Why Wick and Stornoway have so much in common

Courier columnist Dan Mackay gives his waggish take on life.

ORVILLE and Wilbur would have been well impressed. Though it’s a long way, I must admit, from Kitty Hawk to Carloway. More than a 100 years, actually. But the flight from Inverness airport to Stornoway, cruising comfortably at 12000 feet, was just perfect.

The Wright brothers’ fellow American, the singer Nanci Griffith was spot on: "from a distance, the world looks blue and green, and the snow capped mountains white". Only in the case of Lewis, as we descend to land, it was more a case, as one colleague later described, of "brown and browner."

But those earlier views over Wester Ross were spectacular. Snow capped mountains, frozen dubh lochans, serpentine straths and glens an altogether rugged terrain – a true Highland wideness. Ullapool, gleaming in Loch Broom’s turquoise waters, looked positively Mediterranean!

One should never rely on first impressions – I think in life I have often learnt that lesson the hard way. Stornoway airport with 12 flights a day is a busy place, the taxi driver tells me proudly. "I never realised so many people were so keen to leave," I reply unthinkingly. Sadly, my sense of humour is lost in translation and we drove on in silence.

We brought nothing into this world, and it is certain we can carry nothing out.

But it does all look a bit like Vladivostok or some contested Crimean outpost. I half expected to see heavily-armed, balaclava-clad Soviet troops patrolling the redundant MoD buildings.

How many readers appreciate that Wick, Stornoway and Moscow share virtually the same global latitude? A fact that exposes an entire new dimension to geo-political power struggles... Yes, we could be next if Putin decides to put the boot in.

If I got a pound for every time I hear Callum Kennedy’s "Lovely Stornoway" playing somewhere over the next few days of my Western Isles sojourn, I’d have made my fortune. But life, like the clouds themselves – despite what the song might tell you – is not ‘silver lined’ though there is a strong sense that you have left the "world behind."

Both Wick and Stornoway have a lot in common. Similarly sized, they share a common herring fishing heritage and co-exist on the periphery (or for some, the very edge).

The strict hand of Sabbatarianism still holds sway over many of the Western Isles and once – back in those herring fishing days when thousands followed the migratory shoals – the riverside Gaelic Church here in Wick (it later became a MacRae and Dick garage) had the largest Gaelic speaking congregation in the world.

I’m told they no longer chain and padlock the kiddies’ swings in the play parks these days – a sure sign of progress. In the old days, the grey fist of Calvinism was tighter than a lockdown in a Dounreay reactor core crisis... and the thought of children having fun on a Sunday must have been too much for the islands’ elders.

Suffer the children to come unto me.

There is now one shop open in Stornoway on the Sabbath, albeit for limited licensing hours. But the pubs and hotels are busy and so are the taxi drivers ferrying inebriated punters around. Despite much acrimony, Sunday flights and ferries seem to operate routinely but heaven forbid any local golfer who might get ideas above his station.

It is still, despite various legal challenges, forbidden to play golf on a Sunday. A condition of membership, apparently. Bizarrely, visitors to the town and non-member locals are allowed to swing their clubs around the 18 hole course in the grounds of Lews Castle.

The Sabbath day was made for man, not man for the Sabbath....

But it would be easy for casual outsiders to pass judgement on what they might perceive as oppressive and outmoded cultural traditions. For some islanders, that religious heritage is under threat and with it a way of life that could be eroded irrevocably. Others might simply wish their neighbours to get a life and live – and let live.

Love thy neighbour as thyself

Sarah is a charming hairstylist in Stornoway and the font of all knowledge. "Stornoway is the best island in Europe" she tells me assuredly as she clips away. She can tell from my reaction that I‘m less than convinced. "Yes," she continues, "someone mentioned it on Trip Advisor and the Guardian newspaper ran a story on it." She rests her case and I make a mental note to check it out. But later forget. (Wendy Thain, from Lybster, in the unlikely event that you are reading this, Sarah from Stornoway, who did her training with you, sends her love).

The Caladh Inn, where I’ve been staying for three nights, has a carvery to die for. And I take full advantage of its wide-ranging culinary delights!

An Lanntair, the local cultural nightspot, offers an eclectic range of arts events but, sadly, the dates don’t quite tie in with my visit. So, despite offering Robocop, Mr Peabody and Sherman, The Lego Movie and The Dallas Buyers’ Club I have to console myself with an ever-increasing bar tab back at the Caladh Inn.

Yes, I could have gone to hear a lecture on ‘Island Emigration from 1750 – 1920’ but I’m not sure how enlightened I’d have been at the end of it and there is no way I can face the gritty and compelling movie 12 Years A Slave again. My stomach is robust, but there are limits.

Still, all is not lost. I apply myself to research the hotly contested global phenomenon that is Stornoway black pudding. It all boils down, quite literally, to three choices. You can either choose from Charlie Barley’s, Willie John’s or the Macleod and Macleod variety.

For once in my life, I won’t commit myself, with Putin knocking on the door a man, even I know, has to be careful with his allegiances.

Enter by the narrow gate. For the gate is wide and the way is easy that leads to destruction, and those who enter by it are many.

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