By chance a similar storm has engulfed BBC Alba, as it has come to light that their 6 part natural world series ‘Frozen Gannet’, was not actually filmed on Sulasgeir as was widely believed. This series from the BBC Alba Natural History Unit was supposed to be about a year in the life of the gannets living on the rocky outcrop of Sulasgeir. The show was narrated by well known Neisoch naturalist Sir David Adabrock and was first aired on BBC Alba in November this year to rave reviews.

However, viewers began to get suspicious when some of the anticipated breathtaking shots of the far-flung island appeared to be less epic than expected.

Viewers started to become suspicious when the ‘steep cliffs’ of ‘Sulasgeir’ appeared to be climbed very easily by the 85-year old Adabrock (in his Mobility Scooter) and seemed to feature no nesting seabirds whatsoever apart from two hoodie crows sitting on an old fishbox. When the camera panned around ‘the north Atlantic’, viewers caught glimpses of what appeared to be the Cal Mac ferry Muirneag in the background and in one shot the local Brownies could be seen having a sausage sizzle on a stoney beach.

BBC Alba has finally admitted that all of the shots of ‘Sulasgeir’ were in actual fact footage of Sober Island in Stornoway Harbour. A spokesperson for BBC Alba said ‘Well heck, Frozen Gannet was on after the rerun of  Machair at 11.30pm, so we didn’t think anyone would be watching’.

Sir David is also well known for his fishing documentary ‘Lythe On Earth’.

A good news story for the country and in particular for Edinburgh Zoo, but it’s not the first time Giant Pandas have lived in Scotland.

 In 1850, Sir James Matheson was busy developing Lews Castle as a home for his family, but also as a focal point for his business empire. He had big plans for the Castle Grounds. As well as wanting to see the development of an extensive area of woodland surrounding his mock Tudor Castle, he wanted to see the finest exotic plants from around the globe growing there to add to the elegant splendour.

 Collections of colourful wild birds and myriad strange creatures were shipped in by boat and set free to roam around the Castle Grounds.

 But as a businessman, Sir James always kept one eye open for increasing his wealth. In 1870, just as Harris Tweed was becoming established, Sir James thought there might be some pound signs attached to the humble Giant Panda. Not as a tourist attraction like the two Pandas now in Edinburgh Zoo, but as a way of contributing towards the Tweed industry.

 Sir James had seen Pandas many times through his business dealings in China. Their thick fur had always impressed him and he wondered if this fur could be used to good advantage.

 He ordered a flock of Giant Pandas to be delivered to Lewis and late in 1870 twenty of the cuddly creatures arrived in Stornoway. The Pandas were set loose close to Marybank Lodge under the care of a Pandherd. The Pandas took to Lewis life straight away. There had been plans to plant a bamboo plantation at Marybank to feed the Pandas, but it was soon discovered that the Pandas lived quite happily off rhododendron bushes and marags. It was discovered that the blood in the marags added not only a glossy sheen to the Panda fur, but provided a useful layer of water proofing to help the Pandas cope with the Lewis weather. Up until that point, all marags were grey in colour and it was only as butchers experimented in finding the best Panda waterproofing that the two varieties of Black and White marags became common, as each colour brought different qualities to the black and white Panda fur.

 The experiment with Panda fur ultimately proved to be unsuccessful. Sir James’ original plan was to blend the Panda fur with sheep wool to provided an ultra-weatherproof tweed. Each year, the Pandas would be rounded up and brought to the village fank, where they would be dipped. And once a year, the same round up would occur, this time with the Pandas being sheered of their fur. Sadly the Panda fur turned out to be too thick and ended up clogging up the looms of the weavers.

 Despite the Tweed failure, a number of attempts were made to find a more practical use for the Pandas. It was discovered (at the Creed Chemical Works) that the fur from the Giant Pandas could be distilled to get various essences for cooking purposes. The most successful output of these experiments was to produce a unique flavouring for boiled sweets by adding several drops of Panda essence (providing a sort of minty flavour) to the mixture. These boiled sweets were originally called Panda Drops and proved to be extremely successful amongst church-goers, especially those of the Free Church persuasion.

 The Panda Drops were very successful but had to change their name to Pandrops in the 1920′s following an outcry by a group of local animal rights/environmental campaigners called Coulregrein-Peace.

The bottom fell out of the church sweet market in recent years following the various church schisms that took place in the 1990′s and 2000′s, as none of the denominations could agree on the custody of sweet eating.

The flock of Giant Pandas still lives in the Castle Grounds, although they are very shy and keep well hidden from humans. Unless you happen to be a human with a marag sandwich, in which case beware.

Massed gangs of Gaelic Choirs from all over the world are descending on the Hebridean capital to fight it out to see who will be the last choir standing. Although the requirement for bloodshed is greatly reduced from previous years, the sense of competition is still high and civilians are reminded not to venture out after sunset, less they end up in the cross fire.

The Mod has come to Stornoway on many occasions over the centuries and so a brief recap of some of the more memorable visits is given here.

In 1989, the Mod was tarnished by the undignified spat that developed when Kylie Minogue and Jason Donovan were disqualified from the Mixed Doubles Competition. Although riding high in the Pop Charts at the time, the Aussie pair failed to impress the Judges with their version of ‘Ibhi Ada’ and a Gaelic version of the theme from Neighbours (‘Tha Neighbours, a h-uile duine neeeds math Neighbours’ ).  Kylie and Jason stormed out of the Town Hall after receiving only 5 votes  and headed straight to the Clachan. After a few swift half’s, the pair started to smash up the toilets and were only removed after a barman convinced them that a passing collie was in fact Bouncer, and they sped off in hot pursuit.

In 1979, another unexpected pairing in the Mixed Doubles led to unsightly scenes on the stage in the Garry Room. Newly elected Prime Minister Maggie Thatcher surprised political pundits by agreeing to sing ‘Oran Calum Sgaire’ with Labour Leader Micheal Foot.  Despite Foot getting lessons from his cousin, a local Professor, Thatcher’s  constant drive for perfection meant poor Foot was constantly slagged off by the Iron Lady. Foot made several attempts to get the song in the right key, but as Thatcher famously said ‘The Lady’s Not For Tuning.’  It’s also a little known fact that Thatcher joined Runrig on stage to play the chanter at their career defining performance in the Seaforth Hotel.

In the early 60′s, a spot of confusion led to gangs of parka wearing/scooter riding Mods arriving on the Loch Seaforth expecting to cause trouble in the town, only to find that it was music of a totally different sort that was on offer. In the spirit of helping out, the local Dockers agreed to take on the Mods in a fight down on the Braighe Beach. Afterwards Roger Daltrey of The Who almost won the Gold Medal with his version of  ’Canan Nan Gaidheal’ but was disqualified for hitting the Judges as he spun his microphone around his head. The Who’s award winning rock opera ‘Tommy’ was inspired by the band watching Tommy Darkie playing the box at the after Mod ceilidh in The Crit.

In 1580, Sir Walter Raleigh stumbled upon the Mod by accident when he sailed into Stornoway Harbour thinking it was El Dorado. Instead of gold doubloons he found Gold Medals instead. Walter was a dab hand at the fiddle and impressed An Comunn Gaidhealach enough to let him play in several competitions which he won easily. To this day the Fiddlers Raleigh is held in honour of the brave explorer.

It’s by no means the first time the Olympic Flame has burned bright over Lewis.

At the height of the Cold War, a major global incident centred on Stornoway was narrowly averted in the months leading up to the 1980 Moscow Olympics. The Olympic Torch was supposed to make its way from Montreal (where the 1976 Games had been held) to Moscow. The Russian authorities tried to smuggle the Torch across the Atlantic so that it would reach its destination ahead of schedule, so as to make the USSR look more efficient and mightier than the West. A secret KGB ship, disguised as a rusty Klondiker, was dispatched to take it across the Atlantic, prior to a fake Torch leaving Montreal.

Unfortunately, the Captain of the Klondiker received the wrong instructions and the vessel instead went to Loch Broom to join the East European fishing fleet already at anchor there. The Olympic Torch remained in the engine room of the Klondiker for a month. Eventually the Russian crew were banned from Ullapool for riotous behaviour and so had to up anchor and make for Stornoway instead so that they could buy the messages (vodka and marag dubh). Shortly after docking in Stornoway, the Point Politburo received an urgent telegram from the Russian authorities (who had only that day managed to track down the missing ship) asking them to send the Klondiker back to Russia.

The Second Engineer was told to guard the Torch and not let it out of his sight. However, the orders from Moscow did not specify that he wasn’t allowed to go anywhere, so, as it was a Saturday night, he thought it would be ok to go on a pub crawl with the rest of the crew – as long as he took the Torch with him for safe keeping.

The Klondiker’s visited the Star Inn, but after only a few pints a major altercation took place following a discussion with locals over potatoes. In the ensuing riot, the Olympic Torch was left unnoticed in the gents toilet.

The Russian crew were carted off to the Police Station and spent the night in the cells before being escorted back to the harbour. Of the Torch there was no sign.

By this time, Moscow, the KGB, SMERSH, the Russian Ambassador in London and the whole of Point were in a panic. A replacement Torch was hastily acquired by the Russian Consul in the Lewis Crofters shop on Cromwell Street. The Klondiker was dispatched from Stornoway and a massive cover up took place, with all mention of Stornoway being removed from official records.

A fortnight later the missing Olympic Torch was found in the Star Inn. As it was still burning brightly, the Pier and Harbour Commission (who had just finished their AGM in the Star Inn Conference Suite) decided to put the Torch to some use and fit it into the Beacon at the end of Number One Pier. The Olympic Torch still burns brightly to this day, guiding boats into the Harbour (until as such time when the Muirneag runs into it).

It’s also a little know fact that the Olympic Torch was for many decades powered by paraffin. Stornoway Merchant Charlie Morrison won the contract to supply the oil back in 1928 and continued to do so up until the business ceased trading. If you look closely at any old film footage of the Olympic Torch making its way around the world, you’ll see a Charlie Morrison’s van driving along behind it.

Another local link with the Olympics is the ‘Olympic Todhar’. Each summer at the Tong Games, there is a competition to see who can fling a cow pat the furthest. 

But other statues have also appeared in Stornoway over the years to commemorate equally noteworthy figures from the towns illustrious past.

One long forgotten about statue was once located on the Castle Green. This statue was in honour of Lord Leverhulme and was commissioned by the Stornoway Trust, shortly after he had gifted the Parish to the townsfolk. It was designed as a fitting memorial to the benefactor who had done so much for the islands.

In keeping with Lord Lever’s background and to make fitting reference to how he made his fortune, it was decided that the statue should be carved from a giant block of soap and should be 50 feet tall.

An Appeal went out to the islanders for unused soap and very soon blocks of soap were piling up in a disused kippering shed on Bells Road. Submissions of Carbolic Soap proved to be very popular amoungst country folk who seemed unaware of any other types (or uses) of soap.

Local sculptor Henry Arnish-Moor was commissioned to design the statue. He arranged for the donated soap to be deposited on a specially made plinth of ollac near the Castle Green (this is still visible today, just beside the Low Road). His vision was to have the statue looking out on the harbour searching for fish. Arnish-Moor set to work with a specially designed tarasgeir, and fortified with a hefty carry-out, soon had a very lifelike statue of the Lord completed.

Unfortunately, the detailed planning process had forgotten to take account of normal Stornoway weather. Within a week of completion, a spell of typical summer weather (12 inches of rain) had ensured that the statue of Lord Leverhulme had disappeared into a frothy lather.

On the plus side, the soap suds ran into the Harbour and resulted in Stornoway winning the 1926 ‘Cleanest Harbour’ Award.

Another well known Stornoway statue used to grace the Manor district. In the 1980’s the Town Council decided to honour the local worthies known as The Dawn Squad, for services to local off-licenses. It was agreed that a suitable statue should be erected next to The Porters Lodge, in full view of the Trading Post and should feature one of the Dawn Squad sitting on a bench. This statue was entrusted to local artist Rod In-naclete, and was called The Drinker. The statute depicted a Dawn Squad member pondering where his next pound note was going to come from. It was made entirely from recycled ring-pulls from cans of SuperLager.

This statue was in place for little more than a year. It had to be removed due to the members of the Dawn Squad continually fighting over who the statue actually depicted. The statue was removed into storage and lay hidden away until it was resurrected when the Matheson Monument overlooking Cuddy Point was refurbished. If you look at this statue closely you can see that Diggum Da now stands overlooking Stornoway Harbour.

Younger readers might think this is a new phenomenon, but older SYs smile to themselves and think back to the 1950s, when the islands were home to a thriving B-Movie industry. Back then you couldn’t walk 20 yards through downtown Stornoway without bumping into monsters, zombies and aliens. Especially outside the Macs.

In the early 1950s, hardline Carloway councillor Leodhasach Rayburn Macarthur waged an aggressive campaign against perceived Rubhach influence in government and the media. Macarthur was convinced that the local Holywood studio system had been infiltrated by agents of the Garrabost politburo, intent on spreading their subversive Point propaganda to the West side of the Braighe. During the 30′s Holywood (so called as the studio, on Riggs Road, was built from the old timbers from St Lennan’s Church) had indeed been home to a number of left-leaning figures, many of whom had openly expressed admiration for the Peninsula’s ruthless dictator Josef StarInn and his big gulags. Among them were the directors Ossian Wellies and John Uibhisteach, the radical Sgitheanach dramatist Bertolt Breakish and the actors Humphrey Boke-Ceard and Lauren Bac-Coll

Macarthur and his supporters in the council’s House Un-Stoarnowaywegian Activities Committee decided that the only way to prevent a Rubhach takeover of the entire Outer Hebrides was to keep Holywood’s ideologically suspicious movies out, and in 1952, they succeeded in passing a local bye-law that banned the import and screening of all films from Away.

Stornoway’s Playhouse cinema found itself forced to repeat the only locally-made film in its possession, every night – a 3-minute silent reel of Cailleach Dhomhaill Aonghais Iain’s peats being taken home from Loch Sanndabhat in 1932. When audiences inevitably began to decline, the Playhouse’s desperate management put an advert in the Gazette seeking other home-made movies to screen.

Local entrepreneurs were quick to exploit the opportunity, and a number of film studios sprang up overnight. Without exception, the new studios catered to the taste for poor-quality monster and horror flicks that characterised the paranoia of the Macarthurite era.

Airidhbhruach International Pictures operated from a decrepit bus at the side of the Stornoway-Tarbert road; Eel Ling Studios established itself round the back of Cailean Neillie’s fish shop, and Stornoway’s (H)Amadan House of Horror grew so rapidly that it soon established subsidiary studios in different parts of the islands – Hamnaway House of Horror in Uig, Habost House of Horror in South Lochs and – south of the border – the legendary Harris House of Horgabost.

Other local businesses grew rapidly to service the industry; DD Morrison’s and Maciver & Dart made a fortune renting out cine cameras and flogging batteries, while Kenny Froggan’s expanded their film development labs to run 24-6.

Top directors of the day included Roger Croman, Russ Meyerybank, George A Rodelmero and Herschel Gordon Leodhasach.

Members of the Stornoway Thespians soon became well known film stars, including Belle-Anne Lugosi, Christopher Lackalee, Boris Carlowayov and even Rev Peat R MacCuishing. These stars soon moved into luxurious Holy Wood mansions (the new Town Council houses on Springfield Road) and their every move featured in glossy pull out supplements in the Gazette.

In 1959, Belle-Anne Lugosi was billed as the star of notorious transvestite director Edward D Woodlandcentre Jr’s “Plan 9 From Outend Coll”. In fact she’d got the cuiream just before filming started, and was replaced at the last minute by a young R*ddy L*nnt**r with a cailleach’s headscarf over his face. 20 years later, as a member of short lived proto-goth megastars the Dram Boys (also featuring Rev F*rg*s*n and Father C*p*ldi), R*ddy used the experience as material for the hit single “Belle-Anne Lugosi’s Beannag”(1980).

Forgotten cult classics from Stornoway’s B-Movie heyday included:

Zombie Herring Explosion (1956, Dir Roger Croman)

In a secret military bunker on Bells Road lies a vast cache of salt herring, intended to feed allied troops should WWIII break out. When an atomic bomb test is carried out nearby, the bunker and its contents are accidentally exposed to an intense burst of gamma rays. A mysterious reaction between the fish salt and the radiation re-animates the herring and – in a horrifying undead state – they go on a shocking rampage through the streets of Stornoway. Their leader, Dr Spealtrag, plans to wreak a terrible vengeance on Stornowegian humanity for its part in the fishing industry, by pickling everybody in barrels and exporting them to the Baltic. Nothing stands between the zombie herring and world domination except heroic scientist Bo Iledinmilk, his lovely assistant Friedi Noatmeal and a giant pan of mashed buntata. And also a ruppish plan to lure the undead fish into a big mincing machine in the Gut Factory and then hit the “on” button.

I Was a Teenage Hearach (1957, Dir Gene Foulurgha Jr)

Delinquent townie teenager Seonaidh “Bayhead” Rivers is treated by a mad scientist who injects him with the dangerous drug sgorpamine, believing that he has to be regressed to a primal state of total maw-ness in order to be cured of being a wee bleigeard. But the experiment goes too far; Seonaidh regresses right over the Clisham and becomes a Hearach from Grosebay, with terrifying and tragic results.

Creature from the Black House (1954, Dir Jack Arnol)

This movie was billed as“3D” but sadly this was based entirely on a Gazette review that described it as “Dire, Desperate and Downright ruppish”. A party of archaeologists on an expedition to the remote West Side of Lewis are forced to spend the night in a dark and sinister native dwelling. During the night, one of them goes to the byre to answer a call of nature and disturbs a monstrous prehistoric creature lurking there, with terrifying and tragic results. Starring Arnoltonio Moreno, Julie Arnoldams and Dolag the Cow.

Vatisker Pussycat, Kill Kill! (1964, Dir Russ Meyerybank)

There wasn’t much of a plot in this one, to be honest. Three thrill-seeking Niseach guga dancers – Murdag, Peigi-Barabal and Angusina – are out racing their sports tractors on the moor between Skigersta and Tolsta. They run over a bodach at the peats, nick his ceann cropaig sandwiches and flee South, rampaging through Tolsta and Gress in a gratuitous display of violence, beannags and floral aprons. Then they hatch a plan to rob Back filling station, with terrifying and tragic results.

Plan Nine from Outend Coll (1959 Dir Ed Woodlandcentre Jr)

This ill-fated film is now best remembered for being one of the worst films ever made. Critics have made much of the wooden acting, wobbly sets and incoherent plot, but it should be remembered that this was a feature of all of Lewis’ B-Movies of this era.

This film involved aliens, zombies, space craft and was largely filmed in Sandwick Cemetery and in the Coll bus. It was not helped by the fact that its star Belle Anne Lugosi had got the cuiream and resigned two days into filming and her on screen presence was relegated to a large poster of her appearing in every shot, with terrifying and tragic results.

Other well known Hebridean B-movies from this era were;

It Came from Outend Coll

I Married a Minister from Outend Coll

Urgha vs the Flying Saucers

Attack of the 5 Foot Cailleach

God Zilla vs the Ministers

The Wild Women of Waltos

Tolstaglen or Tolstaglenda

The Seven Dells Mystery

The Murder at the FP Manse

Death In The MacLeod Motel

Death on the Creed

Ten Little Niseachs

The Marag Crack’d From Side to Side

Murder (of the Stornoway Trustees) On The Links

Taken at the Feannag

However, Agatha Chirsty’s best loved story was ‘Murder on the Orinsay Bus’. This intriguing novel became a best seller and was adapted for film and television several times. The most famous version was the BBC Alba production staring the famous Stornoway Thespian Albert Finsbay as Hector Part- Rudhach (although another well respected Stornoway Thespian Peter Used-to-croft also played Part-Rudhach in several other adaptations).

Murder On The Orinsay Bus is set in the 1930’s and involves a bizarre murder on a snow-bound bus in a remote part of South Lochs. The plot presented Agatha Chirsty’s most famous character, Hector Part-Rudhach, with a baffling mystery to solve. Hector Part-Rudhach is a renowned water bailiff who is going on a well earned rest to Orinsay to see his grannie. He is lucky to get a seat on the exclusive ‘Orinsay Express’ bus, famed throughout Lewis as the most luxurious bus in operation (it has seats!).

The passengers are an odd mix of travelers, all bound for South Lochs for unknown reasons. There is a shady looking character called Ratshed, who claims to be an Estate Owner from Uig.·

Eachain McQueen, Ratshed’s Grazings Secretary ·

Plasterfieldman, Ratchett’s sheepshearer, ·

Corporal Achmore-not A Corporal in the Territorial Army  ·

Mrs Cupboard travelling salesperson from Cathy Dhalls·

‘Count-This’ Annie MacDonald a bank teller from the British Linen Bank on Cromwell St·

Princess Natalia ‘Drag the Moor off’ a beauty pageant winner of Miss Lochs 1932·

Mary MacLeod who works in Debenham’s in Inverness – a shop worker going to visit her auntie·

‘Fresh Ling’ Hilda Smith, Natallie ‘Drag the moor off’s make up artist·

Tony ‘Four car’ Welly, a car salesman from Mitchell’s Garage·

Miss Greta Ochrach, a Swainbost missionary ·

Peter Mitchell, the bus conductor·

Silage Hardcove, a bodyguard hired by Ratshed

During the journey, just as they pass Kershader, the bus becomes stuck in a snow drift. The passengers have to endure a night on the bus, but luckily one of the passengers is a travelling salesman from Cathy Dhall’s Off License and so had a case of ‘Stewarts Cream of the Barley’ to keep everyone warm. After a sing-song, the passengers fall asleep. During the night Hector is awoken several times by strange noises.

In the morning, Ratshed is found dead on his seat. He appears to have been stabbed 12 times by a pair of rusty sheep shears. As there are no snowy footprints leaving the scene of the crime, it becomes apparent that the murderer is still on board the Orinsay Bus. The bus driver asks Hector to investigate the case as the local policeman from Balallan can’t reach the bus due to the snow.

Hector searches the bus for any clues. He also conducts interviews with each passenger to ascertain their whereabouts the previous night. Before too long, Hector begins to smell a rat (and a decomposing Ratshed). Many of the alibis given by the 12 passengers seem to conflict each other, and Hector becomes suspicious that several of the travelers are not necessarily who they say they are. A few false leads are flung about by the 12 to try to confuse Hector (including a sighting of a mysterious figure in a red boiler suit – and the boiler suit  turns up later in Hector’s suitcase).

At last Hector calls all of the passengers to the back seat of the bus. When all are assembled, Hector sets out two theories as to what happened to Ratshed.

The first theory is that Ratshed is really a grazings Clark from Bernera who kidnapped a prize ram from Breanish, hoping to enter it at the Barvas Show. The Breanish Grazings Committee paid the ransom, but Ratshed fleeked off to the mainland with the money and the ram was never seen again. The twelve passengers are actually the members of the Breanish Grazings Committee. They have spent the last few years tracking down Ratshed and came up with the cunning plan of all of the Grazings Committee murdering him on the Orinsay Bus.

After getting Ratshed drunk on the Cream of the Barley, they would each stab him once with the sheep shears. This all went according to plan, but the conspirators hadn’t counted on famous crime-fighter and  water bailiff Hector being on board the bus.

However, Hector himself had sheep and so was sympathetic to the Grazings Committees loss of a prize ram. His second theory therefore, was that the unknown murderer fleeked off out of the rear window after stabbing Ratshed and disappeared into Pairc, most likely falling in a bog. And as no-one liked Ratshed anyway, Hector Part Rudhach was happy enough to tell the Balallan policeman that this was what had happened. Mystery solved.

(with thanks to Angie, Peter and Deadollac for having read some of these books)

The River Glen runs from its source headwater at Loch Airigh An Leac, through the leafy suburb of Marybank, and down through shady Willow Glen, passing the old County Hospital (or ‘the Sanny’ as it was known), until it reaches Manor Park. As soon as the mighty river passes the Porters Lodge it takes on a new aspect, leaving its cataracts and waterfalls behind and slowing down its pace to become a quiet, yet powerful river with wide banks suitable for shipbuilding. Eventually the great river reaches the Bayhead Estuary and the Inner Harbour, where the countless boats built on its banks set sail for the four quarters of the Harbour.

For centuries the banks of the Glen between Bayhead and the Porters Lodge rang out with the sound of shipbuilding, providing employment and training to the town.
From the first dug out sgoths built by Nessolithic Man, to the swift and menacing Viking longships that raided far and wide; and from the elegant and tall masted Marag-clippers to the steam-driven ironclads that helped defend the British Empire; the ships and boats built on the banks of the Glen have become synonymous with quality, stability and the ability to float.

But sadly, like all of the great heavy industries, the future was not bright. By the late 1960’s cheaper labour and materials became available on Skye and soon the Stornowegian shipbuilding industry was in trouble. Its huge workforce (12 coves and blone who made the tea) was drastically cut and many small companies had to amalgamate in order to survive. Most famous of these amalgamations was the Upper Glen Shipbuilders (UGS).

UGS managed to survive for several years, but eventually in the early 1970’s, the Prime Minister Mike Yarwood had to withdraw the Government’s financial support. With the very real threat of  the once proud industry disappearing for good, the workforce, galvanised by firebrand Shop Steward ‘Jimmy Creed’, decided to arrange a ‘work in’ to demonstrate to the world the efficiency of the Glen Shipyards.

Jimmy Creed is widely remembered for his famous speech he made to the workforce as the worlds media (Stornoway Gazette and Radio Nan Eilean) looked on: ‘There will be no fleekin’ off to buy the Gazette, no stealing planks and no sneaking off to Hendies Off-license to buy a carry out.’

The ‘work in’ received a great deal of support, with high-profile celebrates. Former shipyard worker and top comedian Billy Macanoonoo performed in Perceval Square (in his famous yellow ‘guga boots’) to raise money for chicken suppers for the workers.

But the world had changed and the demand for Glen Built ships had diminished. Sadly, the last nail was driven into a plank in the mid 1970’s. The shipyards shut, the workforce all fleeked off to Arnish and the grass and weeds grew over the huge yards as nature reclaimed the banks of the Glen.

The River Glen was also immortalised in the famous song ‘The Song of the Glen’. The singer Kenneth MacCellarhead made the song very popular in the music halls and it is still sung around the world today in memory of the Glen built ships that still ply the oceans of the world.

The Song of the Glen

I sing of a river where I wash my hen

The song that I sing is the song of the Glen

Of all Scottish rivers its dearest to me

It flows in from Marybank, going past the ‘Sanny’

It borders the dump out at Airidh an Leac

Meanders through fanks with sheep full of tics

But from Bennadrove to Bayhead, past countless sheep pen

The hammers ding dong is the song of the Glen.

Chorus

Oh the River Glen, the wonderful Glen

The name of it thrills me (and that cove called Ken)

And I’m satisfied as it comes from near Beinn (Barvas)

The sweetest of songs is the song of the Glen.

In the early 1970’s four friends from Stornoway got together to form a musical group. The two coves and two blones had no ambition beyond playing in the Seaforth Hotel at wedding dances and perhaps maybe the odd Mod ceilidh. The two coves played the guitar and the accordion whilst the two blones sang waulking songs in gaelic.

The foursome tried out various names such as the ‘Covehood Of Man’ and ‘Fishboney M’ but didn’t come up with one that suited until they appointed a manager.

The person who took on the responsibility was called ‘Stink’ Anderson (so named as he drove the Ross & Cromarty County Councils septic tank lorry) and it was he who suggested that they took the initials of their names to create an unusual moniker.
And so it was that Annchris, Bingo, Bogey and Anni-Mary became ABBA.

Stink drove the group hard, making them play the Clachan every Friday night and the Cabar Public bar on Saturdays. It was here that the band perfected their dance routine of the two blone singers turning sideways, turning away from each other and then looking the other way. This was in order to avoid the various missiles being flung in their direction from Gaelic music purists who preferred to hear ‘The Kiora’ rather than ‘this fleeking deesco ruppish’. Eventually, it became a common feature of an ABBA gig to have an assortment of rotting vegetables flung stagewards in an attempt to get the group to sing ‘proper’ songs. By far the most common vegetable was the turnip, which resulted in the group getting nicknamed ‘The Swedes’.

However, in 1974, Stink managed to get the group a slot on the Calum Kennedy Show (after threatening to drive through Orinsay with all the taps open on his septic tank lorry). In order to make a big splash on the telly, ABBA invested in platform ‘Arnish’ Boots, Harris Tweed flared jump suits (from Mackenzie & MacSweens) and a bag of spangly seggs from Charlie Morrison’s to sew on instead of sequins.
Tickets were purchased for the ferry, bus and train and off ABBA went to the big mainland. Unfortunately, the group got slightly inebriated on the ferry and fell asleep in the back of the bus. When they awoke, the bus had reached Glasgow and on disembarking they became hopelessly lost.
In their confusion, they thought an advert in the paper said Europie Song Contest and so they set off to try their luck, unbeknownst that it was the actual  Eurovison Song Contest they were heading too.

On eventually reaching the Eurovision venue, Stink and the band wandered around getting hopelessly lost until at last they bumped in to Terry Wogan, who was desperately trying to co-ordinate each act and make sure each country went on in the right order.

‘Are you’se the Swedes?’ asked a clearly stressed out Wogan.

‘Yus, we’re The Swedes’ replied Stink, not realising his innocent mistake. No sooner than he’d opened his mouth, ABBA were ushered by Mr Wogan on to the stage and a worldwide tv audience of millions.

The four members of ABBA stood staring at the audience and tv cameras for several seconds until they eventually plucked up the courage to sing one of their favourite songs. This song was written by Bingo and Bogey and celebrated the coming of mains water to Marybank and the ability of the residents of this village to be able to flush the toilet for the first time. The song was of course Water Loo.

Of course, the global audience had no idea what ABBA were singing about in their broad Stornowegian lilt. However, the catchy tune and the repetitive chorus seemed to go down well with the whole of Europe. Once they finished the song, ABBA thought they’d make a hasty retreat from the stage, but were instead ushered into the green room by Terry Wogan where they had to sit there and wait for the results to be announced. Stink had whispered to them to try and grab a few bottles of champagne and make for the exits when no one was looking, so they were unprepared when the final result came in and Water Loo had swept the boards.

Taken totally by surprise, the four members of ABBA were swamped in flowers, praise and applause.  When Terry Wogan thrust a microphone in Bingo’s face, the awestruck singer could only mumble a few words in Gaelic and nod politely. For most of Europe, this strange language sounded Swedish enough. And as for the Swedish nation, they were delighted to have actually won something and so the whole population were happy to go along with the ploy that a wee band from Stornoway were instead from Stockholm.

ABBA had many hit records over the following years and if you listen closely you can hear the Stornoway influence in them all.

Dannsa Queen

Knawing Meat, Knawing Ewe

Ma, My Mini’s (got a flat battery can you give me a push?)

The Winner Ali’s Take Away (about the annual Stornoway curry championship)

Money, Money, Money (originally ‘Crofter Grant, Crofter Grant, Crofter Grant’)

Dè tha thu ag iarraidh (renamed Voulez Vous to sound posher & more cultured)

Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! (A Man Of The Cloth After Midnight Cos Its Monday Then)

Does Your Mother Know a Cove called Alec Dan from Cromore?

The Name of the Game Soup

Thank You for the Marags

Water Loo

- Memories of Kafka

Franz Kafka was not being entirely truthful with his Hebrew teacher when he credited the “small circle” of central Prague with defining the essence of his life and work.

In fact, the pointy-faced Czech gloom merchant was haunted all his life by a crucial interlude he spent in Stornoway in 1911. The landscape that truly shaped Kafka’s weltenschaung and whose bleakness suffused every aspect of his oeuvre was not that of Staromeste Namesti, Wenceslas Square or the Charles Bridge, but the Star Inn, Perceval Square and Charlie Morrison’s. Oh yus.

As any raincoat-wearing indie poseur from the early 80s could tell you, Kafka was employed in Prague as an assessor for the Workers’ Accident Insurance company. What is less well known is that in October 1911 he was despatched to Stornoway to investigate a particularly intractable case; Tolsta Chaolais fish smoker and Free Church precentor John Angus “Psalmsa” Macgregor had woken up one morning to find himself transformed into a giant kipper. Unable to work, and finding it increasingly difficult to avoid being eaten by people at breakfast time, Psalmsa had submitted a large insurance claim to Kafka’s company.

In the assessment interview, Psalmsa produced an extremely ripe guga and offered it to Kafka as an “incentive” to write a favourable report. Kafka was overcome by the fumes, collapsed and had to be sent to the old sanatorium on Oliver’s Brae for several weeks to recuperate. The poor cove was never the same after that and his early death in Austria in 1924 – long ascribed to tuberculosis – is now believed to be the result of long term lung damage sustained in this incident.

Even after his release from the sanatorium, Kafka was unfit to travel and had to hang about Stornoway for the rest of the Winter. On the meagre accommodation allowance provided by his employers, he took lodgings in a disused fish offal boiler in a back yard off Inaclete road. His landlady did not permit lodgers to remain in their rooms during the day, and so Franz Kafka was forced to wander the streets of Stornoway daily from 5am to 11pm.

In the depths of Winter, this  meant an atmosphere of continual darkness, howling gales and driving rain, with the sinister shadow of the Castle looming in the low cloud over the town. The monstrous towers of the gasworks and the fish mart dwarfed Kafka as he traversed the desolate streets, closing in on him and creating a sense of insignificance and alienation such as he’d never experienced in Prague.

The Lanntair wasn’t invented yet, so the only refuge a sensitive soul could take from the weather was in church services, prayer meetings and wakes. With several religious denominations to choose from, Kafka attached himself to the Seceders. His reasons for doing so were initially prosaic; they had longer services than everybody else, and their emphasis on the burning torments of Hell made him feel a bit warmer on a cold night.

Immersed in Stornoway’s harsh meteorological and spiritual mileu it was inevitable that Kafka’s work would take a darker turn. Before arriving on the island, the author had been on the verge of completing his debut magnum opus; “My Lovely Book of Sunny Stories”, featuring Mr Chuckles, an irrepressibly cheery teddy bear who skips around dispensing flowers to all the happy animals in Giggleland. But one freezing night, after a particularly long tigh adhradh in Steinish at which the 4-hour improvised prayer had been uninspired, the scones mouldy, and the tea weak as fleek, Kafka returned to Inaclete road and consigned the manuscript for “My Lovely Book of Sunny Stories” to the fire.

Seating himself at the old fishbox he used for a writing desk, by the light of a foul-smelling cruisgean, Kafka set about developing the seminal works for which he is now remembered. The drafts he produced while in Stornoway included:

Mehhagmorphosis – in which some cove wakes up in the morning to find that he has turned into a giant sheep. (Kafka did not want to use Psalmsa’s kipper experience directly in his fiction for fear of legal action, and so considered turning his protagonist into a number of other things. Titles considered and rejected included “Midgiemorphosis”, “Maragmorphosis” and “Murdomorphosis”. The last of these was very nearly chosen, but dropped when it turned out it was already the nickname of a cove who hung about the Crit all day asking for change).

The (Sheepdog) Trial – in which Dileas K, an unassuming Border collie, finds himself facing disqualification from the Barvas Agricultural Show for an unspecified contravention of ISDS rules at the shed. Nobody will explain the nature of  his alleged crime to him, probably because he’s a dog.

The Castle – in which a stranger arrives in town, having been summoned by a mysterious bureaucracy known only as “The Amenity Trust” to survey Lewis Castle. He looks at it and tells them it’s falling down, then spends the rest of the novel trying to collect a massive feasibility study fee off them.

When Kafka returned to Prague in the spring of 1912, his suitcase was full of marags, duff, sgadan sailte and and bobban socks. With no room for his manuscripts, he left them in the care of his friend and literary executor, Macs Brodbay.

“My dear Macs”, wrote Kafka to Brodbay at his literary salon/croft in Vatisker, “I’ve carried out a retrospective analysis of my work and tried to weigh its literary merit as objectively as possible. My conclusion is that if I leave the manuscipts with you I’ll be able to squeeze in a geansaidh for the old man, 3 beannags for the cailleach and an extra bag of Craggan’s biscuits. So you hang onto the books and if the peats is damp this year you can chuck them in the Rayburn to get the fire goeen. They’re fleekeen rubbish anyway. This writeen carry on is no for me an am goeen back to the insurance when a get home. Chearaidh, cove. Franz (cough).”

Luckily Macs Brodbay had an excellent peat bank with a good supply of dry caorans, and never got around to burning Kafka’s manuscripts. They sat in his byre for many years, getting a bit mouldy and being chewed by the odd cow until, in 1926, Brodbay attended a Skoda Tractors Open Day at the Gress fank. There, he persuaded a gullible Czech sales rep to swap him a brand new 4-cylinder  HT-30 for a rotting feed bag containing the semi-masticated remains of Kafka’s works.

And so Franz Kafka’s manuscripts finally made their way back to Prague. Some amadan there decided to publish them, but discovered that Kafka’s language in the manuscripts was an incomprehensible melange of German, Czech, biblical Gaelic and extremely profane Stornowegian. To make the works accessible to a Central European readership, the publisher had to translate them back into proper German  and excise all identifiable Outer Hebridean references, otherwise nobody would have known what the fleek was going on.

That – and not the fact that we made it all up chust now -  is why few are aware of Kafka’s Stornoway connections today. But rumour has it that the translator missed a few SY words and references here and there. So who knows? Read the cove’s books very carefully and you might still spot the odd one that got through…