Wet Friday
05/20/2005
Friday dawns with changeable weather, showers, rain, wind and even the odd partial break in the clouds, although the mountain tops remain shrouded in swirling hill fog. Another pile of mail keeps me glued to the office desk, but Lachie and restless dogs drag me out for some property maintenance, and for the dogs, plenty of idiotic “charging about and barking” practice. Replacing a broken spar on the garden gate, we discover some pink paint on the woodwork. I immediately telephone a report to our community police officer, that a Pink Smart car with “Bernie The Bandleader"s registration number (carefully noted by Lachie while pulling up his trousers), has failed to report an accident and left the scene of a crime. Our long-suffering bobby listens in silence and then tactfully suggests that I “shouldn’t push my luck”, well maybe we should take his advice on this occasion. Dearest Dottie seems to have invited various dolts for the weekend, as the rain has brought the River Trollaigh up, and there could be some fishing. Mhairi has been instructed to make sure that my dressing room is full of all the clothes that such events dictate, hairy tweed by day and full Trollaigh evening highland regalia by night. I beg permission to opt for tartan trousers, as a kilt does nothing for my once noble legs, I am awaiting a reply from Dottie who seems to be organising a full-scale country house weekend. Hey Ho. Yours Aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.
Archie’s Hols.
Day four. Ard Asaig to Scarista. A lazy start to Sunday starts with another full breakfast, Katie’s speciality being a local venison sausage, strongly recommended. Talking to Katie I begin to understand what has been unsettling me in Harris, unlike my native North Argyll all the usable land is croft land and appears densely populated with houses everywhere. The high moors and mountains are not used and the roads do not, for the most part, run through these areas, therefore I am not seeing a sparsely populated, lonely landscape but rather a landscape of many houses, new, old, abandoned, ruined or renovated. Crofting tradition has a culture all of its own, even down to language with a unique history over land ownership and land use, I think I have failed to grasp that the Western Isles are very different to the Scotland I know at first hand. I have a big adjustment to make. We attend church in Tarbert, Harris. It is a solid well supported service, without music or congregation participation, not even the Lord’s Prayer or a collection. The Rev Hamish MacVicar uses his one hour ten minute sermon to explain in detail the exact meaning of the gospel passage that is being read in every other Church of Scotland kirk this Sunday. The completely traditional service is both simple and uplifting. Perhaps we have drifted away from the roots of Presbyterianism, I for one will return to the Rev MacVicar. Dottie and I then set off on the long wonderful drive down the “Golden Road” on the East Coast of South Harris, absolute magic, all the way down to Rodel. Being Sunday everything, absolutely everything is shut. An emergency bottle of the Baron’s Chardonnay is broached for picnic relief. At Rodel, we see the restored Hotel (closed on Sundays) and St Clements Kirk. On to Leverburgh then back to the West Coast beaches. These are spectacular, but strangely disappointing, although we enjoy a long walk to Macleod’s Stone overlooking Taransay and all the beaches one could ever wish for. At 6.00 we check into Scarista House. The most famous Hotel in the Hebrides under the previous owners, the Johnston’s, now Tim and Patricia Martin offer us hospitality, as the weather closes in and the view from our room is of a large hole for a new septic tank (dear to my heart although Dottie thinks it may be a new swimming pool), an old bus inhabited by travelling urchins, a huge skip and a busy main road. Will we enjoy it? Yours Aye, Archie.