Vacations & Travel
Autumn 2004

Story by Lee Mylne

The smell of peat smoke hangs in my hair for hours and in my coat for days. In Scotland’s Western Highlands it’s a pungent, evocative reminder of traditions that survive in this ancient place. There are many tall tales still told around a peat fire.

From Inverness, the “capital of the Highlands”, I’ve taken narrow winding country roads to the wild, rugged coastline of the Western Highlands.

Crossing the breadth of the Highlands, there are a myriad of diversions. I chose the road to the seaside village of Gairloch, the heartland of the Mackenzie clan for more than 500 years.

It’s a spectacular drive, but suddenly cresting a hill to find the magnificent sweep of Glen Docherty before you is literally breathtaking. From the top of the glen, 804 feet above sea level, the vista takes in Loch Maree lying at the bottom of the mountains – Meall a’Ghiubhais and Beinn Eighe – and the distant sea.

In Gairloch, I settle in at an old coaching inn overlooking the narrow Flowerdale River, which snakes in from the sea and under an old stone footbridge.

Gairloch was founded by Norwegian and Danish traders in the late 13th century. Today it is a popular summertime seaside town and fishing port, made up of several small settlements and boasting a wide sandy beach. It has several hotels and restaurants, a small museum, a nine-hole golf course and an old churchyard running down to the dunes.

From the beach and the village, there are views to the Isles of Skye, Rona, Raasay, the Outer Hebrides and theTorridon mountains. At The Free Church, with its stained glass rose window overlooking the sea, services are in Gaelic, pronounced “garlic” in these parts.

The Gairloch Museum, housed in an old farmhouse, has an interesting array of local artefacts including a lighthouse lantern, illicit whiskey still, reproduction crofter’s cottage and exhibitions on fishing, farming, dyeing and spinning as well as ancient relics including a Pictish stone fish carving.

Beyond Gairloch is a scattering of settlements with Norse names. Melvaig means “bay of bent grass” and Erradale is “gravel beach dale”, which just about exactly describes it. I sit in a field above the stony, windswept and deserted shoreline and watch black-faced sheep graze among the stone ruins of a crofter’s hut.

Three miles further, perched on cliffs overlooking the Outer Hebrides and The Minch, is Rua Reidh (pronounced “roo ray”) lighthouse. Built in 1912, the lighthouse still operates but since automation in 1985 the keeper’s house has been a guesthouse and hostel.

Walking is one of the solitary pleasures of the Highlands, and a stroll through the heather, following the sheep tracks, is just the way to spend a sunny afternoon. From Rua Reidh north, past the old stone jetty used until 1962 when road access came to the lighthouse, the coastline is dotted with spectacular “stac” rock formations, pounded by crashing seas.

About 60 miles further north, the port of Ullapool is the gateway to the Hebrides. With its whitewashed, grey-roofed houses, Ullapool was built by the British Fisheries Society in 1788 to house fishermen who hauled shoals of herring from the teeming waters of Loch Broom.

Within 50 years, the herring was fished out and the town dipped into depression. Today, however, it is a bustling little place again, with fishing boats, ferries and lots of tourists. In the harbour, there’s a red and white fishing boat called Nordic Prince, another reminder of the origins of the people who live here.

The ferry crosses to Stornoway on the Isle of Lewis, once an important port for Scandinavian and French shipping.

There are two major reasons to visit Lewis: the Arnol Blackhouse and the amazing Callanish Stones.

A visit to the blackhouse is like stepping back in time. Built in the crofting village of Arnol in 1885 and occupied until 1964, it is one of the few remaining examples of the traditional stone cottage of the Hebrides, and shows how the people of Lewis adapted to change.

The house has electric lights and changes to tradition were made when modern hygiene standards were enforced.

Stoop through the low doorway into a dimly lit passage way and you’ll find one side of the house leads to the family’s living room and the other to the barn, all under one roof.

“It may seem primeval and dirty, but it is not at all,” says my guide, Lewis-man Donald Morrison.

The heart of life in a blackhouse is the fire, which burns in the middle of the kitchen floor, without a fireplace or chimney. The smell of peat smoke later carried with it a new meaning.

“When people started moving into new houses, the children who lived in the blackhouses found there was a stigma attached to it,” says Donald. “When they went to school, the others could tell by the smell of peat smoke that they still lived in a blackhouse.”

The new “white” houses that sprang up in the 1920s are a feature of the island. They are limestone washed, stark against the brown of the rolling heather moors.

There’s a feeling of something missing on Lewis and eventually I realise what it is: there are no trees. It’s wild, windswept and barren.

Lack of trees is an important factor in the design of the blackhouses. Timber was highly prized, and the smoke from the central fire in the house coated the wood with a tar preservative.

“When crofters were cleared off the land, they were allowed to take the timber for their house with them,” explains Donald. “So they still had a roof over their head.”

Furniture is made of driftwood, and in the rafters of the Arnol blackhouse there is the clear outline of a boat hull and oars.

Low seats surround the fire, keeping their occupants below the smoke level. A family of six or seven children occupied two rooms – the other a bedroom with curtained “box beds”.

Manure – both human and animal – was sluiced outside from the barn. It was these kind of living arrangements which ultimately saw the demise of blackhouse living.

Across the road are the remains of another blackhouse. It is roofless and stands next to a white house, also open to the public. The same family owned both houses.

“They moved back to the blackhouse because the noise of the wind was not the same, and they could not get used to it,” Donald says. “They stayed here until 1976.”

Within months of chimneys being installed, the blackhouses were collapsing as the timbers rotted without the preservative powers of the smoke. A way of life was doomed, but by the time I leave I can easily understand why Historic Scotland has given this modest place the same rating as Edinburgh Castle.

Another of the treasures of Lewis is at Callanish, where a circle of stones stands above Loch Ceann Hulavig. The Standing Stones of Callanish are regarded second only to Stonehenge in importance – and are vastly more eerie.

When I arrive at Callanish, I am the only visitor to the 5000-year old stones, revealed less than 150 years ago when the peat bogs covering the land were cleared.

An avenue draws me into the heart of the circle. It’s irresistible, despite the “please stay on the path” signs. The circle is made up of 13 tall slender stones. In the middle is another stone, the tallest at almost 5 metres. Four incomplete avenues lead away.

Nobody knows what they were for, why they were built, or what happened to the people who built them. There is endless speculation, which adds to their mystery.

Were they formed in the shape of the Celtic cross? Erected to look like giants to frighten invaders? Or used by ancient astronomers? The visitor centre, cleverly hidden behind a hill, offers some theories and an interesting history, but nobody really knows.

Local stories abound: that when giants of old who lived on the island refused to be Christianised, St.Kieran turned them to stone; or that when the sun rose on midsummer morning, the 'shining one' walked along the stone avenue, his arrival heralded by the cuckoo's call.

In the same area there are several other stone circles, but I’m content with one.

As I prepare to leave Lewis, local man John Russell stops me. “Let me tell you a wee story before you go…there’s something else you should see,” he says.

It’s a ancient story of family feuding, like so many in Scotland, and takes me to Dun Carloway, a well-preserved Iron Age broch or fortified house.
A path leads up to the circular broch, overlooking the village of Carloway. The tallest part still stands nearly seven metres high, but the other side has crumbled. I stoop to enter the small inner courtyard and wonder what it was like for the cattle-rustling Morrisons who sought refuge here in the 1500s from the vengeful Donald Cam MacAulay who – depending on which story you believe – either smoked them out by throwing burning heather inside, or burnt them alive for their sins.
And as I leave, with stories and images dancing in my head, I’m wishing – no doubt like many before me – that I had more time to discover the secrets of Lewis.
TRAVEL FACTS

Getting there
Cathay Pacific flies to London via Hong Kong daily from Sydney and Melbourne, five times a week from Brisbane, four times from Cairns, three times from Perth and twice a week from Adelaide. For more details www.cathaypacific.com.au or toll free 131 747, or contact your local travel agent. British Airways flies from London’s Gatwick airport to Inverness daily, www.britishairways.com.
A car and passenger ferry runs from Ullapool to Stornoway on Lewis twice a day. The crossing takes about 2 hours and 40 minutes. It is operated by Caledonian MacBrayne Ferry Service, www.calmac.co.uk.

Where to stay
The Old Inn, at Gairloch is a three-star inn which was named 2003’s “Pub of the Year” for Scotland and Northern Ireland by the Automobile Association. www.theoldinn.co.uk,
Galson Farm Guest House, at South Galson on the west coast of the Isle of Lewis, twenty miles (32km) from Stornoway, is one of many B&Bs and guesthouses on Lewis. It doubles as the local post office. www.galsonfarm.freeserve.co.uk.

Further information
www.visitscotland.com
www.visitbritain.com;
Western Isles Tourist Board, Stornoway, stornowaytic@VisitTheHebrides.co.uk.