A language of land and sea
Wanderers and wilderness

The unwritten landscape

Loch Snizort on the Isle of Skye, south-east of Lewis in the Inner Eebrides

In her beautiful essay "Isabella's Crag," Alice Starmore describes the relationship between language and place on the Lewis moor in the Outer Hebrides, and how fragile that relationship is in a rapidly changing world:

"Although too insignificant to be named on any map, Creagan Iseabal Mhartainn [Isabella's Crag] is a towering feature of the 'unwritten landscape' -- a rich vocabulary of geographical co-ordinates known, loved and spoken of by generations of the families who spent their summers in the crag's vicinity. Today, I count only a half a dozen people, myself included, who could name that crag and guide you to it. The youngest of us is sixty, so the future of the unwritten language is far shorter than its past: the acumulation of knowledge and respect that engendered it is now de-valued and close to being forgotten, like Isabella herself, for not even the half-dozen knows who she was or when she lived. Yet her modest crag stands as a paradigm for the whole Lewis moor: for its past, present and possible future.

Trees in the ruins of a blackhouse.

"Over my whole career," writes Starmore, "my greatest and most consistent artistic inspiration has stemmed from the childhood summers I spent on the Lewis moor during the 1950s and 1960s. For six weeks of each year of my childhood, my family moved from our usual home to the àirigh of our ancestral geàrraidh (pasture) on the moor just south of Stornoway. I belong to the very last Hebridean generation to take part in this traditional form of transhumance, for the practice had died out by the end of the 1960s.

"For centuries, the custom of transhumance in Lewis was an essential part of life in crofting villages, as arable land was limited. In order to provide enough fodder for the cattle to survive the winter and early spring, it was necessary to take them away to moorland pastures for the summer months so the village pastures could be harvested for winter feed.

An old croft house on Skye

"This was especially necessary in the Eye Peninsula, also known as the Point, where my family comes from. Point was a well-populated crofting area with virtually no hill grazing in the immediate district due to its peninsular situation. The summer hill grazing was on the far side of Stornoway, which involved a long march with the cattle through the town and then over hill and burn to the àirigh.

"In my parents' youth, the men, women and children and animals walked the many miles to their summer pastures, carrying all their essential foodstuffs, clothing and utensils. This was known as An Iomraich (The Flitting).

Blackhouse door

Spinning wheel

Crofting tools

"By the time I was a child, only the cattle and herders came on foot while we loaded all our chattels, including all domestic pets, in a small lorry hired for the day. We children perched on the top of the load like latter-day dustbowl Okies and headed off to glorious freedom and the joyful company of our little summer community.

"Each village tended to have its own geàrraidh and quite often they were named after the crofting village, such as Geàrraidh Shiadair (Shulishader's Pasture). Others were named after the original long-gone owner of the first àirigh. For example, Àirigh an t-Sagairt (the Priest's Sheiling) was still known long after priests had departed these Presbyterian shores. Many more were named after a feature of the landscape, such as Àirigh a' Chreagain (the Sheilings at the Crag), or sometimes even a measure of distance such as Àirigh Fad As (the Faraway Sheiling).

Ladder to the orchard

 "Place names were of great importance to us; as well as having a romance all of their own, they were a means of communicating where we were going or where we had been on our wanderings. My father would describe the journeys of his 1920s boyhood from Bayble in Point to the very furthest grazing at Loch Dubh nan Stearnag (the Black Loch of the Terns) in the heart of the Lewis moor. After walking twelve miles, they stopped to rest overnight at Àirigh na Beiste (the Animal Sheiling) before going through Àirigh Leitir (the Sheilings on the Slope) and then on to their own pasture called Àirigh Sgridhe at the foot of the Beinn a' Sgridhe in the Barvas Hills.

"My father's journey was epic by Lewis standards, and the pastures he passed through to get there were equivalent to the main towns on a road map. But the unwritten landscape held a treasury of terms with which to describe our journeys. My father could name every little feature he stopped at or passed by. Likewise, we children could tell our parents exactly where we were going, or where we had been."

Cows above Loch Snizort

"Knowing the landscape gave us the freedom of it. Our parents could get on with their day and trust that we would not get lost or drown in the vast network of lochs, burns and bogs that were all ours to explore....


"We lived on the border between micro and macro -- our detailed observations were balanced against the broad sweep of the open moor. Constant unsupervised exploration, with no time restrictions, allowed our imaginations to run free. We observed facts of nature, but it was also easy to believe in kelpies and shape-shifters when walking the moor in the late evening."

Sheep by the loch

A sheep trots after the herd

Outdoor life on the summer pasture contributed "to an intimate knowledge of the place, its  history, and all the life within it. Though as a small child I was free of the cares of adults, it was obvious that everyone was very happy on the moor, and as the time approached to return home it was difficult not to be sad. Latterly, there were just three families on our pasture and none of us wanted to be the first or last to leave. We therefore tried to co-ordinate our flitting so that we would all leave on the same day. Alexina, the sky reader, gave voice to all our feelings about the geàrraidh when she admitted one day, when we were packing up to go, that she was extremely sad at the thought of 'fágáil an geàrraidh na aonar' (leaving the pasture in loneliness).

"To us it had a spirit, a heart and soul, just as we had ourselves."

The long road home

Highland cow

Words: The passage above is from "Isabella's Crag: Language, Landscape and Life on the Lewis Moor" by Alice Starmore (EarthLines magazine, May 2012); highly recommended. All rights reserved by the author.

Pictures:  These photographs are from my recent journey to the Isle of Skye, which is south-east of Lewis in the Inner Hebrides. You can see Alice Starmore's photographs of the Lewis moor here, from her lovely exhibition "Mamba."

Related posts: "The Enclosure of Childhood" and "Finding the Way to the Green."


Beautiful words and truly significant contribution to the sense of place discussions that are re emerging in today's lostness

I'm moved by your choice of words but the pictures on display in this series of posts make me heartsick to be there in that particular landscape once again. Heavy sigh...

These words and especially this "Knowing the landscape gave us the freedom of it. Our parents could get on with their day and trust that we would not get lost or drown in the vast network of lochs, burns and bogs that were all ours to explore...." pulled the strings on my old, but no less lusty heart. She, this heart of mine was raised on an opposite isle now more covered with concrete but in the Water there are teachers who teach as if their lives depended upon it. As IT all does.

This link a 10 minute YouTube is that of Ka'Umeke Ka'eo's Education Movement on the island of Hawaii. In an area where Hawaiians continue to live as they have for all memory, this story of Changing Tides is why my old but no less lusty heart keeps trying to go home. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TUHWnNG0D9Q

Isle to Isle the unwritten language knows a different path. Mahalo nui loa e Terri. You put out markers for those with lusty hearts:)


This is my sheiling,
earth and sky of heart,
summer's healing.

I walk between stanes,
birthed anew.
A salve for old pains.

So what if it pours down,
the skies go dark,
it is the surround

of place, of time,
of memory,
and the lovely chime

of birds, always the birds
who comfort me with songs,
not words.

Never words.

©2017 Jane Yolen all rights reserved

words to images that made me catch a breath in the throat. Thank you Jane, it is a particularly beautiful one.

Thank you, Charlotte-I find so often Terri's postings call that forth.


This one's got me smilin' and hummin'

I agree -- gorgeous pictures and gorgeous words.

Alice Starmore is best known for writing books about hand knitting -- but I'd love to read more essays, or a whole book, in this vein.

She's got a book coming out in March of next year called Glamourie (from Dover/Calla Editions) that knitters in the mythic arts field might be particularly interested in. Here's the description:

"This unique book, named for the Scots term for magic, is rooted in ancient Gaelic folklore. Retellings of traditional tales are accompanied by full-color photographs - including nine panoramic gatefolds — taken in remote and romantic Hebridean locations, of gorgeous knitted costumes inspired by the stories. The fanciful and intricate outfits serve as illustrations for the storytelling; simpler versions of the original designs offer complete patterns. Years in the making, this combination of fable, highly conceptual design, and practical instruction will enchant not only knitters but also those in the fashion and costume world and readers fascinated by Scottish and Gaelic legends."

I long to be there again too. But having you and Karen back here in Devon would be just as good.

Thank you for this link, dear. I didn't know about the Ka'Umeke Ka'eo's Education Movement.

"...with songs,
not words.

Never words."

Powerful language for a woman whose life has been dedicated to the written word -- but who also values oral stories, including the stories of our bird neighbors.

Thank you, everyone.

Ohhhh, I don't knit but I do sew, I might need that!

Far, far too tired & brainfried to write any sort of coherent or useful reply, so I shall simply say: Cow butt!

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