Flying into the Past

Lorna Senior

I am just below the cloud base, far beneath is a sea of dove grey, crushed silk gleaming in light that filters through diffuse clouds and wisps of mist. I feel tiny, a particle in this vastness that flight in the helicopter allows me to appreciate as never before. The all-round vision affords an intimate experience with the sky denied in fixed wing passenger flight. Behind us lies Uist and before us rise the islands of the St Kilda archipelago.

Descending towards Hirta, the main island, the helicopter swoops into the circle of Village Bay, round the bowl of the hill, over the concrete built military base and the ruins of the old village and drops lightly onto the pad. We disembark and waddle, in our orange survival suits, away from the aircraft. The day has just begun and already I have watched seal colonies as we skimmed over the Monach Isles, enjoyed the most wonderful view of the ocean, felt a strange belonging yet isolation in the high air, and have set foot on a deserted island, home to none yet constantly occupied.

I am a privileged visitor and I set off up the hill to see the island from the one thousand four hundred foot summit.

The mist that clings to the high tops adds atmospheric eeriness to the military installations, humming with the business of keeping track of all whom move within their wide sweep. In the warm summer breeze the wisps of mist disperse before our eyes, much as dreams vanish in the dawn, awakening to reveal magnificent stacs in the surrounding seas, cliffs that plunge a thousand feet and more vertically into the ocean and many sea birds reeling and wheeling in the now blue sky.

Such is the height we have climbed to that, as my companion and I wind our way down the track, the contrasts of ancient and modern, nature and technology lie before us as if viewed from the sky.

At the far end of the village the old kirk holds a dignified quiet, patiently waiting while reflecting on times past, it is a place of comfortable atmosphere. The school, now equally quiet, must once have heard as much mischief as learning. A few artefacts lie nostalgically in remembrance of the vitality of those young people whose families have since scattered across the world and may never know the island of their ancestors.

The warmth of afternoon seeps through our shoulders as we wander along the village street. We pass restored houses, lively with Scottish Natural Heritage and National Trust for Scotland volunteers and workers who enthusiastically preserve the essence of St Kilda. The path continues, now passing many derelict homes and ends at the graveyard, a circle of high stone wall. Within, the sun shines drowsily and it is easy to imagine, looking back along the village, the families who lived and loved and toiled here in such harsh conditions so tangibly in the recent past. If the technology that we take for granted had been here for them, life would have been more comfortable and their community could have been sustained. But for a few short years a community was broken and lost. Would it have survived with this technology? How amazed those folks from 1930 would be to travel as I have done and see their island today.

We struggle back into survival suits and waddle back to the helicopter. Rising from the pad we skim out over the bay and up high into the blue. The day is glorious and looking straight down I see gannets flying in groups of three or four, brilliant white against the deep blue of the open ocean. We join land again at North Uist and fly south along the coast towards Benbecula, low enough to view the sea pools and strands, silk again, this time vibrant blues and greens shimmering in the sun.

Days like this become treasured memories, are rich in learning, in thoughtful reflection, in exhilarating visual and sensual experience. They change who I am, just a little, give me understanding and insight to myself as much to the lives and times of others. They do not come often.