach in a lagoon of clear turquoise water. We were lucky
to have one of the many Iain's on the Island to guide us with his wee 16' motor
boat. We followed him to another white sandy beach called Bosta, navigating
through a narrow gap between Great and Little Bernera islands, to arrive at the
mouth of a little river which cuts through an Iron Age settlement.
The
locals were fantastic, providing safety cover on the water, extra radios,
charts, and recommendations of places we would have never found, or dared row!
Ice Breaker did about 40 km plods on Friday and the biggest risk came from sunburn! “
Ice Breaker did about 40 km plods on Friday and the biggest risk came from sunburn! “
***Thanks, King Plod for that report and hopefully lover of all things ancient, Cathy Hooper will add a wee bit about the trip to the Norse Mill and the Arnol Blackhouse , maybe Jude will weave a tale about the Tweed Mill and who will enlighten us about fire engines and hose reels???? .***
By way of a sneak preview, I do know that at the blackhouse, Angus Macleod, recounted the tale of how he had been cured of the king’s evil by a 7th son with a sixpence and Dr Finlay Macleod, an expert in Norse Mills, told of mill stone wars in days gone by! Ouch! they’re heavy those things.
Meanwhile,
back to the rowers who came off the water, overflowing with talk of white
sands, turquoise seas and hairy caterpillars.
News reached
us that there was some “soup left over from lunchtime” at the Community Hall
where lovely ladies had been putting on a spread for the cultural half of our
group. We may have expected the tail-end of a pot of soup, having already been
treated to a picnic. Instead, we were treated to a gourmet sit down affair with
neatly laid tables and served by smiling hostesses. The soup was perfect and as
for the sandwiches, we’re not talking cheese and branston, more like cooked
salmon and prawns and not a bit of sand in sight. A nice change.
Lunch number
2 over and there was still action to be packed in. Ian Mackay decided that
despite a row and bellies full of food, it would be possible to squeeze a bit
of labour out of us and we headed off to cut some peat. The implement used to
cut peat looks like a cross between a pick-axe, a sythe and …a golf club! I
believe its official name is a tairsgear. Whatever its name is, it’s sharp and
if you take your eyes off it for a second, you could easily part company with
your foot.
The peat is
incredibly moist, so liberating a slab of it is easy peasy, but once cut, it’s
heavy to lift and tricky to place on the ground in one piece. It’s quite hard
work, but I was proud of the 6 that I cut. That would at least get a fire
started eh? It’s free fuel, but a long process to get there. The slabs need to
dry out, with different methods of stacking them favoured. When they dry, they
shrink to about a quarter of the size, so the 6 I’d cut wouldn’t make much of a
dent in the fuel pile.
We left the
peat sunning itself and headed off to explore the Norse Mill and Kilns with the
Ian Mackay who has so many roles it’s a wonder he knows who he is. These Iron
Age thatched roof constructions are all over. They are powered by water so were
built where the water was and there is no shortage of it in Shawbost.
SATURDAY
After being
blessed with sunshine, we woke up to a dry, but overcast day. A cloud of
uncertainty was hanging over things because as we began to gather at the
lochside, we were unsure how many people, or if indeed any, would turn up to
experience the magic of skiffing for themselves. What happened in the hours
that followed was just that – magic! To
kick off the magic, An Eathar got presented with a generous cheque to get their
club underway.
We weren’t alone in the water, we had Ullapool and Stornoway for company and just as well. The visitors trickled in and a wave of interest built up from people all shapes, sizes and ages, but mostly called Ian and with surnames starting with Mc, Mac or simply M.
These sessions showed just how easily
people can take to rowing as everyone picked it up pretty quickly. A cheer went
up when our first 80 year old climbed in the boat. Calum Macdonald, rowed for the
first time across the loch he’d looked out on for the best part of his life.
There were boat-loads of tiny kids rowing next to their parents and
boat-loads of tiny kids showing their parents how to do it. We had crazy races,
with mixed up crews, battling their way across the loch to the sound of a
cheering crowd. We had laughter and we had smiles. In total, Murdo reckoned
we’d taken out at least 69 people.
All around, I heard snippets of conversations between
people who knew each other, people who were meeting for the first time and
people who were meeting pals they hadn’t seen for a while. And that, my friends
is the magic of Scottish coastal rowing and the St Ayles skiff. Treasure it.
I’m quite certain we would have been rowing until dark, but a ceilidh was calling, so boats were put to bed and gladrags were put on.
Here’s a question. How many squeeze boxes can you squeeze into a ceilidh? There were loads, all of them beautifully played, by the Danns An Rathad and the Ness Melodian band. We heard from a young lad who sang with his guitar and several singers who sang unaccompanied and silenced the room.
As the night drew to a close, I felt a tremendous sense of warmth. Perhaps that was due to the prize giving for the race winners who proudly received their trophies of a slab of local peat festooned in gold.
On the way
home, there was a detour to check up on Uncle Alec and to keep him company as
he enjoyed a whisky. It would have been rude not to. Murdo and Ian McTiger /
MacTiger or maybe McArthur J had found themselves a
song book and insisted on making us listen to them. Whilst there, Uncle Alec
scolded me for “putting him on the world wide web” following the blog of my
last trip, so for those of you who missed that, here he is again!
SUNDAY
Sunday in
Shawbost was a very different experience to what we are used to. We had beautiful
sunshine, crystal waters, a boat eager to explore….however, Sunday is a day of
rest, even for boats.
The Western Isles is fiercely clinging onto its tradition of upholding the Sabbath. As a 24/7 city dweller, it’s easy to knock this, but people here work hard, juggling several jobs. One of my hosts, Ian Mackay for example, is a weaver, fireman, sheep farmer, tour guide and all round charmer… So, a day of enforced recovery and a bit of time to reflect seems no bad thing.
There were some casual conversations about attending the local church, partly to respect local tradition, but also to hear the Gaelic psalm singing. In the end, 14 of us pitched up and filled two rows.
The service was delivered by a man referred to on the Order of Service simply as ‘The Minister’ and all credit to him as he welcomed us in English and invited us to be at ease, which was a nice gesture.
‘The Minister’ was positioned high up. Beneath him were 4 austere looking gentlemen in suits, collar and tie, one of whom I was to learn was the precenter. This derives from the Latin meaning "the one who sings before" (thanks Wikipedia!). We were fortunate to experience the Gaelic psalm singing, because it is quite unique. The precenter puts out a line of the psalm in quite a warbling way and the congregation follow. However, they do so at different stages and with varying levels of harmony etc. All I can say is don’t try this at home because it must take practice and you’d clear the streets. The effect is a multi-layered, textured thing, which I found to be quite hypnotic and my toes were never tempted to tap. This type of singing started life as a call and response affair, probably as a result of literacy not being widespread in days gone by. Anyway, it was all part of the experience and I think that the friends we’d made over the previous days were pleased that we had joined them.
It was a beautiful day and we wanted to make good use of
it so a plan of sorts was launched to climb, An Cliseam, the highest mountain at 799m. Now, it’s a well known fact that cats can’t be herded
and neither it seems can skiffers. We left in a convoy of 3 (or was it 4
?) cars, drove for a bit, spotted big black rain clouds over our mountain,
decided to head to Harris instead. Then we discovered that we didn’t have
enough fuel and would need to find some on a Sunday, then we got fuel, but
discovered we’d lost the other cars. Then we decided to go and check out the
Broch….are you following this?
The Broch was bathed in sunshine, so good call. Brochs, are made by concentric stone walls fastened together with galleries at different heights and interlinking staircases. So, in theory, they’re a bit like an iron age version of a tenement, which has really stood the test of time.
Leaving the
tenement behind, we headed to a distillery for our Sunday lunch. Actually, it
was a ruin of an illicit still which we stumbled upon on our coastal walk from
Gearrannan to Dail Mor. We stopped to have a picnic and take in the views when
we spotted some of our group who we’d tried to shake off in the car chase
earlier and they joined us for what was a very idyllic afternoon. The cliffs
and sheer drops make for an exhilarating and magnificent walk.
Time was
running out for us in Shawbost, with the majority of the group having to think
about heading home. Although we were scattered across the island, we made real
attempts to do things together, or at least re-group. The final gesture to
illustrate that was the household of Bill and his 3 quines, Margaret, MC and
Barbara who hosted a get together to use up all their provisions. It was
delicious.
As I said at
the start, way back on Monday, this is my summary of the trip. Others will have
grand stories of their own and I very much hope that they share them. It’s
impossible to thank everybody individually without missing someone out, but
here are a few mentions. Thank you Murdo for kicking this whole thing off.
Thank you Andres for towing Ice Breaker and for leading the plod. Thank you Sean
for buying dry trousers and standing all day in the water testing them out. Thank you to everyone from Row Porty who came
on this trip and made it special and thanks to Max and Murdo for capturing it
in pictures.
Thank you Shawbosters
for all the time and generosity you gave us, the effort you put in and the new
knowledge and friendships we left with. Thank you for welcoming and getting
entwined with us all. You have very good taste! :-)
Lastly, I’d
like to thank my beautiful hosts, Annie, Ian and Bamber Mackay for everything
from the minute I arrived to the minute I left - and for accepting defeat, so
graciously, in the Portobello versus Stornoway black pudding challenge. Admit
it, the Porty pudding rocked!
I asked Murdo how I should end this story and he said with a song. I have no idea what it means and it will possibly be the thing that gets me into trouble, but here it is. Gulp!
