authentic smell of the west came at us more strongly—there s nothing like it anywhere. It’s made
of the scent of wet heather and sea-tangle and mist and hill-air and it always goes straight to our heads. We opened the windows wider and poked our noses out, to get a delighted sniff. Helen
clutched Duchess round the neck and began groping for her spade and pail.
We cruised along the side of Loch Broom into Ullapool, passed the last straggle of the village and looked for a turning to the sea. We knew we simply had to get our hands into sea-water that
day. Another mile or so and we were bumping along a deep-rutted track towards a small lighthouse. Right at the point we came to a halt on a rise of bright green sward. Straight ahead lay the Summer
Isles; the water between was gleaming in the pale, evening sunlight. We sat a moment looking and listening to the slapping of the small waves on the pebble beach. Then Helen, already shoeless, made
straight down to the water’s edge and we followed, strolling at leisure, as though there were all the time in the world for everything—the west had already imposed its rhythm on us.
From the contemporary point of view, the average west coaster is a failure: he has no ambition, no drive. Because he has no desire to be for ever ‘bettering’ himself, he is
considered lazy and feckless. True, in former times many people from the west went to America and Canada, where some of their descendants have made names for themselves; we hear of the few, but of
the many there is no record. It is not always realised that those emigrations were, in most cases, enforced by the ruthless, alien landlords, who emerged after the real clan system had broken down.
The men were driven to the boats, the women and children were carried aboard, and the songs which drifted back across the water as the boats put out were laments, bitter, hopeless laments. Many a
settler would sit, years afterwards, looking across the ‘waste of seas’ and in his dreams ‘behold the Hebrides’. He had no natural desire to leave his native coast—why
should he? Times might have been bad, but they might be bad anywhere. At least, as long as he was not interfered with, the west coaster need never have starved. Even if the crops failed utterly, he
could get his fish from the sea and his bit of game from the hill. The seaweed itself made a tasty dish, full of iodine and health-giving minerals. And he had his horizon; he could see things in
the light of infinity, which is the only way to get a true perspective. Why should he want to exchange all this, for a mad rush after money? What could money buy that wouldn’t bring him envy
and discontent, an aching head and ulcers in his stomach? The west coaster will leave it to others to achieve brilliance as politicians and administrators. He’ll also leave it to others to
become spivs or invent the nuclear bomb. Give him three rooms to house his family, a few acres and a boat and he’s the happiest man on earth. He still believes in happiness.
These thoughts were in our minds, as we looked back across Loch Broom and saw the tiny fields sloping down to the water’s edge. Every inch of ground was cultivated; the small patches of
corn and potatoes and roots were bright and flourishing. The natural manuring of the beasts, plus the application of seaweed and shell sand, has resulted in a high degree of fertility in the
crofting ground. The Cheviot sheep that were grazing right down to the water’s edge looked remarkably fit and strong. Hay-making was in full swing and every available pair of hands was busy
hanging the grass on tripods to dry.
When Helen had dabbled to her heart’s content in the clear, green water, we looked for a spring, gathered driftwood and built a fireplace. Soon, ham and eggs and tomatoes were sizzling in
the pan and we ate a leisurely meal, washed down with hot, delicious tea, and stretched ourselves on the turf in relaxation. Sun, moon and
of the scent of wet heather and sea-tangle and mist and hill-air and it always goes straight to our heads. We opened the windows wider and poked our noses out, to get a delighted sniff. Helen
clutched Duchess round the neck and began groping for her spade and pail.
We cruised along the side of Loch Broom into Ullapool, passed the last straggle of the village and looked for a turning to the sea. We knew we simply had to get our hands into sea-water that
day. Another mile or so and we were bumping along a deep-rutted track towards a small lighthouse. Right at the point we came to a halt on a rise of bright green sward. Straight ahead lay the Summer
Isles; the water between was gleaming in the pale, evening sunlight. We sat a moment looking and listening to the slapping of the small waves on the pebble beach. Then Helen, already shoeless, made
straight down to the water’s edge and we followed, strolling at leisure, as though there were all the time in the world for everything—the west had already imposed its rhythm on us.
From the contemporary point of view, the average west coaster is a failure: he has no ambition, no drive. Because he has no desire to be for ever ‘bettering’ himself, he is
considered lazy and feckless. True, in former times many people from the west went to America and Canada, where some of their descendants have made names for themselves; we hear of the few, but of
the many there is no record. It is not always realised that those emigrations were, in most cases, enforced by the ruthless, alien landlords, who emerged after the real clan system had broken down.
The men were driven to the boats, the women and children were carried aboard, and the songs which drifted back across the water as the boats put out were laments, bitter, hopeless laments. Many a
settler would sit, years afterwards, looking across the ‘waste of seas’ and in his dreams ‘behold the Hebrides’. He had no natural desire to leave his native coast—why
should he? Times might have been bad, but they might be bad anywhere. At least, as long as he was not interfered with, the west coaster need never have starved. Even if the crops failed utterly, he
could get his fish from the sea and his bit of game from the hill. The seaweed itself made a tasty dish, full of iodine and health-giving minerals. And he had his horizon; he could see things in
the light of infinity, which is the only way to get a true perspective. Why should he want to exchange all this, for a mad rush after money? What could money buy that wouldn’t bring him envy
and discontent, an aching head and ulcers in his stomach? The west coaster will leave it to others to achieve brilliance as politicians and administrators. He’ll also leave it to others to
become spivs or invent the nuclear bomb. Give him three rooms to house his family, a few acres and a boat and he’s the happiest man on earth. He still believes in happiness.
These thoughts were in our minds, as we looked back across Loch Broom and saw the tiny fields sloping down to the water’s edge. Every inch of ground was cultivated; the small patches of
corn and potatoes and roots were bright and flourishing. The natural manuring of the beasts, plus the application of seaweed and shell sand, has resulted in a high degree of fertility in the
crofting ground. The Cheviot sheep that were grazing right down to the water’s edge looked remarkably fit and strong. Hay-making was in full swing and every available pair of hands was busy
hanging the grass on tripods to dry.
When Helen had dabbled to her heart’s content in the clear, green water, we looked for a spring, gathered driftwood and built a fireplace. Soon, ham and eggs and tomatoes were sizzling in
the pan and we ate a leisurely meal, washed down with hot, delicious tea, and stretched ourselves on the turf in relaxation. Sun, moon and
Similar Books
