WHAT'S the point of spending New Year on North Uist if it's not to come away with great stories and the absurdly high hope that somehow life can be made simple again?
The big news on the sunny, rain-free island chain – apart from the great weather – was the overnight arrival of something resembling the cone of an Apollo spacecraft on a beach in Benbecula. Excitement grew to fever pitch when it was learned the mass
ive canister might be full of Coors beer having somehow tumbled off a passing freighter – but thanks to an untimely puncture it was salt water galore, not a festive beerfest.
All was not lost though. Canny locals observed that the stainless steel might be worth more than £10,000, and since neither the council nor anyone else had staked a claim, hopes were high that the cone might be considered "treasure trove". But no-one has yet appeared with cutting equipment or tried to "re- purpose" the giant canister in any way. So the debris will doubtless sit for weeks, spewing foam-casing across the beach and losing scrap metal value before an expensive journey takes it to a discreet dismantling or burial in Stornoway.
The days when locals quarried wreckage – à la Whisky Galore – are clearly past. Doubtless, islanders are wealthier than in the days of the SS Politician. But are they also less daring, less playful and less likely to grab what fortune provides? Why doesn't someone have a go? Don't we do playful anymore? Have we all become so serious? Even at Hogmanay? Even when no-one's claiming ownership? Even on the Uists?
It's one small step for law and order. One giant leap for the suburbanisation of Gaeldom. And that's a shame. Because life on the edge should never be like life in a Glasgow suburb. Over-regulated Scotland needs somewhere to slip the leash. Instead, urban society is refashioning island culture in its own petty, rule-bound, risk-averse image. And for some reason the Gaels are not fighting back.
North of the Great Cone, a queue the length of a funeral cortège developed behind a Co-op lorry. Its earlier Christmas delivery had apparently arrived frozen solid – the cooling facility turned up a fraction too high. There was much amusement – but sadly no frozen roses or icy salads for sale. Despite local protestations that frozen bread and meat would be better than nothing at Christmas, the whole consignment went back to Inverness. So the next, pre-Hogmanay, delivery was flanked by a convoy of cars with pensioners determined to make sure the delivery didn't get away – whatever its temperature.
No doubt, health and safety regulations meant the driver had no option but to turn back with his frozen load. And that might just make sense at an urban Co-op ten miles from HQ. But not at a shop with a combined ferry/ road journey of five hours to the main depot. Why did someone not use common sense, order a big thaw, invite loyal customers for a special Christmas dinner and laugh the mistake away? Sadly not even the valiant Co-operative movement can relax its rules for a minute.
St Kilda is just one hour and 40 minutes away by fast Rib from Lochmaddy. But for those without the time, weather or stomach for the journey to the most compelling island destination in Britain, the mountainous rocky lumps loom mysteriously over the horizon at the new community viewpoint halfway up Clettraval Hill. The viewpoint – a two metre square stone-dyke enclosed platform – is fine. But there's only room for one parked car and about four people. Drivers must then follow the single-track road up to the top to find a safe turning space. And can enjoy a jaw-dropping glimpse of the entire lochan-studded island chain – through the mesh of an MOD run radar base.
I've no doubt the listening station is doing vital work in troubled times. But might it not be possible for this hilltop Hebridean MOD fortress to consider sharing space with the community? Let's face it, those with evil intent will not be deterred by a keep-out sign or wire fencing. And the bird-lovers', beachcombers' paradise of North Uist hardly attracts Britain's most mindless, marauding visitors. But MOD rules are non-negotiable. A defence facility may be active, redundant or facing the scrapheap, but its ability to block wind farm developments and scenic views is absolute.
Some people hate wind farms. But on the Southern Isles, I have met few of them and far more locals aghast at the recent hike in energy prices, and the prediction that petrol prices (already £1.18 a litre) will hit £1.30 by the summer.
Unless the government's Road Equivalent Tariff pilot slashes ferry prices fast, islanders believe fuel costs will price them out of tourism. So why not make a concession to island motorists? According to last week's study by consultants Arup, older trains used on often-empty rural routes – like the Inverness-Kyle railway line – produce more emissions per passenger than if everyone travelled by car. Will this "discovery" make the case for cheaper, subsidised petrol prices on the Isles? Probably not. Nor will renewable energy come directly to the rescue.
Islanders have been waiting for more than a year to see what central government finally decides for the Eishken and Lewis wind farm projects. In 2008, they are waiting still.
Islands are like the canaries down Scotland's communal coal mine. Released from the mainland tyrannies of bureaucracy and anonymity, they could thrive and become pioneers in co-operative, playful, resourceful and sustainable ways of living.
Chained to the priorities of urban Scotland – without any of its compensating advantages – island communities are struggling to keep identity and population. Empty Coors canisters can be recycled. Empty gestures are plain worthless. For the Western Isles, 2008 must be the Year of the Big Political Decisions.
The full article contains 1003 words and appears in The Scotsman newspaper.
