The Isle of Harris

Geologically, Harris is literally awesome. The bedrock is Lewisian gneiss, one of the oldest rocks in the world.

Going back to the Archaeon, the very earliest geological period, it is complex and many-layered. Having often covered in other sedimentary rocks, it contains quartz, feldspar, iron, magnesium and pink granite. Throughout billions of years, it has been melted, folded and shaped by unimaginably intense heat and seismic movement and, as a result it is striped and splashed with a variety of subtle, gentle, beautiful colours.

The Gaelic word Roghadel means ‘the favoured valley’, or ‘the chosen place’. It is the greenest and most fertile of all the glens of Harris. However, a large part of the east coast, north of Rodel, is often compared to a moonscape, being rocky, pale and irtually devoid of vegetation. This is not merely poetic: the rocks are formed of anorthosite, samples of which have indeed been brought back from the moon. It is moonrock and, when cut, it sparkles with crystals and garnets.

The name machair is given to a rare phenomenon of low-lying grassland growing beside such sandy beaches as Scarista and Luskentyre. Mixed with sand and fragments of shell, it provides shelter for a wonderful variety of wildlife, and in summer it blooms with innumerable multi-coloured wildflowers: a sight never to be forgotten.

The Climate is maritime, and temperate. It does rain, but probably not as much as you might think. Seldom does it snow and very rarely will snow settle. The temperature very rarely becomes intolerably hot, nor unbearably cold. It can certainly be windy; it can be dramatic, with clouds moving at speed across the Minch and over the islands and the hills. They say in the Hebrides that if you don’t like the weather don’t worry: just wait ten minutes and it will change. But it can also be sunny, warm and still, for days on end.

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In summer the long, lazy days seem to last forever, and it is dark for as little as two hours at night. Winter days can be gloriously bright and clear, long enough for a brisk walk up the hill before dinner: winter nights are long, but the compensation is an increasing chance of seeing the Aurora Borealis, or Northern Lights, and the near-certainty of counting more stars in the sky than you would ever have seen before, stretching bright and innumerably wide and deep across the dark cloth of the heavens. And, when you eventually come back inside, there is the comfort of a roaring peat fire and a glass of The Hearach (see Distillery).

Harris History

History in Harris is seldom written, generally related by word of mouth. As a result, facts are slippery and stories vary with each telling, but it seems certain that there was a settlement at Rodel for many hundreds, if not thousands of years.

Long ago, there was an Iron Age dun or broch on top of the hill behind the present house: a steep walk up to its ruins is rewarded by a panoramic view across the whole of the Minch. The island is dotted with such ancient sites: every civilisation from Neolithic times onwards has left tangible traces of occupation.

Fishing and sheep-farming have provided employment for generations, though the disturbances caused by the infamous Clearances, coupled with the failure of the kelp industry and the Highland Potato Famine contributed to the emigration of many islanders, in search of a better life. In the early 1800s for instance, over 1,000 people from Harris went to Cape Breton in Canada, though many of them chose ultimately to return: the pull of home has always been hard to resist in these islands.

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The Balranald Elopement

The Balranald Elopement is the story of one young couple who went to Australia in colourfully notorious circumstances. It concerned Jessie, daughter of the Macdonalds of North Uist, whose father wanted her to marry a wealthy grocer from Glasgow. Jessie, owever, loved Donald Macdonald and he came to her at night and carried her away in his boat, heading for Skye. Blown off-course, however, they landed in Harris, where Jessie was held captive by her aunt, at Rodel, until, once again, young Donald came back to rescue her. This time they got away, married and eventually emigrated. At Balranald House, visitors are shown Jessie’s window: at Rodel, where again she escaped through a window, a bedroom is named Balranald in her memory.

The MacLeods

The MacLeods have always considered Rodel to be their traditional seat. The house is just across the Little Minch from Dunvegan Castle, in Skye, which they also owned. Many, varied and often contradictory are the stories of this branch of the clan, some of which may be further investigated in the comfort of the library in Rodel House’s Chart Room. Here are a few of the more colourful characters.

Alasdair MacLeod (1450-1547), the 8th Chief of Clan MacLeod, was severely injured with an axe in 1483, at the Battle of Bloody Bay, one of the frequent violent and tangled internecine encounters between clans that marked those years. Thereafter, he was known as the Crotach, or hunchback, and he is particularly celebrated for having built St. Clement’s church at Rodel, where he was buried. (see below).

Mary MacLeod, or Mairi nighean Alasdair Ruaidh (1569-1674 or 1615–1706, opinions vary) was a poet, often described as the first female bard. Unmarried, to the end of her days she enjoyed whisky and snuff; her simple, direct poems and songs are still performed
in the Hebrides, and she was buried face down in Rodel – some say in the churchyard, others in front of the high altar of St. Clements. Opinions also vary as to the reasons for such a burial, but the best-supported theory is that she defied convention and encroached on bardic territory, traditionally exclusively reserved only to men.

Alexander MacLeod, (1716-1790), usually known as The Captain, was responsible for the elegant proportions of Rodel House, which he built in 1781. His early career in the East India Company made his fortune and took him all over the world. To his frustration, in 1757 contrary tides and winds on the Hooghly River prevented him from supporting Colonel Robert Clive at the Battle of Plassey, which marked the beginning of British rule in India, though he could hear and see it as it raged: his account of the episode makes thrilling reading. He returned home and, after a brief spell as MP for Honiton, Devon, he devoted his energetic last decade to Rodel. He established the harbour, built other houses and schools and promoted weaving and fishing, particularly offshore. He campaigned against the punishing salt tax, imported tea and silk, started the kelp industry and twice restored St. Clement’s when the roof was destroyed by fire. He even established the pleasingly named ‘Seminary for Female Industry’ in the village. He is still fondly remembered in Harris.

Catherine Murray, Countess of Dunmore (1814-1886), a woman of energy, spirit and courage, was the daughter of the Earl of Pembroke and a Russian Countess, Yekaterina Vorontsova. Her father-in-law, the wealthy 5th Earl of Dunmore, had bought all 150,000 acres of the Isle of Harris from the cash-strapped MacLeods. But her young husband, the 6th Earl, died unexpectedly in 1845. Aged 31, widowed and pregnant with her fourth child, she resolved to devote herself to the people of Harris. The Highland Potato Famine left people destitute and starving and she did her best to help them, to gain grants for their support or – if they wanted – their relocation, and to establish the stocking-knitting industry and, later, the immensely successful Harris Tweed industry, which flourishes still today (see below). She, too, is still fondly remembered in the island.

Harris: The Legend of the Norsemen’s Rope

A pleasing Norse legend about these Western Isles suggests an explanation of their shape and position. The story goes that back in the time of the Norsemen they formed one large land-mass known as The Long Island. In the hope of shifting the whole place nearer to Norway the Vikings put a hole in the cliffs at the Butt of Lewis and began towing it home. All was going rather well until a mighty storm arose, snapping the rope and breaking up the land into a scatter of islands. They settled where they now lie off the north-west coast of Scotland, forming a short, curving chain and dwindling in size towards the south.

On the map today they look a little like the skeleton of an antediluvian fish. The largest of them, the head of the fish, is the Isle of Lewis. The Isle of Harris is at the base of the skull: though connected to Lewis geographically, its mountains are higher and its character subtly different. But there’s one thing that all these islands have in common: theirs is a largely oral tradition. Hebridean history is passed down through generations, legend mingling indissolubly with memory: generally untrammelled by dates, it is often embroidered by hearsay and imagination. Now and again, however, a fact or two can be established, particularly when tangible corroboration comes unexpectedly to light.

Harris: The Legend of the Norsemen's Rope