TRAVEL: Isle of Harris
The view was spectacular, but Peter Warzynski wasn’t thinking of the scenery. He had something else on his mind – a marriage proposal. Here’s his travel feature; from the Isle of Harris, with love.
Oh God, oh God, oh God... My heart was beating furiously as I buried my head in the boot of the hire car and fumbled through my rucksack for the small mahogany box.
Grania – the future Mrs Warzynski, hopefully – was waiting on the beach. I found the ring – my grandma’s engagement ring – put it in my pocket and went to join her.
The light on the camera flickered as the timer slowly counted down from 20... I could see it flashing, each second ticking by.
God this was taking a long time, and all of a sudden I was very aware of how heavy my head was.
Then, as if the countdown had never existed at all, the light on the camera stopped. Showtime.
Before the first shot went off I dropped to one knee.
The second click of the camera echoed around the desolate beach.
Nearby, four sheep trotted away in single file, oblivious to the life-changing moment they were leaving behind.
My mind went blank.
“Err... Will you do me a favour?” I said. Smooth.
“Will you be my wife?” Better.
The Isle of Harris probably wouldn’t be everyone’s choice when it comes to romantic getaways.
Utter the words “Outer Hebrides” and you’ll probably conjure the image of a barren windswept moor where burly Scots fishermen in tattered woolly jumpers sing harmonious shanties.
Harris’ desolate terrain is home to just over 1,900 people, as well as golden eagles, deer, cows and, of course, sheep.
The island is so bleak, in fact, that Stanley Kubrick used its blizzard-beaten peaks and valleys to mimic the surface of Jupiter in 2001: A Space Odyssey. But its rugged moorland, ominous clouds and tumultuous peaks and troughs make it one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever visited – cold, but beautiful.
We flew courtesy of Flybe and landed at Stornoway airport, in the Isle of Lewis, on a Friday afternoon.
We made a quick pit stop at a Co-op before slowly journeying our way south to Scarista to our waiting luxury cottage – supplies are essential as there are very few places to get your bits and bobs in the south of the island.
A car is also essential. Buses going to the south of the island are infrequent, so Car Hire Hebrides, based at the airport, came in handy.
If you don’t fancy driving, Harris’ taxi driver needs a day or two’s notice as he doesn’t work every day, especially in the winter months.
Our cottage was about 50 miles from the airport and the Google Map instructions couldn’t have been easier – head north on A857 (0.2 miles), take the first exit onto A858 (0.8 miles), continue south on the A859 (48.8 miles).
You can drive from Lewis to Harris easily, because they are in fact the same body of land. The names simply refer to the north and south parts of the island.
The main road – the A859 – runs from top to bottom and is peppered with thousands of the island’s fearless sheep, who stand belligerently still in the middle of the road as the cars weave round them.
Our cottage, in Scarista, stands looking out to sea.
Its Neolithic architecture with turf-covered roof gives the impression that it blends into the hillside and disappears underground.
If you can’t picture it, think Bilbo Baggins and The Shire.
“In a hole in the ground there lived a Hobbit... it was a hobbit-hole, and that means comfort.”
And not just comfort; the cottage’s subterranean feel, peat fire and under floor heating cocoon you in safety when the winds howl outside – and they do howl.
The complimentary welcome hamper made up of Champagne, hot smoked salmon, black pudding and chocolate helps to take the edge off too.
As I sat watching Sky Sports in my dressing gown and slippers, sipping the complimentary Bollinger, I imagined this was the type of place to which Hollywood stars would come to escape... whatever it is the rich and famous tire of.
On the TV, Manchester City were behind at QPR, and it was a good game but my focus was elsewhere.
Just a few hours earlier, I’d smuggled the engagement ring though the security checks at Birmingham airport.
My heart was pounding as the friendly female member of staff hauled item after item from my bag and luckily (or perhaps knowingly) left the small wooden box with my gran’s ring tucked safely between my socks.
I was extremely thankful that the proposal had not been forced to take place in front of a burly security guard and a couple of French students.
I didn’t actually have a plan for the proposal, I thought I’d play it by ear.
As Grania and I sat on the sofa, we read through the visitors’ book.
“Stayed for a week and didn’t leave the house once,” said one entry.
We decided that although sitting around drinking Champagne was fun, we’d have to go out tomorrow and sample the island – otherwise this was going to be a very short travel review.
So, the next day we started early (about 8am) and took the car for a tour of the local attractions.
After a 10-minute drive through panoramic moorland and suicidal sheep, we came across an old church and a deserted hotel – at least it appeared to be deserted.
St Clement’s Church, in Rodel, was in the sightseeing guide, but wasn’t open.
It sits on top of a hill overlooking the coast and keeping a watchful eye on a couple of homes in the distance.
For the next 20 minutes, we clambered around the 15th century
ruins on the church’s grounds –
respectfully of course – and debated our next move.
We drove to the main port in the south (Tarbert) and were slowly
becoming aware that we hadn’t seen a single human being or car since setting off a few hours earlier.
In a way it was nice to be able to poodle around, taking in the
wind-swept mountainous peaks and valleys of this remote retreat.
The feeling of isolation was continually accentuated by the relentless winds, and every now and then the sun would burst through the clouds in
Biblical fashion and illuminate a far off mountaintop or coastal peninsula.
Harris is nothing if not beautiful, and inspired numerous outbursts of “wow, look at that” and “stop here for minute, I’ll get the camera”.
We got to Tarbert and still hadn’t seen any signs of life.
Scenes from the Wicker Man began to flash through my mind – in fact the 1973 original was filmed not far from the island.
We decided to cut our loses and turned the car around. After picking up a couple of hitchhikers – who looked safe enough – we then headed back to the cottage, in the process dropping the backpackers about 20 miles north of Tarbert.
Slippers, peat fire and black pudding time.
We later learned we’d picked the wrong day to go sightseeing (Sunday).
You see, the island’s largely
Presbyterian population practices Sabbatarianism – Sunday is a day of rest, and nothing is open.
Shops, cafes, even the island’s
windswept golf course remain steadfastly shut in the name of God.
The lack of entertainment was a blessing though, as it gave us a chance to try out the cottage’s sauna and
Jacuzzi.
After more Champagne, black
pudding and smoked salmon, we found ourselves back in front of the fire playing card games and discussing whether we could claim squatter’s rights and stay here for ever.
I was also well aware this would be a good time to pop the question – but it wasn’t quite perfect.
The proposal was left until the
following day – on the way back to the airport.
We hadn’t visited any of the islands beaches so we stopped at an empty cove about half-an-hour from the cottage.
There was a short rocky path down to the sand and rock pools, and we carefully sidled our way down. “I can’t believe I’m about to do this” I thought, as I set up the camera and balanced my then girlfriend on the slippery rocks.
I set the timer to 20 seconds and the shots to one every three seconds – it would take nine in total.
Then I joined her and the first test shots went off.
Four sheep, who must have thought they had the beach to themselves, stared at us for a few minutes and made their way to a more secluded part of the cove.
“Oh, wait there one minute,” I said after the camera had finished clicking away, “I just need to get my hat.”
The excuse to go back to the car was rubbish, but I wasn’t able to get the ring before as Grania would have
spotted it.
The climb back up the rocky path to the car was much harder than the climb down.
I’m going to do this, I’m going to do this – keep calm, don’t give anything away. I reached the car, opened the boot and plunged my hand into my rucksack.
She said ‘yes’, by the way.
Info
Accommodation
Blue Reef Cottages can be found on Scarista, in the Isle of Harris.
Prices per week: January to March: £1,000; April to October: £1,600; November to December: £1,000; Christmas and New Year: £1,600. Short breaks from £180 per night (five nights).
Flights
Flights are operated by Flybe from Birmingham and connect in Glasgow before landing in Stornoway, in the north of the island.
The journey between Glasgow and Stornoway is operated by Loganair.
Prices vary throughout the year, but return flights in January (for two people) cost £430.
A summer return flight, in August, also for two people, would cost £362. All prices are based on bookings made now.
Getting around
Car Hire Hebrides offers daily rates from £30–£55, or weekly rates of £180–£330. Call 01851 706 500.
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