Long life
Confused wilderness
Nigel Nicolson
Te Secretary of State for Scotland now faces an awkward decision, whether to allow a huge hole to be dug out of South- ern Harris in the Outer Hebrides. My interest in the matter is historical, for a parallel situation arose in exactly the same place 75 years ago, and I wrote a book about it called Lord of the Isles.
The present problem concerns an appli- cation by a firm called Redland Aggregates to quarry 600 million tons of anorthosite or feldspar, an igneous rock used in the manufacture of porcelain. The public enquiry has just ended after eight months, and at the last moment the Western Isles Council, which had hitherto supported the application, changed its mind when a poll of the inhabitants resulted in 68 per cent opposed to it. The arguments were foresee- able — jobs versus pollution — and as only 33 jobs were promised locally, pollution won. Ian Lang must now act Solomon in a highly emotional situation stirred by mem- ories of the events which I described in my book.
It was in 1919 that Lord Leverhulme, the soap-baron, added Harris to the impacted 'island' of Lewis which he had bought in the previous year, making him the largest private landowner in Britain. His intention was to reverse the habits of centuries which had kept the islanders in medieval penury by superimposing on their crofting system modern methods of tweed-manufacture and fishing. His tweed-factory was strongly resisted by the Harrismen and never got off the ground, but his fishing port was actually constructed and the stubs of its piers are still there, on the very site from which the feldspar would be exported. The ancient name of the village, Obbe, was changed to Leverburgh, as if it was one of his new set- tlements on the Congo. Hebridean pride was outraged, and when English girls with bobbed hair, short skirts and silk stockings were brought over to run the office, the preacher denounced them: 'Oh my dear friends, it is something awful to see the harlots and concubines of Lever Brothers running about the streets of Obbe.'
Even in translation this has the ring of the original Gaelic, and today it is echoed in the speech of an opponent of the Red- land project, 'A huge pall of death-grey dust will find its way into every corner of our homes, into our lungs, shortening our lives . . . . [The excavations] will affect the majesty and grandeur of God himself.' Three-quarters of a century has not weak- ened their religious faith nor lessened their doom-laden fear bf change. When I was researching my book, I found that the peo- ple welcomed the failure of Leverhulme's schemes, but at the time, as now, they were ambivalent. They have a romantic view of life, yet drive hard bargains; they are proud, but apt to be flatterers; they are capable of arduous labour, and of extreme slothfulness; anxious for a greater share in the amenities of life, they are sceptical of new enterprises suggested by outsiders; and having once approved a project, their opin- ions can veer under the influence of a sin- gle eloquent speech.
I do not believe that Harris is one of Nature's loveliest achievements. It is a wilderness of bare rock and boggy moor drenched in melancholy. An abandoned quarry, like a vast landslip, could quite soon become a visual asset. On the other hand, the economic benefits to the island would be small, the pollution undoubted, and feldspar can more easily be won from existing quarries in Norway. So, on the whole, if I were the Secretary of State, I would bow to the islanders' wishes. One cannot force on people enterprises which they consider the work of the devil.
'He refuses refuses to win the Lottery ...'
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