Seasons on Harris (5 page)

“Listen—when global warming really hits,” predicted one weather-conscious outsider, “they say we might even lose the Gulf Stream—and the winds!”

Anne and I decided to celebrate the current climatic quirks of Harris and all its seasonal uncertainties and just enjoy each fickle day to the full.

Gearrannan Blackhouse Village

F
IRST WE HAD TO FIND
an island home. A good place to live.

I'm still not exactly sure what it was about Clisham Cottage in the village of Ardhasaig on the west coast of Harris, four miles or so north of Tarbert, that made us impulsively pick up the phone in New York and call the MacAskill family, owners of the place.

In front of us on my studio table we had this colorful brochure of self-catering cottages on the island, each with a photograph and listing of key features. The initial entry for Clisham Cottage read: “A superbly appointed cottage in a beautiful coastal position overshadowed by dramatic mountains.”

Appealing, of course, but so were the other fifty or so offering such enticements as “Short drive from the cleanest beaches in Europe; a truly secluded traditional Hebridean retreat; thatched black house–style cottage in breathtaking scenery; a delightful water's edge escape…”

We couldn't even remember the village of Ardhasaig from our first visit. Of course, “village” is more of a legal than aesthetic term here. On the islands they tend to be rather straggly, croft-by-croft affairs with none of the cozy cohesion of English equivalents.

Anyway, we called, lured by some indefinable enticement ghosting behind the brief lines in the brochure.

“Hello, good afternoon. This is Dondy MacAskill speakin'. How may I help ye, please?”

Lovely female voice. Mellow, young, musical, and with an enticing Scottish lilt that possessed the mellifluousness of a Robbie Burns poem coupled with the freshness of ocean breezes. Well—that's perhaps over-doing it a bit. But it was certainly a very friendly voice.

“Hello—did you say ‘Dondy'?” I kind of mumbled. “I don't think I've heard that name before…”

There was a warm chuckle at the other end. “Well, now—it's really Donalda…but everyone calls me Dondy. So, how can I help ye?”

“Ah—Donalda…that's a new one for me too.”

Anne was sitting beside me, giving me one of those “so what's happening?” looks. She's much better focusing on the nub of things. I tend to get distracted by details. Left to my own devices, I'd possibly be prattling on for ages about the weather, or the latest world political scandals, or anything other than the original reason for the call.

“Yes?”

“Er…oh, I'm sorry. Listen, I was just calling about that cottage of yours—Clisham—and I wondered…”

With Anne prompting me by scribbling questions on the notepad by the phone, I finally managed to get a pretty comprehensive overview of what was on offer, cost, availability, and all those other vital details required for intelligent decision making.

Except I'd already made
my
decision. As soon as I heard Dondy's voice and name. Of course that's not quite the way I put it to Anne when I finally replaced the receiver. “Well,” I began in a tone that I hoped suggested careful research and a rational approach to house selection, “I think generally it seems fine. There are three bedrooms…”

Anne watched me with that curiously bemused smile of hers that tells me she's way ahead of me and my ramblings.

“You like her, don't you?”

“Who?”

“This…person…on the other end of the phone.”

“Donalda—well actually her name's Dondy—apparently that's what they call her. And…yes, well, she sounds nice…but that's not the point. She says the views there are fantastic—way across a loch and the Harris mountains…and…”

“And you've already decided you want it?”

“Why don't you let me finish? Dondy says her father owns a small shop right across the road and—”

“Sounds fine. Let's do it!”

“But darling, I still haven't finished—”

“It's okay,” Anne said impatiently, “just book it!”

It's hopeless trying to deal with this kind of dialogue in a rational manner. My wife had already, as she invariably does, perceived the heart of the matter and made the only possible decision under the circumstances.

“Oh…okay. If you really think it'll be what you—”

Anne gave me that bemused smile again, along with a big hug, and went off to make a pot of tea.

And so Clisham Cottage was booked, sight unseen, but with all the intuitions intact. Well—my intuitions, at least. And all Anne's feminine intuitions about my intuitions…Ah, isn't marriage wonderful?

 

C
LISHAM COTTAGE WAS PERFECT FOR US
and our occasionally rather lazy dispositions. Anywhere else on the island we'd have to travel miles for staple groceries, newspapers, wine, or anything else necessary in the course of daily life. But here we had it all at the MacAskill store and gas station directly across the road, brimming with island delights as well as all those oh-so-British oddities: mushy peas, treacle sponges, Marmite and Bovril, HP Sauce, jars of Colman's delicious mint sauce for the Harris lamb we hoped to enjoy, a tempting array of British and Scottish cheeses, home-cured bacon, Branston pickle and pickled onions, kippers (smoked herring), and even tiny Christmas puddings slowly marinated in rum and brown sugar and ready to be served with golden custard and Devon clotted cream. Plus an array of all those seasonal game specialties too, such as local venison, grouse, partridge, salmon, and shellfish.

The cottage itself was perched on a bluff just below the road and contained three good-sized double bedrooms, two elegant bathrooms, and a large L-shaped living room/dining room/kitchen with a broad sweep of windows overlooking that vista we had hoped and prayed for
out across the Atlantic (with our own local salmon farm) and that dramatically wild wall of the North Harris hills. A brief glimpse of the land immediately below the cottage suggested merely an overgrown slope rolling down to the loch of ancient moors, marsh-dappled with spikey tussocks and errant streams tumbling between outcrops of that ancient bedrock. But as we looked closer we noticed rubble-strewn hummocks, bulges, and indentations. And, as we walked the land we realized we were treading on the remnants of old massive-walled black houses, overgrown lazybeds once richly fertilized by kelp from the bay and meticulously cultivated for grain, potato, and turnips, and the foundations of circular sheep fanks—all the ancient accoutrements of the traditional crofting life here.

Immediately adjacent to the cottage was the MacAskill family home, a large Victorian-style mansion well buffered from the strong Atlantic winds by a dense cluster of trees. And, to add occasional gourmet splurges to what we intended to be our simple island lifestyle, there was the recently opened Ardhasaig House, the MacAskills' small six-room hotel, a hundred yards or so down across the steep sheep pastures and already the recipient of glowing gastronomic reviews in travel guides and magazines.

Roddy MacAskill, the seventy-one-year-old patriarch of the family, was a small, stocky man with a mischievous gleam in his eye and a sly smile that suggested someone who had gained great satisfaction from creating his small empire of store, self-catering cottages, hotel, transport business, and rock quarry back in the Harris hills off the Stornoway Road. He greeted Anne and me with a warmth and
friendliness that we'd not expected quite so soon on an island renowned for its social reticence and occasional indifference (even antagonism) to “outsiders.”

Roddy MacAskill

Within minutes of our arrival, we were sitting comfortably in his lounge with Joan, his wife of forty years, whose twinkling smile and warmth made us feel part of the family from the moment we entered. Of course her rapid production of a tea tray laden with her home-baked shortbread, bannock cakes, and cookies, and Roddy's insistence that “a wee dram” (how familiar that phrase became in the months ahead!) may go down well too, created a mood of benevolent bonhomie that became a permanent delight of our friendship.

The only problem on that occasion, for me at least, was the dram-drinking ritual. Had it been vodka or rum or sherry or brandy or just about any other libation of choice, everything would have been fine. But unfortunately—and inevitably—it was the time-honored tipple of
usquebaugh
—fine blended Scottish whisky—“or a wee fifteen-year-old malt, if y'd prefer…,” said Roddy, wafting a bottle of highly regarded Macallan in front of us.

Deep down somewhere I think I'd dreaded this moment. For reasons far too embarrassing and revealing to explain, Highland whisky was my psychological and physiological nemesis in the arena of alcoholic delights.

Well, I thought, I'm not going to spoil our first get-together with our hosts, so if I keep eating Joan's cookies, maybe they'll disguise the taste of this nefarious stuff and I'll bluff my way through without any social faux pas.

And strangely enough (with Anne, who was fully aware of my aversion, watching me nervously), it seemed to work. The stuff didn't taste as bad as I'd expected. In fact, all in all, it was rather an enticing experience.

“
Ceud mile failte
,” toasted Roddy.

“And you too,” we responded, having no idea what he'd just said.

“It's an old Gaelic greeting—‘wishing you a hundred thousand welcomes.'”

“Ah well,” Anne chuckled, “then it's definitely ‘and to you too'!”

Roddy laughed. “Drink up! I've got a really special blend I'd like you to taste.” Fortunately at that point in the proceedings the door opened
and in walked the rest of the family in the form of the MacAskills' three adult offspring: Katie, the cuddly, beaming-faced manager and chef-supreme at the hotel; David, the handsome, worldly-wise, off-island entrepreneur in the IT business, and—at last!—the lovely lady Dondy herself, whose mellifluous vocal lilt had lured us (me) to Clisham Cottage in the first place.

It was a most memorable evening, which—to our surprise and delight—included a splendid impromptu dinner prepared by Katie (“Well, actually,” she modestly and blushingly admitted, “it's mainly leftovers from tonight's dinner for the guests…”).

And of course it also became our first on-island indoctrination session into the ways of the
Hearaich
, the long, convoluted Harris history, and, most touching of all, the love that the multigenerational locals have for their beautiful wild island.

Roddy's pride in particular revealed itself in many ways, but most notably when he spoke the Gaelic version of what he called “our national anthem of sorts.” (“I'll not be singin' this—it's na one o' my finer talents!”)

The sounds of the words alone were moving in their intensity, and when he offered a rough translation—“Y'canna really translate Gaelic, y'lose too much o' the spirit”—we understood why:

When he was finished, Roddy smiled a little sheepishly, cocked his head in a delightfully mischievous manner, looked away, and adjusted his tie (we realized much later during our residence here that Roddy was rarely without his tie, no matter how casual the occasion). At that moment I sensed that beneath his aw-shucks demeanor lay a family his
tory, thick and deep as the Harris peat bogs: layer upon layer of clan loyalties and feuds, famines, crofter clearances, convoluted disputes over land rights and religious principles—the birthright of so many of the people here. He was Roddy, the generous, smiling man we were learning to like—but he was also a MacAskill, one of many generations, and everyone who knew him also sensed this vast genealogical jigsaw puzzle of Highland and island history and heritage.

As we were saying our farewells, Roddy chuckled: “Well—you two've certainly chosen a fine place for your book.
House and Garden
magazine just put the Outer Hebrides near the top of its ‘Best Ten Island Destinations in the World' list!”

We finally rolled into bed much, much later than we'd intended, and together, propped on pillows, we watched a gloriously silver full moon move slowly over the loch and the high black hills.

“This is just…perfect,” murmured Anne sleepily with maybe just a scintilla of a whisky slur. “We couldn't have wished for a better island home…and family.”

 

From what I remember, the following day was a DDD—a Decadently Do-Nothing Day. Too many things had happened too quickly. We were more tired—albeit pleasantly tired—than we realized. So we did what we occasionally do in our odd little lives: we pick a day with nothing much on the endless lists of things to do—and do nothing. Except watch and wonder and mentally record the serendipitous ebbs and flows of tiny events and happenings and…well, anything else we care to notice, such as: