Postcard from the Hebrides: the remotest village in Britain (1986)
On the northeast coast of Harris, above a long loch looking out towards Skye, is the insignificant village of Reinigeadal[map]. Like many a Hebridean village it grew up as a self-sufficient fishing community cut off from the outside world. But unlike every other Hebridean village that's how it stayed, because nobody ever got round to building a road to connect it to the rest of the island. As late as the 1980s the only way in was by boat, or by yomping several miles over the moors. Residents started drifting away until there were only three employed men left, one of them Kenny MacKay the postman. Three times a week for 20 years, come rain, shine or tempest, he collected the mail from the village's postbox and set off to walk the twelve mile round trip to Tarbert.
And this is no easy stroll [map]. I walked the path in the opposite direction, starting in glorious sunshine from a tiny car park above East Loch Tarbert. First a steady ascent up the hillside to a pass (hmmm, pant, maybe I'm not quite as fit as I though I was) with stunning views from the summit across to distant peaks on the Scottish mainland. Then a steep zigzag descent (which must be a nightmare in the opposite direction) down to the deserted cove at Loch Trolomaraig [photo] and finally a scramble along the clifftops to Reinigeadal. The signpost said it had been 3½ miles, but with all the ups and downs it felt a lot lot further. After all this effort the village was something of a disappointment - the usual assortment of motley white buildings, nothing particularly special apart from their location [photo]. And by now it had started raining quite heavily, so the prospect of a three hour trudge back across the moors felt particularly underwhelming. Thankfully the European Union came to my rescue.
In 1986 the EU, or EEC as it was then, put up a £½ million grant to build a road connecting Reinigeadal to the rest of the island. The road didn't deliver best value, nor provide a positive cost benefit ratio, in fact it made no economic sense whatsoever. But six miles of single track tarmac laid across forbidding terrain brought a lifeline to the village which otherwise would have died away several years ago. And so it was that a kindly retired couple out walking on the hillside offered a welcome lift back to the other end of the footpath, along the road that shouldn't officially exist. The round-about drive was more like 15 miles in total but it was dry, and it was much quicker than the postman's walk would have been. Not all EU subsidies go to support French farmers or Latvian fishermen - sometimes they help to sustain a traditional way of life in the Outer Hebrides... for which my feet give due thanks.
Postcard from the Hebrides: the remotest village in Britain (1930)
For several centuries the tiny volcanic islands of St Kilda, 40 miles west of the Outer Hebrides, were home to the farthest-flung residents of the UK [map]. A hardy community of birdcatchers lived here on a 'gannet and eggs' diet, taking advantage of some of the largest seabirdcolonies in Western Europe. Usually the locals stayed on the islands munching puffins, but occasionally they travelled to the mainland and accidentally brought back diseases which wiped out half the resident population. By 1930 the 36 remaining inhabitants had had enough, and so willingly packed their bags and evacuated to start new lives on the mainland. Nowadays the National Trust for Scotland maintains a presence on St Kilda protecting the unique environment, and nobody eats the puffins any more.
One of my reasons for visiting the Outer Hebrides was to attempt to reach St Kilda for myself. It's not quite as impossible as it sounds, with severalboatowners offering trips and cruises out across the choppy waters of the North Atlantic. For £120 Angus from Kilda Cruises will even get you there and back in a day - except, as I discovered to my cost, all his seats get snapped up months in advance. Never mind, the weather last week turned out to be too wet and windy to run daily sailings anyway, so even a confirmed booking would have been a disappointment. Ah well, at least it gives me an excuse to return.
Turn to the back of your road atlas and you'll probably find a page, or half a page, devoted to the Outer Hebrides and various other outlying islands. There aren't a lot of roads up here, they're quite expensive to build across forbidding upland landscapes. And why go to the bother of building a proper road for a handful of motorists when you can cut costs and lay something rather narrower? Welcome to the single track road with passing places, a challenging highway that probably wasn't part of your driving test. They're not everywhere up here - all the A roads in Lewis are now double track - but try taking the main A859 south across Harris from Tarbert and you'll be watching out for oncoming traffic most of the way.
Driving on single track roads requires both consummate skill and unshakeable faith. For a start these roads are rarely straight, so you never quite know what might be around the next bend. Most unnerving are the blind summits - on any other road merely a hump, but here a rollercoaster climb into the unknown. Slow down... there almost certainly isn't anything coming the other way but you'd better be able to stop fast if there is. Passing places are generally located at fairly sensible intervals, although if you meet an oncoming vehicle somewhere inbetween you might have to reverse back rather further than you'd like. And it only takes one broken down van in the wrong place to bring traffic in both directions to an impenetrable standstill for several hours. Always remember to pull in to the left, never the right (I watched one particularly satisfying crash where two drivers both tried entering the passing place). And bad luck if you end up in a convoy of traffic which meets another convoy of traffic coming the other way - it can be a real challenge attempting to get everyone past with only limited spaces for overtaking. But this rarely happens. Normally you get the entire road to yourself for several minutes at a time, encouraging you to push ahead at 30mph, 40, 50, wheee 60... oh bugger! It is perhaps surprising that life expectancy amongst Highland motorists isn't considerably lower.
One of the finest (for which read scariest) single track roads in Scotland runs for twelve long miles along the western coast of Harris [details] [B887 map]. The road to Huisinis begins near the filling station at Aird Asaig, one of the first UK garages to charge more than a pound for a litre of petrol [photo]. The road begins innocently enough, past the ruin of an old whaling station, round the first headland and... good grief, there's a single lonely tennis court beside the road in the middle of absolutely nowhere! Several troublesome bends and blind summits follow, above hillsides you wouldn't want to accidentally tumble down. Then, after miles of moorland and the odd isolated cottage, you suddenly drive beneath a stone gate and enter... blimey, the front garden of AmhuinnsuidheCastle. The setting may be damned impressive but the occupants have to put up with tourists driving round the lawn directly past their front door. Maybe that's why the last owners (the Bulmers cider family) sold up for £4½ million - and the place is now let out for upmarket house parties.
At the end of the single track is the tiny hamlet of Huisinis. Rest your clutch foot by parking up beside the toilet block, then wander down to the charming sandy beach[photo]. From the rocks I watched as two oystercatchers shuttled back and forth pulling worms out of the sand to feed to their fluffy youngsters. And out there in the middle of bay... surely not... bloody hell yes... two telltale fins announced the presence of a pair of sharks! Across the headland, weather permitting, you can join a handful of sheep looking out towards the deserted island ofScarp. When this island was still inhabited (as late as 1970) the Post Office tried several different means of delivering letters, even including a failed experimental attempt at RocketMail. But if you've travelled this far there's no flying back. You've no alternative but to drive all the way back along the same twelve miles of single track road, back to some semblance of civilisation. Take care, won't you?
It doesn't get dark in the Hebrides in June. Not properly dark, anyway. I was quite taken aback on my first night to discover it was still broad daylight at 10pm. By eleven the local streetlamp had come on, but it really wasn't necessary. The sky had dimmed noticeably by half eleven, but you still couldn't call it dark. It was even possible to read outdoors at midnight (I checked by studying the Stannah stairlift advert at the back of my Radio Times). Half an hour later night had definitely arrived, but the horizon was still distinctly bright in places. I didn't stay up to watch the sun rise, but I'm guessing it didn't stay hidden for long. There's barely time enough to dream on a Hebridean midsummer night.
Stornoway lies at 58° north, just six degrees off the Arctic Circle, so all this extended daylight shouldn't have been too surprising. The late arrival of summer darkness is related not just to the high latitude but also to the time of (cue official astronomical term) "civil twilight". This is defined as the time after sunset when the centre of the Sun lies six degrees below the horizon (before which time outdoor activities are still possible without the need for artificial light). The midsummer sun may set in the Hebrides around 10:30pm, but 'civil twilight' doesn't officially arrive until much later, around midnight. Then it's a mere three hours before the sky starts getting light again, making the nights seem much shorter than they should. You can check out civil twilight times wherever you live here (be patient), or just scan down my solstice summary table below...
Duration of the shortest night, June 21 2006 (all times BST)
Forget Stonehenge. A much better place to celebrate this morning's summer solstice is thestonecircleatCallanish on the north-west coast of Lewis [photos]. This is one of the largest megalithic sites in Britain, dating back to approximately 2600BC (making it even older than Stonehenge). Several smaller circles are scattered around the surrounding mooorland, but the main feature is a ring of 13 tall monoliths at the centre of two intersecting avenues of standing stones. Legend tells that "the shining one" walks amongst the stones on midsummer's dawn, his arrival heralded by the cuckoo's call. If you're up early enough, check out the webcam and see for yourself.
A very rare lunaralignment is visible at Callanish every 19 years when the moon appears especially low in the sky. First the moon rises over the hills to the southeast [photo], whose curvaceous silhouette is said to resemble a sleeping woman [what doyou think?]. Viewed from the main avenue the moon then skims and dips below the southern horizon before reappearing directly behind the central stones. Alas I arrived at the stones the day after the special full moon, missing the phenomenon by approximately 12 hours. Ah well. Apparently it's almost as spectacular in mid-July, but then you'll have to wait until 2025 for another dose of spiritual moonshine. [full details] [report]
The close proximity of this celestial event probably explained the mini campsite of toking pagans I observed tented up on the hillside nearby. It was more disturbing to discover cheap tealights laid out behind some of the stones - clearly offerings to the great Norse god Ikea. Larger numbers of people were keeping warm and dry inside the tasteful visitor centre at the foot of the hill, home to a small exhibition and a well-attended cafe. But the encroaching tourist trail means that the stones of Callanish are at increasing risk from human erosion. Visitors are urged to keep to a perimeter path around the edge of the main circle, but few do. The humble camera is to blame, as tourists trample across the site to capture conclusive visual evidence of their visit. It's therefore become nigh impossible to take a perfect people-free shot of the site, but I discovered the magic alignment of the stones and managed to grab a photograph without a single luminous kagoule in sight [photo].
I'd heard great things about the beach at Luskentyre on the west coast of Harris [map]. The east coast of the island is nothing to write home about, not unless you like bleak granite-strewn lunar landscapes (the "Jupiter" scenes in Kubrick's 2001: A Space Odyssey were filmed over that side of the island). But the fertile west coast is something else and, as it turned out, so utterly worth a visit.
At Luskentyre a narrow triangular river estuary snakes down to the sea [photo]. At high tide the bay is (just) covered by water, but pause a while and the central meandering ribbon of blue shrinks to reveal shallow-sloping powder-white sands to either side [photo]. A peninsula of grass-topped dunes (complete with its own primary school!) sticks out across the river's mouth [photo]. Sweeping deserted beaches stretch out at low tide along the front of the dunes, both here and across the stream beneath Luskentyre's old cemetery [photo]. Gulls and oystercatchers squawk and circle low to guard their nests on the rocks - but only when human beings approach, and there really aren't very many of them. Gentle waves lap up against the shoreline, beyond which lies an impossibly blue sea resembling more a Hawaiian lagoon than Atlantic waters [photo]. The entire bay looks absolutely magical in the sunshine, though admittedly rather less mesmeric beneath typical Hebridean drizzle.
But the key to perfection isn't just the sand, sea and solitude, it's the surrounding scenery. To every side of the beach stand dark looming hills, even offshore where a long lumpy island rises up out of the turquoise waters [photo]. This is Taransay, once home to three small crofting villages but more recently reborn as the site of Castaway 2000. You remember, it was the BBC's first venture into reality TV, with a bunch of oiks and misfits left to fend for themselves on a deserted island for a whole year. The island doesn't look so cast away when viewed from Luskentyre, just a mile or two across the Sound of Taransay, but in heavy rain and winter gales life here must have been pretty bleak. The current landowners now run day trips to the island, departing from nearby Horgabost. I bet the view looking back towards Luskentyre is stunning, but alas I never woke up quite early enough to catch the boat out. Maybe next time. [tons of photos of Taransay]
When so much of life is spent outdoors, theweather can make or break a day in the Outer Hebrides. Being right on the edge of the Atlantic doesn't help - this is usually the first strip of land to be buffeted by incoming storms or drenched by approaching rainclouds. But proximity to the warming flow of the Gulf Stream is a real plus, with mean minimum temperatures in winter no colder than in London. And when the sun does come out, as it does far more often than you might think, the illuminated scenery looks quite spectacular.
I was semi-lucky with the weather during my stay in the Hebrides, kicking off with two days of uncharacteristically fine sunshine... at least until damp, grey conditions swept in on Monday afternoon and took hold for most the rest of the week. It proved essential to keep an eye on the daily weather forecast, living in hope that a brief brighter spell might lie just over the horizon. I now fully understood how poorly the BBC's newweathergraphics serve the north of Scotland. I needed to scrutinise conditions in the islands at the top left of the map, but they were too small, too distant and too often obscured behind the presenter's head. The new blotchy rainfall radar was no use either, frequently promising a break in the drizzle which never materialised. It was especially galling to watch most of the rest of the country enjoying a protracted summer heatwave, apart from one persistent swirl of low cloud and precipitation lying directly across the Western Isles. At least the national weather summaries on Ceefax were good value for money, their brief text consistently including pinpoint local phrases such as "except for Northwest Scotland". But hey, even under a pallor of grey my view of the Hebrides was still something special. And it could have been worse, I could have been there this week.
Postcard from the Hebrides: On the edge of nowhere
The OuterHebrides run down the western coast of Scotland, a string of rocky islands stretching 150 miles along the edge of the Atlantic Ocean. There are three main island groups, from Barra in the south, through the Uists and Benbecula in the centre to the largest island of Lewis/Harris in the north. These are some of the most remote islands in the UK, left to fend for themselves for generations, with strong traditions and a culture all their own. Electricity only arrived here in the 1950s, helping to sweep away a relatively primitive lifestyle based on crofting and fishing. Nowadays the Western Isles are anything but primitive, but you're still far more likely to see a sheep than a lamppost.
You have to make a real effort to visit the Outer Hebrides. There's no cosy bridge across from the mainland, just thirty miles of forbidding water across the Minch. The only way to reach the islands used to be by sea, perhaps takingthe ferry from Oban, Skye or Ullapool (none of which are especially easy to reach themselves). I chose to travel by air instead, greatly reducing my travel time and easing the risk of seasickness. A couple of hops from Gatwick got me to Stornoway Airport in 2½ hours flat - but only because my first flight departed late, requiring a dash through Glasgow airport to make the onward connection. The corkscrewing descent into Stornoway aboard a tiny Saab 340 wasn't for the faint-hearted, but Linda the Loganair stewardess was the very model of smiling professionalism throughout. So too were the few staff in the nigh-empty terminal building, and they even managed to deliver one particularly important item of 'lost' baggage forty miles down the island on the Sabbath. Cheers fellas.
Lewis (Eilean Leòdhais): The top part of the main northern island, most of which is flattish boggy peatland (population 17000). Famous for a set of chessmen. Main town Stornoway (Steòrnabhagh). Harris (Na Hearadh): The bottom part of the main northern island, most of which is hilly or mountainous (population 3600). Famous for Harris Tweed. Main town Tarbert. [I was based here last week] North Uist (Uibhist a Tuath): Flat and boggy, more than half covered by water (population 1700). Famous for its birdlife. Benbecula (Beinn na Faoghla): Squashed between the Uists (population 1250). Famous for its RAF station. South Uist (Uibhist a' Deas): The second largest island - long, thin and sandy (population 2000). Famous for its machair. Barra (Eilean Bharraigh): Tiny and scenic (population 1000). Famous for its airportrunway, which is on the beach.
On the northeast coast of Harris, above a long loch looking out towards Skye, is the insignificant village of Reinigeadal [map]. Like many a Hebridean village it grew up as a self-sufficient fishing community cut off from the outside world. But unlike every other Hebridean village that's how it stayed, because nobody ever got round to building a road to connect it to the rest of the island. As late as the 1980s the only way in was by boat, or by yomping several miles over the moors. Residents started drifting away until there were only three employed men left, one of them Kenny MacKay the postman. Three times a week for 20 years, come rain, shine or tempest, he collected the mail from the village's postbox and set off to walk the twelve mile round trip to Tarbert.
In 1986 the EU, or EEC as it was then, put up a £½ million grant to build a road connecting Reinigeadal to the rest of the island. The road didn't deliver best value, nor provide a positive cost benefit ratio, in fact it made no economic sense whatsoever. But six miles of single track tarmac laid across forbidding terrain brought a lifeline to the village which otherwise would have died away several years ago. And so it was that a kindly retired couple out walking on the hillside offered a welcome lift back to the other end of the footpath, along the road that shouldn't officially exist. The round-about drive was more like 15 miles in total but it was dry, and it was much quicker than the postman's walk would have been. Not all EU subsidies go to support French farmers or Latvian fishermen - sometimes they help to sustain a traditional way of life in the Outer Hebrides... for which my feet give due thanks.
Turn to the back of your road atlas and you'll probably find a page, or half a page, devoted to the Outer Hebrides and various other outlying islands. There aren't a lot of roads up here, they're quite expensive to build across forbidding upland landscapes. And why go to the bother of building a proper road for a handful of motorists when you can cut costs and lay something rather narrower? Welcome to the single track road with passing places, a challenging highway that probably wasn't part of your driving test. They're not everywhere up here - all the A roads in Lewis are now double track - but try taking the main A859 south across Harris from Tarbert and you'll be watching out for oncoming traffic most of the way.
One of the finest (for which read scariest) single track roads in Scotland runs for twelve long miles along the western coast of Harris [details] [B887 map]. The road to Huisinis begins near the filling station at Aird Asaig, one of the first UK garages to charge more than a pound for a litre of petrol [photo]. The road begins innocently enough, past the ruin of an old whaling station, round the first headland and... good grief, there's a single lonely tennis court beside the road in the middle of absolutely nowhere! Several troublesome bends and blind summits follow, above hillsides you wouldn't want to accidentally tumble down. Then, after miles of moorland and the odd isolated cottage, you suddenly drive beneath a stone gate and enter... blimey, the front garden of Amhuinnsuidhe Castle. The setting may be damned impressive but the occupants have to put up with tourists driving round the lawn directly past their front door. Maybe that's why the last owners (the Bulmers cider family) sold up for £4½ million - and the place is now let out for upmarket house parties.
A very rare lunar alignment is visible at Callanish every 19 years when the moon appears especially low in the sky. First the moon rises over the hills to the southeast [photo], whose curvaceous silhouette is said to resemble a sleeping woman [what do you think?]. Viewed from the main avenue the moon then skims and dips below the southern horizon before reappearing directly behind the central stones. Alas I arrived at the stones the day after the special full moon, missing the phenomenon by approximately 12 hours. Ah well. Apparently it's almost as spectacular in mid-July, but then you'll have to wait until 2025 for another dose of spiritual moonshine. [full details] [report]
I'd heard great things about the beach at Luskentyre on the west coast of Harris [map]. The east coast of the island is nothing to write home about, not unless you like bleak granite-strewn lunar landscapes (the "Jupiter" scenes in Kubrick's 2001: A Space Odyssey were filmed over that side of the island). But the fertile west coast is something else and, as it turned out, so utterly worth a visit.
But the key to perfection isn't just the sand, sea and solitude, it's the surrounding scenery. To every side of the beach stand dark looming hills, even offshore where a long lumpy island rises up out of the turquoise waters [photo]. This is Taransay, once home to three small crofting villages but more recently reborn as the site of Castaway 2000. You remember, it was the BBC's first venture into reality TV, with a bunch of oiks and misfits left to fend for themselves on a deserted island for a whole year. The island doesn't look so cast away when viewed from Luskentyre, just a mile or two across the Sound of Taransay, but in heavy rain and winter gales life here must have been pretty bleak. The current landowners now run day trips to the island, departing from nearby Horgabost. I bet the view looking back towards Luskentyre is stunning, but alas I never woke up quite early enough to catch the boat out. Maybe next time. [tons of photos of Taransay]
Postcard from the Hebrides: low cloud and drizzle
The Outer Hebrides run down the western coast of Scotland, a string of rocky islands stretching 150 miles along the edge of the Atlantic Ocean. There are three main island groups, from Barra in the south, through the Uists and Benbecula in the centre to the largest island of Lewis/Harris in the north. These are some of the most remote islands in the UK, left to fend for themselves for generations, with strong traditions and a culture all their own. Electricity only arrived here in the 1950s, helping to sweep away a relatively primitive lifestyle based on crofting and fishing. Nowadays the Western Isles are anything but primitive, but you're still far more likely to see a sheep than a lamppost.
Lewis (Eilean Leòdhais): The top part of the main northern island, most of which is flattish boggy peatland (population 17000). Famous for a set of chessmen. Main town Stornoway (Steòrnabhagh).
In 1986 the EU, or EEC as it was then, put up a £½ million grant to build a road connecting Reinigeadal to the rest of the island. The road didn't deliver best value, nor provide a positive cost benefit ratio, in fact it made no economic sense whatsoever. But six miles of single track tarmac laid across forbidding terrain brought a lifeline to the village which otherwise would have died away several years ago. And so it was that a kindly retired couple out walking on the hillside offered a welcome lift back to the other end of the footpath, along the road that shouldn't officially exist. The round-about drive was more like 15 miles in total but it was dry, and it was much quicker than the postman's walk would have been. Not all EU subsidies go to support French farmers or Latvian fishermen - sometimes they help to sustain a traditional way of life in the Outer Hebrides... for which my feet give due thanks.
