An Lanntair, Stornoway, Isle of Lewis, and other venues, 24-29 August 2009

FACLAN is the Hebridean Book Festival, running for several years now and yet not fully established as a Festival which is more than a series of joined-up events. But this year, I’d say there was a discernable buzz around the an Lanntair arts centre, a main venue but not the only one.

Indeed the outreach programme has a wide geographic spread and the spectrum of events is also wide this year. This probably accounts for what seemed to be a healthy range of folk through the doors, attending the readings and screenings, performances and discussions.

St Kilda parliament

First some words about blood. There was a sprinkling of it through the screening of the 1970s documentary The Shepherds of Berneray. The technical quality of the film seemed shakey for a few minutes till you tuned into it, remembering that images on screens were not always razor sharp nor the colours computer-corrected. And the opening commentary by the broadcaster and author Finlay J Macdonald also sounded faltering and conventional till everything settled down. And then you were lost inside a piece of art that seemed artless.

This film seems to me to be a product of commitment. You can’t really breeze into offlying islands for a two or three day block and expect to enter the lives of a past or present community. This documentary follows a simple pattern of the turning of the months so the seasonal work is expressed in its own natural storyline.

I was reminded of an argument I lost. Working with the often provocative Norman Chalmers I used the term document very loosely, trying to make a distinction between recording the process of a job and the shaping of that groundwork into a finished piece. He referred to a film which I’ve often returned to – Peter Watkins documentary Culloden – which moved me more than any fiction describing the same events.

So what makes an old documentary realised in a seemingly dated technical form completely engaging? After that first unnecessary introduction, people are allowed to speak for themselves. They do it well. Respect is implicit in every situation. In return, the film-makers are allowed into the intimacy of homes, fanks and boats.

The camera angles are considered and catch the harshness of sheep husbandry and storm conditions but also the sheer bare beauty of chaff in the wind and the colours that burst between bouts of poor visibility.

In contrast, Bryan Sykes stated his unambiguous approach as a scientist in the opening of his talk , Blood of the Isles. He has used an examination of DNA sampling to study the inhabitants of these and other Islands in the UK, Ireland and Scandinavia. He refused to be drawn onto cultural factors in identifying what characteristics could be assembled under the term Pict, Celt or Viking. Instead he summarised the findings of the genetic analysis of the ancestral history of our islands.

His delivery was dry but necessary and sufficient to the purpose of accurately conveying the results of scrupulous research. He made it clear that genetics is an unforgiving discipline. After analysing the remains of the Romanovs executed and buried during the Russian Revolution, there can be no more myths of the survival of Anastasia.

Similarly, it seems you can trace the respective genes to demonstrate that most of the women who would populate Iceland came from Scotland or Ireland while the men were predominantly Norse in origin. And about 40% of Sheltand men still carry a Viking hallmark with a decreasing but still significant proportion showing in Orkney and the Outer Hebrides.

There was a little drama in holding back the findings on one crunch question – is there a significant difference in the genetic make-up of English, Welsh, Irish and Scottish people? But really the interest to the audience was held by the material itself rather than its expression. It was all skillfully handled.

It seems that we really are all Jock Tamson’s bairns, or rather that we’re all pretty much Celtic. Southern English and all, and not just those from the geographical finges of Great Britain and the island of Ireland.

Now I’m going to take you on a tour of the last day of the Faclan festival Not all of it – I didn’t go out with Dr Finlay Macleod on a walking tour of the Norse mills on Lewis. But I spoke to a woman who did and she said it was a true storytelling performance but with erudition thrown in, natural as you like.

In contrast I sat to hear why Allan Cameron could possibly think it was a good idea to set up his own publishing label for translated novels, political polemics and unbridled rants. He also told stories. How Allan Massie’s usual publishers turned down a novel because it did not fit into the established writers’ normal marketable genres. How this title, now published from a backroom on the Peninsula, far out from the town of SY, has been more widely reviewed and discussed than any of the same author’s more recent works.

But Faclan hasn’t yet quite developed a way of leading from a presentation as a starting point to a discussion and debate forum. Free coffee and breathing space between the programmed events might help make the difference. But let’s say it’s shaping up.

Saturday was the first St Kilda Day, marking the anniversary of the date the whole community of Hiort was evacuated at the people’s own request on HMS Harebell. But Míchael de Mórdha, director of the Great Blasket Centre, delivered a detailed and tight and informal account of the literary works produced by some of the last inhabitants of a different offlying island in his talk on the Literature of the Blasket Islands.

He did make some comparisons with Hiort. But there were contrasts too. Some of the visitors were condescending, but Norwegian and English and Irish scholars tended to show a heartfelt respect for the strength of storytelling and other highly developed forms of oral culture. That was to lead to a significant range of publications, many of which are translated into a range of European languages.

Anne Lorne Gillies described a similar respect for the St Kildans’ eloquence, but mainly from the very few Gaelic speaking visitors, notably Martin Martin and John Francis Campbell. She presented an illustrated lecture with good quality slides and fine harp playing by Rhona Mackay. Really it was a journey from song to song and the songs were explained in some detail and performed competently.

As a means of conveying the background story of a vanished community this works well. As a performance it lacks the driving force which allows the songs to really ring out in their own terms. And there were some slips. Sure there was one song in the tradition of celebrating a boat as if she’s a living thing, but it’s a long way from that to justifying the statement that the St Kildans loved their boats. A glance at historical records of the boats wrecked in or about Village Bay speaks out beyond the names and dates and prices.

And as one who has been crewing on a commercial yacht dodging as close to the St Kildan sea stacks as is safely possible, I found it impossible to imagine cattle being landed on Soyea or Boreray, though sheep were of course taken the five mile crossing from Village Bay to Boreray.

Still. I’d make the parallel with the commitment of those who furthered the literature of the Blasket Islands. There is a starting point in respecting the literature, oral or transcribed or written or sung and a sustained effort to bring it to a wider public.

Now it’s got to be said that the last event was the one moving from discussion, documentary or lecture to full blown performance, Iain Morrison and Daibhidh Martin joined forces with Marc Duff ( bouzouki/whistle) and Pete Harvey (cello) to deliver a sequence of songs and tunes billed as St Kildan Post. Now they did begin with a projection and an explicit reference but really this was mainly a presentation of existing material.

It did not relate directly to St Kilda. Unlike The Shepherds of Berneray, it did not relate directly to anywhere. Martin is a storyteller with a tinge of magical realism. So his narrations are more dream landscape than kitchen table or hard-edged sheep fanks. The tone works well with Iain Morrison’s guitar and singing style.

They have a strong following and are already expert in making that elusive personal link with their audience. And on this outing the other instruments added a lot. The tone of the cello worked perfectly behind the seamless joining of spoken and sung words. I’d say Morrison’s own introductions were close to being a part of the songs. But when he picked up the Highland pipes he was most lyrical of all.

Duff’s whistle kindled the pace and the bouzouki kept the drive. But Morrison’s fingering brought that needed burst of dynamism. Without that it would all have been a bit soft-focus.

So this was an inspired piece of programming, bringing a whole new section into the venue to mingle with the survivors of a week of book-talk. A genuine dialogue, helped by some inspired but gentle heckling. But it was also, for me, a reminder that language is still central. The delivery of it is important – whether it’s the typography or the eye-contact. But the words have to be strong to survive. There are still cliffs to scale.

© Ian Stephen, 2009

Links

• Faclan
• St Kilda Day
• Ian Stephen