Dùthchas: Stone markers of desecration

    

There is something about rock foundations and mountains that transcend our lives. For millenia, Eastern temples have been built in mountains; people climb mountains to find wisdom, the answers to Life's questions. Mountain pathways are the source of pilgrimage for walkers around the World; drovers walked their holloways for centuries; and they are a visual representation of the original foundation from which all life flows, something indestructible. 

Witnessing something that has survived seismic shifts, wars, migration, flood and famine is to behold a solid part of the world. Holding on to something still, something steadfast feels safe. That is something very rare in 2025 as I write this. I think that is why so many visitors to the Outer Hebrides and Scotland stop at stone ruins, take photos, and reflect.

There is a stone croft house just down the road from my own. Not a cyclist or walker passes without a photo. It overlooks Loch Erisort on the Isle of Lewis - decaying corrugated iron roof, partially caved in, and a tree sprouting through the chimney. Visitors find such ruins aesthetic, an artistic expression of the land. But for us, they are reminders of violence, starvation and death. The stone markers of a family who once lived and loved in the village, now gone because of poverty. Those houses are the graveyards of families who were torn from their homes to make way for sheep. The household ruins depict lives lost. These photos are bones across the landscape of the Hebrides, a reminder of the desecration of colonisation.

And yet, still, the stone remains - our Earth's origins; witness to our genesis.

Dùthchas: Branches, Sheep & Keeping Gifts Safe

 

Dùthchas celebrates and describes our deep Hebridean connection to the land where we grow through work and play. The rolling crofts and rocky, heather hills where I live are family - to learn from, love and care for. A natural part of love is also protection. 

It's February here in Lewis, and despite the re-appearing sun, the tree branches have sealed their leaves and flowers in tight. Unlike the daffodil, known for its 'courage' to risk a second snow, or an icy death if it emerges too soon, a tree's roots run deep. It knows it must trust, be certain of the Spring before it can chance its delicate flowers, its raw gifts with the world. And so, for now, all it displays is a hard, outer shell. Its budding flowers and soft leaves remain reserved inside until it can trust they can be shared and grow, flourish without harm or damage from wintery weather.

It is the same for the hens on the croft that do not lay eggs during the month of January, for their bodies instinctively know that their young cannot survive in a hostile environment. Even the sheep do not give birth until late in March here, the lambs developing a thick coat quickly.

As humans, we need to take heed of Winter's lessons too: the most delicate, precious parts of yourself are not for everyone; they should only be shared with those few you trust. Healthy growth begins in a warm and welcoming environment, in safety. Yes, we need a resilient bark to survive a greedy world, but the parts of us that are sacred, our hopes, our happiness, our intimate dreams, should be protected until we know the weather will nurture and care for them. This is the Hebridean reserve. These small leaves of ourselves are the gifts we pass on. Like the Willow here on the croft: wait to trust. Wait for the Sun before sharing. Protect the colourful parts you most believe in as a human being; this way, when you do open yourself to a world you trust, you are sure to thrive.