OBSERVING THE SABBATH

If the buses are sporadic on a Saturday, they’re non existent on a Sunday. And that’s because of an amazing thing they do here on Sundays that they refer to as the Observance of the Sabbath.

I know, right. The bus drivers listen to the bagpipes (music that their grandparents might have described as ‘live from Satan’s synagogue’) and on a Sunday, everything - and I mean everything - shuts down. I’ve not seen this much Observing of the Sabbath since Israel.

I packed up my things for a hike. No buying food on a Sunday so I had to be well prepped - bag stuffed with goodies and a flask of room-kettle-tea. I headed out.

By the way, O-ing the S was another factor for the folks who prayed for revival back in the 40s. They saw the old ways sliding and the young people caring more for the pleasures of the world on a Sunday than they did for the house of the Lord. It lit a fire in them that led (among other things) to the Lewis Awakening.

It was a very sunny Sunday morning. I hacked round the coast for a bit and found myself sitting in the sun on a cliff top over Sandwick Bay.

The wind roared. It was so windy in fact, that I could feel it pushing me backwards. I dug my walking boots into the soil and, having retrieved the flask, leaned into my rucksack. I was contemplating the beauty of bleak places - a concept that I hadn’t thought about before, but one that the Hebrides was bringing home to me. The sea rippled bright blue and white, waves chopping violently in the wind.

Speaking of the tea flask, it was too windy to pour, up there; I would have been splattered with tea like a Jackson Pollock. I drank it straight from the flask.

Facing the wind makes it so much easier to be yourself. There was nobody around to hear me shouting over the bay, or laughing hilariously at something that tickled me. Even if there were though, they’d never have heard it, even if they were sitting next to me. I love that.

After that hilarity, I went back inland for another adventure walk. I found a path behind the golf course and I had no idea where it would lead. That kind of thing excites me, so I headed into the woods, dappled green by the sun and shadow.

Twisted trees and a trickling stream, a dense forest of bracken and branches, scratching their way up steep inclines of stone and soil. The sun blinked between the trees as I followed the trail. It occurred to me that nobody anywhere had any idea where I was - not even me. Narnia? Stuck in an Enid Blyton story? Exploring the Amazon with nothing more than uncharted excitement?

I was weirdly thrilled when the path opened out into a clearing and I realised I was back at Lews Castle. Next to not knowing where you are, the best feeling on an adventure is knowing exactly where you are.

Sammy and I have been working on ‘observing the sabbath’. We’re not doing as thorough a job as the good people of the Outer Hebrides though; Sainsbury’s is just too accessible - and there are things to be done on a Saturday/Sunday. I can’t imagine what the people of Lewis circa 1949 would have made of our society, had they seen it. I think they’d be praying for our souls as keenly as if we were cut adrift in a fishing boat in a storm.

And perhaps that’s exactly right.