The Lands of Morning

"Oran, naomha, buan                      Song, sacred, eternal
Tog gu ard guth an t-sluaigh            Lift on high the voice of the people
Oran, the mi reidh                          Song, I am reconciled
Eirich, eirich bhar an t-sleibh"         Let it rise up from the moorland               
                   - Runrig (Oran)

Late last Sunday I returned to London after a long journey to the Outer Hebrides and back. These past few days in the rectangle of UCL in Bloomsbury (a certain small area within which most of my life as a Londoner seems to take place and outside of which I hardly spend any time at all) have been quite tedious. It took only a day or two for me two find comfort in the absolute tranquillity of a small rural Hebridean community, which seems to indicate once more my intransigent agrarian spirit, but it seems to take much more time for me to get again similarly comfortable in this already familiar environment in London. In order to explain all this I believe I must relate to you some of my experiences on these aforementioned isles.

This story, for once, does not begin with me (although I'm as random and omnipresent as ever) but with a certain mettlesome and bit adventurous Welshman whose life seems to be inseparably entwined with several distant Atlantic Isles such as the Falklands and the Outer Hebrides. His name is John and on the chilly and misty autumn morning on the third of October 2007 he picked up a certain young Finnish hitch-hiker (that's me now...) near Tarbert on the Isle of Harris and drove him all the way up to Stornoway. Little did he know how would this act of friendliness turn out in due course of the years to come. Ever since that drive from Harris to Lewis (Isle of Lewis) John has been patient and unfailing pen pal writing and answering with accuracy all the letters he has received from all over the world from this anxious globetrotter and hitch-hiker. Now, for the sake of John's privacy and common decency, I'll get back to my own story and thus to myself.
'

Here's a picture of John; my friend and host on Isle of Harris.

'

It took me about 24 hours to get from my London rectangle to John's home on the Isle of Harris. First I had to take an overnight bus to Inverness. This first part took more than 13 hours and was almost as uncomfortable as a routed taxicab (or a marshrutka) on a winding road in some distant part of steep mountain range. But eventually I did get to Inverness weary yet intact. From Inverness I took a bus to Ullapool and immediately when there I board a CalMac ferry to Stornoway (the unofficial capital of the Western Isles) where John with a friend of his was already awaiting me. It took us one more hour to drive from Stornoway to Harris in middle of night with gealach làn (the full moon) shining on the beautiful starry sky.

My time on Harris went swiftly as a whirlwind and yet I didn't do much of anything in particular there (at least if you measure it by the standard activeness I have here in London). My days consistent mainly of trips to different parts of the island with John (usually in the morning), taking the family's hyperactive dog out for a walk every once in a while (in order to do some workout after lunch), having long and thorough discussions about the state of the world especially in the evenings (with a glass of whiskey or a pint of ale, sometimes both), doing bit of reading (or rather playing with the though of actually studying) and of course being spoiled by delicious home food made by John's wife Heather.

Now, I'll try not to bore you with too many details about Harris or its people and their language - the Scottish Gaelic (which is still, along with the other Celtic languages, one of my favourite hobbies or rather obsessions). Instead of giving all the information boiling in my head I'll let some of my pictures to speak for themselves. Here, have a look!

Luskentyre beach, Isle of Harris. The island is full of beautiful beaches
well worth the swim (in summertime that is)!

Village of Ardhasaig, Clisham (the highest mountain on Harris) is covered with clouds in this picture.

Me going for a swim on Hushinish beach, Isle of Harris. The water was very salty, the waves mighty and the cold was emasculating. But I survived! Well, thanks to a hot bath back in John's home.

The eastern side of Harris is full of rocks and lochs but its ruggedness
holds exceptional beauty. At least to my Nordic eye.

The Callanish Stones, Isle of Lewis. This group of stones dates back to 2900 BC making it thus much older than the latest phase of Stonehenge (the one we can see today). In its overall shape it resembles a Celtic cross (one of many symbols associated with the sun). The place itself is very interesting and possess a certain mysticism. Here's more to it: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Callanish_Stones

"Mañana is too exact time on Harris", said John to me when we were driving to Huishinish. He was trying to explain me what was the day to day life like on Western Isles. At first I didn't quite understand what he meant by this but soon, with one obvious example, it all came to me clear as a crystal: the road we were driving on, A859, must be the only A road (basic British motorway) in all of UK where there's only one lane. Basically what this means is that only one car can drive on this road to one of the two possible directions while the (possible!) oncoming car must park itself in one the pockets on the side of road. There's a pocket for such occasion about every 50 meters or so. The road is quite safe to drive on and there are hardly ever any significant accidents. And I'm not surprised! On Harris it's not by any means unusual to stop right there in the middle of this road and have a wee chat with the oncoming driver. Especially if the two are familiar to each other (N.B. on Harris all the locals know one and other). There's no haste on Harris and there seems to be plenty of time even without rushing things.

While discussing the contemporary situation of the Scottish Gaelic with the locals (of whom a clear majority would speak it as their native language) I was once more reassured that the future of this specific Celtic language is sadly not that promising at all. Unlike in Ireland or Wales, where the nation's native language seems to mean a lot to a significant portion of even the younger generation and where it drives the strong Nationalist movements, in Scotland, however, things are very different. Here in Alba [àlapa] the future of Scottish Gaelic is unambiguously the responsibility of the educational system. No other official party seems to be interested in promoting it. This means that by now Scottish Gaelic is sustaining itself to certain extent in its strongholds like on the Western Isles and the Highlands but its not expanding to South.

Outside of the Gàidhealtachd (the Gaelic speaking area of Scotland) there's hardly any interest for the revival of the language. To me this seemed, at first, very bizarre due to the fact that of all the particles that together form the (dis)United Kingdom - Scotland is the one pursuing independence with the most amount of perseverance. The Scottish Nationalist party is clearly the most popular one (has been for almost a decade now) in Alba but its Nationalist rhetoric has almost nothing to do with the Scottish Gaelic. However, Herder's idea of "one language - one nation" is not forgotten in Scotland - on the contrary it's a cornerstone of this Nationalist movement but the language the Scots have apparently chosen for this cause is a Germanic language better know as the Scots.

To clarify the picture a bit let it suffice to say that Scottish Gaelic is (roughly speaking) the language of the Irish settlers who came to the Highlands and Islands somewhere already in 4th century. But so it happened that the Scottish Gaelic never established itself permanently in the Lowlands of Scotland where the Scots language was gradually formed and where it gained its status as the dominant language of Alba in due course of Mediaeval period. That's enough of history and philology for this article.

I spend a great deal of time discussing with John also the future of Scotland and his native land of Cymru (Wales). On the last day of my visit we came to the conclusion that eventually, in one way or an other and for better or for worse, both the Scots and the Welsh will gain their full independence from Westminster and the English Crown. John also told me about the valleys of South Wales and the history of labour movement there. And so we reach a further understanding that I basically have no other option but to go and see Wales for myself once more in order to learn and experience more of Cymru. Also, should I live to see the day of Welsh independence, I promised John at least the effort of climbing up some high point in my native Finland and shouting to all the four winds: Hurray! The dream lives on and eventually we'll get there but there's still time 'till dawn.

As John said: "I've seen the Lands of Morning!". And he certainly has, because as a Welshman he's a son of such a land and he has spent most of his life on distant islands far away from the establishment. But when I stood on the deck of CalMac ferry on my way back to mainland and looked on the dusk upon Isle of Lewis (see the first photo of this text) I realised that I have been, yet again, exceedingly fortunate to have a such a friend and to have seen these lands, if only by a glimpse, with my very own eyes.

Yr eiddoch gyda chariad a chyda pharch,

-Stefan

PS.
Dros Gymru'n gwlad, O Dad, dyrchafwn gri,
y winllan wen a roed i'n gofal ni;
d'amddiffyn cryf a'i cadwo'n ffyddlon byth,
a boed i'r gwir a'r glân gael ynddi nyth;
er mwyn dy Fab a'i prynodd iddo'i hun,
O crea hi yn Gymru ar dy