Published in Scotland Magazine Issue 35 on 15/11/2007.

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Life on Lewis

At this time of year I am usually to be found on the island of Lewis, where I annually meet up with a group of old friends in a stalking lodge, far from the madding crowd.

As the temperature drops, heralding the end of yet another summer, there is something profoundly reassuring about being at the end of a nine mile single-track road and surrounded by a landscape that has remained unchanged for several thousands of years; where the outside world invariably slips out of sight and ceases to have any relevance, especially as the lodge has neither a television nor radio.

My dictionary does not acknowledge the existence of the word ‘madding,’ which was so effectively used in the title of one of the English writer Thomas Hardy’s novels set in the south west of England. However, when contrasting the vast peat acres of the Hebrides, where you can walk for 20 miles without seeing another human being, with the teeming ant-heap traffic of our towns and cities, it sounds just right.

On the slopes of Ben Mhor there are spectacular glimpses of the Shiant Islands, mainland Scotland and Skye to the east; to the south, Loch Seaforth and the northern shore of Harris, to which Lewis is joined at the foot.

Somehow, in such places the weather ceases to have any significance. If it rains, it rains, and you waterproof yourself accordingly. Harris Tweed was not invented for the designer catwalks of the international fashion luvvies; it was created as a fool-proof shield against Scotland’s elemen.....

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By Roddy Martine

Section : Roddy Martine's World

Page number : 7