Hiding away in the outer Hebrides
Oban and Barra and Uist, oh my! Kenneth Steven takes a tour of these magical Scottish islands and others besides
A tour of Scotland’s western isles yields a cornucopia of whitesand beaches, views and ancient sites, discovers Kenneth Steven
ARRIVING in Oban by train is the loveliest, if not the easiest, way to begin the journey to the Outer Hebrides. It’s not only that the train can be overcrowded in the summer months—and that both internet and mobile signal are a doubtful possibility on board— it’s that car hire once you reach Oban is very limited. If you book your car in plenty of time, however, it’s definitely worth it.
When you leave Glasgow behind (whether by car or train), you’re almost immediately into the West Highlands. Once you’ve reached Crianlarich, you’re into the heart of what I call real wildscape.
I always felt that the journey to the Outer Hebrides was like going to another country. The long spine of islands stretches like some dragon that crashed into the Atlantic millennia ago. Indeed, it was named ‘the islands of the strangers’ by the Gaelicspeaking natives, doubtless because it was here that the Norsemen settled and held sway over long centuries. The placenames they left behind are still familiar enough to any visiting Scandinavian.
There is no need to go far from Oban railway station to spend a comfortable night. Perle stands across the road, beautifully refurbished now, after years as just another rather sad and rambling Victorian hotel whose glory days had gone.
Oban is famous, these days, for seafood: a few hundred yards from Perle is Ee-usk (the phonetic Gaelic for fish). Anything
and everything fishy is served in a restaurant that feels as if it’s surrounded by the sea.
I think beginning at the southern end of the Outer Hebrides and working north is best, but there’s no right or wrong way to make the journey. What is needed is a hopscotch ticket from ferry operator Caledonian Macbrayne and a plan to link the times of your various inter-island journeys.
The Outer Isles take a full five hours to reach by ferry from Oban and that adds to this sense of it being another country. Long before you’re within sight of Barra, the southernmost island in the chain, there’s all the broken jewellery of Inner Hebridean landfalls on every side.
If the visibility is good, there are the sharp peaks of the Rum hills to the north, with those of Skye behind. Looking south, there’s Jura, where George Orwell completed and it’s certainly possible to catch a glimpse of Ben Nevis when first leaving the mainland.
It’s pointless to think of going anywhere but your bed when, at last, you’ve reached Castlebay on Barra, where it’s only a short drive to the Castlebay Hotel from the ferry. When my partner, Kristina, and I made the journey the first time, the year was still young and the hotel felt almost empty.
When we opened our curtains in the morning, there was Kisimul (pronounced Kishmul) Castle, on its own island in the bay, one of the most iconic views in the Western Isles. Before we left, after breakfast, we spent as long as we could studying the priceless display of black-and-white images of St Kilda, pictures we’d never seen before. We wanted to stay longer on Barra and vowed we’d return to experience its Gaelic culture and golden sands, but we had a ferry to catch.
The Outer Isles divide neatly into Catholic and Protestant. Barra, Eriskay and South Uist are staunchly Catholic, those to the north strictly Presbyterian. Bonnie Prince Charlie didn’t land on Eriskay by accident —he knew fine well that, here, the Catholic Jacobite cause would be espoused.
There was only time to glance in astonished wonder at the Prince’s Bay, a scimitar of shining white sand. Kristina was too busy watching out for Eriskay ponies: they wandered everywhere and clearly believed the road was theirs. There were sudden glimpses of shrines from what seemed the middle of nowhere, then, before we knew it, we had crossed the causeway to South Uist.
It might be called the land under water: innumerable lochs with their impossibly blue light under low hills. This is a fisherman’s paradise and the creature that knows
There are miles of beaches where the sea comes in like stallions. This is a huge beauty
it is the otter. You can’t order an otter, but, if you’re up early and have a sprinkling of luck, you might well be blessed with a sighting.
After a long day’s drive, and as the light began fading, we arrived at Corrodale Cottage in the community of Iochdar (the spelling of which bears no resemblance to the pronunciation). This thatched cottage has been transformed into three magical rooms and awaiting us inside were all manner of seafood delights, to say nothing of a peat fire, a library’s worth of books, maps and even a four-poster bed.
All these landfalls are busy with history. Still thinking of the Jacobite story, we went to visit the remote corner of South Uist where my ancestor Flora Macdonald was born.
There are forts and chambered cairns, castles and standing stones. Iochdar was the birthplace of artist Angus Macphee, whose strange woven creations were doubtless the result of his weaving heritage.
Next, we drove north once more into hauntingly wild North Uist. You’re ever aware of the richness of the birdlife: flocks of things tug always across windy sky and there’s the bar of an eagle bending half a mile above. There are lochs, lochs and more lochs—in the Uists, there often seems to be more water than land.
We took the ferry at last to the south of Harris and that sea journey is unlike any I’ve ever experienced before in the Hebrides. The ferry never follows a straight course: it turns constantly this way and that as birds scutter over the shallow water. The light, too, changes with every second, suddenly catching an islet here, then vanishing to set on fire a stretch of water there.
It wasn’t far from the little port of Leverburgh to our hobbit house at Scarista, but, by then, we’d already gasped a dozen times at the beaches. Once inside, we spent a full hour staring at the ocean below us. The house is buried into the steep hillside behind: it faces the sea and its front windows become a single eye looking out over Taransay and the west.
I’d long wanted to bring Kristina here because of the famous Luskentyre beaches. What makes them so magical is the conjunction of the dark Harris hills and the white-shell sands. Here, there are no tiny sheltered coves as in the Inner Hebrides. Instead, there are long miles of beaches where the sea comes in like stallions and, even on the finest summer day, the wind is strong. This is a huge beauty.
On two evenings, we feasted on langoustines at our Blue Reef cottage. Even Kristina, who grew up used to the seafood larder of western Sweden, had to admit they were pretty special. The house feels like a kind of cave that keeps on growing deeper—even bicycles are hidden away in a store room.
Leaving was far from easy. Although we had no ferry to catch (as Harris and Lewis are two parts of the same island), the drive was to be a long one. Foolish to do it quickly: better to stop before you’re right into the Harris glens to gasp at that view of translucent water set against the tweedy hills.
Then, you’re down into Lewis and different terrain altogether: low-lying moorland with long, straggling settlements, sudden gems of lochs and distant glimpses of sea. There’s a strong scent of peat as scarves of smoke come billowing from chimneys.
Our last hideaway was Abhainn Cottage. The name means ‘river’ and a stream bounded down the hillside beside us. A modern kitchen welcomed us with an amazing assortment of home-baking: we grazed on it over the duration of our stay, unable to consume it at one go. The bathroom was larger than any I’ve seen, with its own hot tub and sauna.
The cottage is perfectly placed for exploring the best sites in the west of Lewis. Not far away are the Carloway Broch and the Arnol Blackhouse, but closest of all and top of any list has to be the Standing Stones of Callanish. Kristina woke me early one morning, before sunrise, and we went there still bleary with sleep.
The skies were speckled like a trout’s back and there before us was the strange formation of the stones, many twice our height. The sun rose, transforming them.
Not before time, six of the famous Lewis chessmen have been brought back to the island where they were discovered, on loan from the British Museum. Intricately carved by Vikings, they were found in a sand dune on the west coast in the early 19th century.
Stornoway is the only real town in the Outer Isles and there’s much to see and experience: apart from the museum, there’s a newly refurbished Arts centre, galleries and good shops. From here, the ferry returns to the Scottish mainland. There are three hours of sailing before you reach the long, fjord-like passage into the port of Ullapool and views of the Summer Isles.
Before starting the journey home, have a last night of holiday at the Ceilidh Place in Ullapool. There can’t be many hotels with a bookshop at its heart and Ullapool has old-world charm. Finally, it’s the road south and, if you hired a car in Oban, it must be returned here, too.
When should you make this wondrous journey? May and June are Scotland’s bestkept secrets.