Riddoch on the Outer Hebrides by Lesley Riddoch sampler

tuppence worth
My father, Lord George MacLeod of Fuinary, gave much of his life and
money to leading the restoration of the Hebridean Cathedral on Iona, mostly
using volunteer labour. He had, in fact, thrown away the family fortune by
investing west of Crianlarich. Though I don’t begrudge him a penny.
Part of his motivation for that endeavour was wanting young people
to become immersed in the experience of working alongside Gaelic stonemasons
on high scaffolds as they sang work songs, told tales in the evening of
their love of nature and their lack of materialistic ambition, and then crooned
exquisite songs, some of them written when Napoleon was but a child.
So that was the great side of the Gaelic culture.
But there was another side too.
All his life George had had to fight against miserable, thrawn folk in the
islands who were also Gaels and for whom cynicism or drunkenness were
ways of life. Indeed, when I once asked him where he wanted to be buried
he had replied: ‘Anywhere but Iona.’
Any honest book about the islands must explore the same dangerous
territory without painting Gaels as heroes or villains – they are people…
with stories.
Storytelling, and this book is largely a collection of stories, is a vital
part of our culture. It’s how we remind each other of who we are, and of the
great truths and mysteries. The truths of Hebridean culture are becoming
harder to swallow with each passing generation. The next will not know
the culture that has cradled the islands for over a thousand years.
If such cultural genocide had happened to the Inuit or the Aborigines,
every child in Britain would know about it. As it is, there is hardly a child
in the land who could point to Uist on the map, or say a word in Gaelic,
though most can parrot a dozen words in French or German.
But does it matter a damn?
Well, apart from warning me not to invest west of Crianlarich, my
father would also observe with a sigh, ‘The Gaelic culture is dying and I
sometimes want to mourn it, and sometimes am greatly relieved.’
So when my friend of 30 years Lesley <strong>Riddoch</strong> phoned to ask if I would
accompany her on a journey up the Western Isles, I said yes without
checking my diary. Anything that was in that diary would have to be
cancelled. I would just tell folk the truth and they would understand.
I agreed for two reasons.
Firstly, because I love the woman, and by that I mean that I have an
abiding passion for her. She has such conviction and fire for what she does
that I admire her very deeply, and yet she is sometimes simultaneously so
vulnerable and idiotic that it inspires a deep compassion in me and I also
want to protect her.
We irritate each other almost constantly.
We also enjoy each other’s company. God knows why, but we do.
Several times during our intensely busy two weeks together on our
island venture I seriously considered abandoning her and I know that the
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