Back of Beyond - November 2005

You have to be dedicated to try this. Last night it was blowing a hooly and bucketing rain but would my kids be put off - never. Off they set with some friends from down the road whose mum had taken pity on them and had offered to drive them between houses. Even then they were pretty wet and parts of some costumes had blown halfway to the mainland. Still, some bags of sticky swag cheered them up, and as it is customary here to give money, rather a lot of jangly loot too. This money has to be used to pay for a party, according to tradition, so Saturday afternoon is being hotly anticipated by the smaller members of at least 3 households in this township. Optimism gets you everywhere round here.

Today was a rare and wondrous thing; a day with no wind at all. Shame I had to spend all day indoors with my smallest son who caught pneumonia whilst out guising on Monday. Well, not pneumonia exactly, but he takes after his hypochondriac father. Windless nights are different altogether, it aint natural not to hear whistling through the gaps in the windows as you drift off to the land of nod. Instead worrying sounds abound; was that thump an axeman on the stairs? Or maybe some sort of monstrous beastie is making that weird noise in the kitchen? Still, it is at least raining so it's not all bad.

Yes David, it is me.

Well we are back to our default state of windy, which is nice. Not too windy, just a comfortable background noise, enhanced now and again by the rain battering on the windows. A warm fire is blazing away and I am settling down with my book , which is called The Stornoway Way and contains such gems as 'The wind and rain are so violent now it's like the house is being rammed through a car wash.' It also features 'the Lewisest Story Ever to Come From Lewis'. Not for the easily offended though. Talking of which, I wonder if blogging on a Sunday is allowed?

I think most people here have spent the day half asleep, I know I have. Not that that's unusual of course, but there was at least an excuse this time. Having been on Uist in January my heart missed a beat when I read yesterday's shipping forecast. Hurricane Force 12! This can't be happening again. We ran through the familiar checklist; candles: none, torch batteries: none, coal: none, gas for stove: none. Right, off to the shop then. Having panic bought enough supplies to see us through the next Ice Age it proved to be nothing more than a wild, worrying, wakeful night. And today we're all walking on sunshine, relatively speaking of course.

Friday is shopping day; this usually means sampling the delights of the Co-op, or, on a push-the-boat-out week, Somerfield. This week however, a small person's impending birthday required a visit to the toy store, the pinnacle of the Stornoway shopping experience. On entering, the unassuming building proves to be an enormous cavern filled with every conceivable delight and the customer (particularly those under 4 feet high) is immediately transfixed by row upon row of Lego, Polly Pockets, tractors and trucks, jigsaws, Baby Bjorn and every other toy imaginable. I especially liked the National Geographic Ice Mummy 'with free stomach contents'.
Gripped as I was by post- purchase consumer gluttony I then hotfooted it over to the Caberfeidh Hotel where Marks and Spencers, no less, had set up camp. Having heard on the grapevine that this event is a bit of a free for all, I had been honing those jumble sale elbow skills acquired in student days, but it was in fact very civilised and serene; more granny chic than Per Una but a welcome change from Woolies. Having fully imbibed the relaxed Markies atmosphere it was a bit of a shock to the system to emerge and find myself in Lewis, not Buchanan Street. Instantly I was flattened by the wind, which also wrenched my precious bags out of my hand. Not very Marks and Spencer to be grovelling about trying to retrieve pants from under cars, however I'd rather be doing that on Lewis than in Glasgow.

Today I felt like a normal person. Hang on, let's qualify that. Today I could hang my washing out like a normal person. For example, I could put the basket down and leave it there, on the grass, and it didn't move. I was able to glance idly at the sky, and admire its cloudlessness, look round my garden (and the neighbour's), and talk to the cat all the while performing the above task. All this seems unremarkable only to those who don't reside in the Hebrides. Fellow island dwellers will know only too well the grim set of the jaw as you step out the back door, ready to do battle with the wind; the skill required to transfer the madly horizontally flapping thing that was wrenched from the washing basket onto the line; the superhuman strength required to simultaneously hold down the rope and attach the pegs. You make it back to the shelter of the house exhausted, but triumphant. But it's not over yet, oh no. The gauntlet of rain has been thrown down and a watch must always be kept. The clouds mock and tease and inevitably succeed in their evil purpose; by the time you notice the deluge it is too late and you're out there getting soaked, desperately trying to wrestle those super strength pegs back off again. Having gone round the garden retrieving all the garments hanging from fences and bushes, you make for shelter once again and put the whole saturated lot where it should have gone in the first place if you had any sense - the tumble drier. Lordy, when it's put that way - who would want to be a normal person?

We were woken this morning at a hideously early hour by two small people rustling into the room, seeking permission to go and play outside in the snow. There was a pause, during which we listened to the wind howling round the house and the hail beating on the velux windows. 'Are you completely and utterly bonkers?' came the reply, 'for a start, it's not even light yet, and secondly, you're still in your pyjamas! No, absolutely not, no way!' There followed much huffing and puffing and eventually a deal was reached concerning porridge. On getting up however, it became clear that we were wrong on both counts; it was in fact 9.30 and as light as it was going to get, and the rustling was caused by an excess of sensible outdoor clothes. Meanwhile, all the snow had gone. These new black out blinds have a lot to answer for, as indeed do we.