The Homecoming

 

The check-in at Barra Airport is unlike anything I have ever experienced. So is the runway. Barra is the only airport in the world that has scheduled flights taking off and landing on the beach; Traigh Mór. Flights can be tweaked according to the tides. Today there are three other people flying with the 15-seater aircraft.

‘Do you need my passport?’ I ask.

‘Nah. You’re alright,’ says the check-in agent (who doubles as luggage handler, gate agent, salesperson and general factotum). ‘Duffy, isn’t it?’ And that are all the formalities needed to board. No metal scanner that always goes off due to extensive work to my knees. No faffing around with liquids and technology.

Many visitors to the island come to the airport to see the aircraft land and take off. Others are there to see off or welcome family and friends. A little boy cries un-consolingly: ‘Daddy, daddy, come back!’ he screams, reaching out to the airplane taxiing towards the sea.

It is our turn. With minimal fuss we walk over the beach and get up the wobbly ladder. You can’t stand in the plane, so we shuffle to our seats. The floor is covered in sand.

Flying to Barra was on my bucket list. It is pure extravaganza to take a plane to an island when there is a perfectly good ferry every day. But since I most probably won’t get to the top of Mount Everest or see the hat-wearing women in Bolivia I permitted myself the flight to Barra.

There is no door between the cockpit and the cabin. The First Officer gives a perfunctory safety briefing, waves to the check-in agent and off we go, later than scheduled. The propellors start rotating and we turn to the sea. The power builds up; the Twin Otter Aircraft feels like a horse straining against the bit; it is nearly dancing on the sand. After a ridiculous short run, we are in the air. We are leaving Barra.

In April 1923 a group of people were leaving Barra under less pleasant circumstances. A group of about 120 people, men, women and children started with a short trip to Lochboisdale. From there, the SS Marloch would transport them and other Islanders to Canada, to begin a new life. At 11.30, Mass was said in the big church overlooking Castlebay. The church was packed; most of the islanders had made the trip – on foot, by cart or horse – to be present. For most of them it would be the last time they saw their friends and relatives.

Like elsewhere in Scotland and in much of western Europe, the economic circumstances were dire on Barra. There may not have been the same deprivation you’d see in big cities; islanders would take care of their kin, but progress seemed impossible, and life was hard. Immigration agents held a series of talks in church halls and schools. They painted a picture of Eden: an empty land up for grabs (the First Nation obviously didn’t count), acres and acres of fertile land, rivers jumping with fish and game waiting to be hunted. For crofters, trying to eke a living out of the hard, stony soil, this must have been Paradise. They signed the dotted line, and many sold all their belongings to be able to embark on this adventure.

One of those promoting the emigration scheme was Father Andrew MacDonnall. It was his idea to establish a Catholic, Gaelic speaking community on the prairies of Alberta and in the beginning, he had a lot of support from the bishops and other clergy.  Fr. Andrew had become a paid emigration agent for the Canadian Government.  He wasn’t completely honest with the islanders when he said there would be farms and land waiting for them; but the very fact that he was a priest made that people believed him and trusted him. They followed him on the long journey into the unknown. He hadn’t been completely honest with the Canadian Government either: they had no idea of the denominational character of the package.

Flying over Scotland is a magical experience. We see Barra, Vatersay and the glorious, golden beaches. Then the sea. From the air you can see both the emptiness and the fullness of Scotland; the islands, some not more than a rock, are scattered like bread for the birds. Sometimes you spot a building, a road. The small lochans glitter in the sun. Closer to the mainland the islands get busier – a settlement, more roads, sometimes the mini-drama of a campervan with a trail of cars behind it.

The emigrees were given a farewell. Pipers were out in full force; the quayside was crammed with people waving and crying. Most of the emigrees on the SS Marloch would have known that when they sailed out of Lochboisdale they would not see the Hebrides again. Those who stayed behind knew they would never embrace their sons and daughters in this life. They were sent away with promises, blessings, hopes and dreams. Only a handful came back.

The closer you get to Glasgow the more built-up the landscape becomes. Factories, roads, houses: the azure of Gourock outdoor swimming pool draws the eye. The emigrees from Barra and Uist would have experienced something quite different: with every hour at sea they were further away from all that was familiar. They knew nothing of what awaited them in Canada.

It turned out that Fr MacDonnall had been somewhat economical with the truth. On arrival, there were no farms and no houses. There were some cottages and farm labour for wages but most of the emigrees were put up in an old Indian School, renamed Ardmoire, for their first few months and years in Canada. There they were taught how to farm in the prairie climate, which was quite different from the Hebrides.

In the beginning life was as hard as it had been on Barra and Vatersay. Many of the children caught measles, the Islanders had to get used to the harsh climate, supplies were in short measure and very expensive. The fact that most of them survived and prospered is a tribute to the mentality of those emigrees. In 1926, 48 of the original emigrants settled on farms in Clandonald, a new colony.

The Gaelic is still spoken; the old songs still sung and the Hebrides lives in many hearts. In 2023, a group of descendants of those first emigrees made the return journey. They were welcomed with open arms by the descendants of those who never left.

We fly over the Clyde and see the bridge our son is working on. The runway is clear; two big jets are waiting till our small plane has landed. And suddenly we are back in an environment that is so different from what we’ve just left: noisy and busy and full with things. Our son rings us to say that he is dropping off a friend at the airport – can we briefly meet and say hello and goodbye before he flies off to Poland?

The emigrees from Barra succeeded. They moved to find a better life and though they had to work hard, they managed. A similar scenario is played out over the world: people flee hunger and persecution and seek a better place to live and to bring up a family. They get sweet-talked by those who stand to gain; promising a land of milk and honey if only they can pay for the boat. The truth is that the journey is dangerous. Once landed, there is no milk, there is no honey. Only more persecution and more hardship, because they are not given the same chance as the people from Barra were given. Why not?

  

Trudy 03/08/2024