The Stones of Callanish
The islands of Saint Kilda leap from the sea as if the petrified wrath of some archaic storm. Scores of miles from the mainland, they are Britain’s ultima Thule, a Caledonian Timbuktu. So rare are landings on Saint Kilda that a special club exists for all of those who reach its shores.
Our approach to the islands brought us by two huge sea stacks, each towering more than 500 feet. They were white, as if in snow, though the flakes were avian – together the rocks of Saint Kilda hold the nests of almost a third of the world’s Northern gannets.
The human inhabitants of Saint Kilda were as remarkable as their environment. Like nesting kittiwakes, they built life on tiny toeholds in a cliff of adversity. Though the land was just generous enough to allow a few potatoes, cows and sheep, most of the Saint Kildans’ diet came from the sea. Bold cragsmen scaled or swung over the perilous cliffs to gather seabirds, their eggs and chicks. In so doing, they used birds as a link to enter the pelagic food chain. Like Eskimos, the Saint Kildans were a testament to the human ability to create a life in the most extreme circumstances. Still, they were unable to survive contact with the outside world. Disease, onerous religious demands, and the lure of opportunity ate at traditional life until it could no longer be sustained. The islands were abandoned in 1930.
We landed on Hirta, the largest of the islands in the Saint Kilda group. Guides took us through the village, and we saw stone structures built through the ages. We saw the primitive Soay sheep, and listened for the twitter and trill of Saint Kilda’s unique wren. Some of us climbed above the village and up to the top a cliff. It was astonishing and terrifying to consider the work of gathering eggs here. But our fear was instantly mollified by sporting fulmars. Fulmars, “foul gulls” in Norse, may be expert defensive projectile vomiters, but otherwise they are charming creatures. They have large, soulful eyes, and their bulging foreheads give them an intelligent look. And they are certainly masters of the air! Almost within hand’s reach, fulmars soared and teetered at the cliff’s edge, riding a mighty updraft with nonchalance. Poised in midair, rising and falling in graceful arcs, or performing dainty pirouettes, they were areal dancers, the gusty wind their music.
A visit to Saint Kilda, considering its life and history, cannot but be filled with joy, wonder and melancholy. Landing there is a remarkable experience.
Our trip has been a busy one, and a few hours at sea gave time for a welcome afternoon nap.
After dinner, we boarded Zodiacs to ride through some of the Outer Hebrides to the Stones of Callanish. This megalithic site, though smaller than Stonehenge, is more intricate. It has a ring and two rows, giving it the shape, from the air, of a Celtic Cross. How intriguing, in this lonely landscape, to consider the lives of those who built this structure, and to imagine with what exultation they greeted the moon’s arrival that it predicted.
Britain’s periphery abounds with life and history. Experiencing their interdigitation, as we did today, is what makes our journey here so rich and remarkable.
The islands of Saint Kilda leap from the sea as if the petrified wrath of some archaic storm. Scores of miles from the mainland, they are Britain’s ultima Thule, a Caledonian Timbuktu. So rare are landings on Saint Kilda that a special club exists for all of those who reach its shores.
Our approach to the islands brought us by two huge sea stacks, each towering more than 500 feet. They were white, as if in snow, though the flakes were avian – together the rocks of Saint Kilda hold the nests of almost a third of the world’s Northern gannets.
The human inhabitants of Saint Kilda were as remarkable as their environment. Like nesting kittiwakes, they built life on tiny toeholds in a cliff of adversity. Though the land was just generous enough to allow a few potatoes, cows and sheep, most of the Saint Kildans’ diet came from the sea. Bold cragsmen scaled or swung over the perilous cliffs to gather seabirds, their eggs and chicks. In so doing, they used birds as a link to enter the pelagic food chain. Like Eskimos, the Saint Kildans were a testament to the human ability to create a life in the most extreme circumstances. Still, they were unable to survive contact with the outside world. Disease, onerous religious demands, and the lure of opportunity ate at traditional life until it could no longer be sustained. The islands were abandoned in 1930.
We landed on Hirta, the largest of the islands in the Saint Kilda group. Guides took us through the village, and we saw stone structures built through the ages. We saw the primitive Soay sheep, and listened for the twitter and trill of Saint Kilda’s unique wren. Some of us climbed above the village and up to the top a cliff. It was astonishing and terrifying to consider the work of gathering eggs here. But our fear was instantly mollified by sporting fulmars. Fulmars, “foul gulls” in Norse, may be expert defensive projectile vomiters, but otherwise they are charming creatures. They have large, soulful eyes, and their bulging foreheads give them an intelligent look. And they are certainly masters of the air! Almost within hand’s reach, fulmars soared and teetered at the cliff’s edge, riding a mighty updraft with nonchalance. Poised in midair, rising and falling in graceful arcs, or performing dainty pirouettes, they were areal dancers, the gusty wind their music.
A visit to Saint Kilda, considering its life and history, cannot but be filled with joy, wonder and melancholy. Landing there is a remarkable experience.
Our trip has been a busy one, and a few hours at sea gave time for a welcome afternoon nap.
After dinner, we boarded Zodiacs to ride through some of the Outer Hebrides to the Stones of Callanish. This megalithic site, though smaller than Stonehenge, is more intricate. It has a ring and two rows, giving it the shape, from the air, of a Celtic Cross. How intriguing, in this lonely landscape, to consider the lives of those who built this structure, and to imagine with what exultation they greeted the moon’s arrival that it predicted.
Britain’s periphery abounds with life and history. Experiencing their interdigitation, as we did today, is what makes our journey here so rich and remarkable.
