St. Kilda, Scotland
When you set out to visit a place such as St. Kilda, you surely must be prepared for an adventure. It’s not a destination easily reached, even for those who live in Scotland, which lays claim to the remote group of islands. From Edinburgh, it would likely take you at least twp days of travel without the aid of a hired helicopter, and even that could be problematic. You see, it’s not that St. Kilda lay such a great distance from the rest of the Scottish islands, but rather what lay within that distance. Even from the sparsely populated Isle of Lewis (in itself, a destination off the beaten path), St. Kilda remains still another fifty or so miles west, and those miles often come at a high price in sea conditions. The wind and swells torture the islands for much of the year, and even though the weather may start out inviting, forbidding is mere minutes away.
We sailed through the night to arrive in the St. Kilda group just before breakfast this morning. The seas had been fairly moderate for the crossing, and we hoped our luck would continue. After passing by some of the group’s spectacular rock formations and bird cliffs on our approach, we finally dropped anchor in the fairly protected bay of Hirta, the main island. After our arrival, we learned just how fortunate our timing was this day as the supply vessel for the island had been unable to make landfall at all on the previous day. Instead, its crew had been forced to sit out the storm aboard their ship while being tossed about no more than a hundred meters from shore. We, however, had no such difficulties and made landing just after breakfast to see a bit more of the island and the remains of the remarkable settlement.
The St. Kildans were forced to abandon their way of life in 1930 after centuries of toil. Their customs and means had simply become too dated to keep pace with the modern world, and too many of their sons and daughters were seeking their paths elsewhere. Still, the history they left behind has been remarkably well preserved by the trust created on the islands’ behalf, and we savored the opportunity to walk amongst the former homes and gardens of the past inhabitants. The simple but sturdy stone structures still stand strong against the elements that batter the islands almost incessantly. The people have gone, but their village remains; so too do the seabirds that they famously harvested off the shear cliffs that form the majority of Hirta’s shoreline. Another staple of their existence, the ancient Soay sheep also continue to thrive in their former masters’ absence. These now feral animals are the most primitive of all domestic sheep and have evolved very little in the last 7000 years, making them a fascinating resource of genetic information, and as such, they have been the subject of a twenty-year on going research project.
Thinking our luck was without limits, we set out for an afternoon Zodiac cruise to finish off our visit. And though we managed to enjoy the ride, the wildlife, and the scenery; the enjoyment came in spite of the weather, which seemingly ran the gamut of possible conditions. In just a little more than 90 minutes, we had a veil of fog, flat then tossed seas, and a glimmer of blue sky followed by a slight mist that built to a full shower. And while the ship sat peacefully in the sheltered bay, the sea began to churn against the rocks that serve as the natural breakwater. It rolled back and forth through the gap sawing at the chasm in the classic contest of immovable object and irresistible force. Though the rock can battle to a draw on most days, the outcome is inevitable: out here the sea always wins in the end.
When you set out to visit a place such as St. Kilda, you surely must be prepared for an adventure. It’s not a destination easily reached, even for those who live in Scotland, which lays claim to the remote group of islands. From Edinburgh, it would likely take you at least twp days of travel without the aid of a hired helicopter, and even that could be problematic. You see, it’s not that St. Kilda lay such a great distance from the rest of the Scottish islands, but rather what lay within that distance. Even from the sparsely populated Isle of Lewis (in itself, a destination off the beaten path), St. Kilda remains still another fifty or so miles west, and those miles often come at a high price in sea conditions. The wind and swells torture the islands for much of the year, and even though the weather may start out inviting, forbidding is mere minutes away.
We sailed through the night to arrive in the St. Kilda group just before breakfast this morning. The seas had been fairly moderate for the crossing, and we hoped our luck would continue. After passing by some of the group’s spectacular rock formations and bird cliffs on our approach, we finally dropped anchor in the fairly protected bay of Hirta, the main island. After our arrival, we learned just how fortunate our timing was this day as the supply vessel for the island had been unable to make landfall at all on the previous day. Instead, its crew had been forced to sit out the storm aboard their ship while being tossed about no more than a hundred meters from shore. We, however, had no such difficulties and made landing just after breakfast to see a bit more of the island and the remains of the remarkable settlement.
The St. Kildans were forced to abandon their way of life in 1930 after centuries of toil. Their customs and means had simply become too dated to keep pace with the modern world, and too many of their sons and daughters were seeking their paths elsewhere. Still, the history they left behind has been remarkably well preserved by the trust created on the islands’ behalf, and we savored the opportunity to walk amongst the former homes and gardens of the past inhabitants. The simple but sturdy stone structures still stand strong against the elements that batter the islands almost incessantly. The people have gone, but their village remains; so too do the seabirds that they famously harvested off the shear cliffs that form the majority of Hirta’s shoreline. Another staple of their existence, the ancient Soay sheep also continue to thrive in their former masters’ absence. These now feral animals are the most primitive of all domestic sheep and have evolved very little in the last 7000 years, making them a fascinating resource of genetic information, and as such, they have been the subject of a twenty-year on going research project.
Thinking our luck was without limits, we set out for an afternoon Zodiac cruise to finish off our visit. And though we managed to enjoy the ride, the wildlife, and the scenery; the enjoyment came in spite of the weather, which seemingly ran the gamut of possible conditions. In just a little more than 90 minutes, we had a veil of fog, flat then tossed seas, and a glimmer of blue sky followed by a slight mist that built to a full shower. And while the ship sat peacefully in the sheltered bay, the sea began to churn against the rocks that serve as the natural breakwater. It rolled back and forth through the gap sawing at the chasm in the classic contest of immovable object and irresistible force. Though the rock can battle to a draw on most days, the outcome is inevitable: out here the sea always wins in the end.
