Blogging from Barra?

Blog from Barra? What was I thinking?

Internet cafes do not exist on this wee isle. Of course, I could have waited in line at the library for access on Saturday morning, but I opted for a long walk. Wise choice, don’t you think?

How, you might ask, did I choose to go to Barra? Well, I read about it in a book that gave me a few salient facts:

It is called “the Garden of the Outer Herbrides” having such a wide variety of wildflowers.

It has the greatest percentage of Gaelic speakers of any of the islands or Highlands.

It was so remote that John Knox’s ideas of proper lifestyle and reformed Christianity never made it this far south; the vast majority of inhabitants are Roman Catholic and haven't forgotten how to have fun.

The hospitality, humor and polite reserve of these people is impressive. The Gaelic I have heard is as soft as the moss and heather that cover the rocks, and gentle as the grasses blowing on the machair. (You’ll have to Google that one!) Signs in Gaelic, music in Gaelic… I came to the right place to find modern Celts.

I met a local crofter, a Mrs. McKinnon. She was in Castlebay to do her grocery shopping and boarded the same bus as I did. (Barra has a very efficient mini-bus system that makes the loop around the island frequently on the one paved road. This road is a single lane--not one each direction, but one lane. Period. There are “Passing Places” where traffic defers to whoever got there first.) Mrs. McKinnon lives in a small croft on Vatersay, an island that was recently connected with Barra by a causeway.

I got off the bus with her, and she directed me to the ruins of an ancient broch (lookout) on a mound across from her home. I crossed heathered fields, climbed the hill and found the great number of large stones configured as two concentric circles a few thousand years ago. When Moses was leading the Hebrews out of Egypt, Neolithic communities were settled here. The space and the sense of time/perspective helped me see my small place in the great scheme of life.

Behind me was a mountain--make that a ben--and decided to climb it as far as I could. The views were spectacular: lonely crofts near the shoreline, cattle grazing near the pristine white beach on the Atlantic, a rainbow between two mountains of Barra (but no pot of gold), wildflowers and heather that grew much like the sage of Wyoming, and old, old stone walls now overgrown with grasses. The walls are soft now,too.

And there were brooks. I heard them before I could see them, the grasses and flowers being so dense and deep. It was as though water sprang out of the ground, spilling on rock and soil alike. Some water collected in pools on lichened rock. Some water collected to form larger and larger trickles, though never enough in one place to call it a brook or stream. I have a new appreciation of how it is that the Druids and early Christians found the springs and wells magical.

The light in these isles, I had heard, is unique. I think I found out what that means. There are no trees on most of the 470 islands of the Hebrides; the earth is low and covered with even green vegetation. The light, when it comes in the morning or evening casts, no shadows. The surrounding water absorbs the light, except for the sparkling reflections from waves. The result is that the light rises up from the ground. The land is amazingly luminous.

The climb up was quite steep, and I chose to descend, not by the switchbacks that got me there, but by sitting and sliding straight down, six feet now, five feet later. Heather is good cushioning. The wind was a constant companion, bringing in clouds, then mist, then sunshine, then soft rain from the ocean.

I walked back to Castlebay, having missed the last bus. I gathered stray wool stuck on bracken, and later gathered handfuls from what was left at a shearing pen. I saw an agile, white-haired bearded man use a stainless steel crozier to pick up the lamb he wanted to hear. (I wonder if Bishop Cate would like the modern variety!)

Back at the Castlebay Hotel, I prepared for dinner. My meals have been spectacular, including venison, hare, and Barra lamb (that had an idyllic if short life). Breakfasts have included grilled smoked haddock, authentic Scottish porridge, and grilled black pudding. (If you ask, I’ll tell you what is in black pudding, but you might not want to know.)

I am posting this from a bus in Glasgow, the Glasgow Flyer, that gives its customers internet action on the way from the airport to Buchanan Station. We have arrived at the bus station. Now it's on to the Underground, lovingly called Clockwork Orange thanks to its color and speed. So I'm off!