by Trevor Hoyle
TWO very desirable ambitions
on my eternal wish-list came together last year (2016) — with a positive
outcome for both!
First
up, hiring a motor home and setting off on the road to adventure
(though none too daunting or strenuous for a beginner — confining
the trip to the British Isles). The second was a dream I’ve nursed
for over forty years: to visit the place where George Orwell, a
literary hero of mine, wrote his final novel, Nineteen
Eighty-Four.
Even if you haven’t read the book you’ll be familiar with the
epithets and concepts it introduced to the world, such as ‘Big
Brother’, ‘Room 101’ and ‘Newspeak’. Indeed, the term
‘Orwellian’ has entered the language to describe a nightmare
vision of a totalitarian future.
Although
an established writer, with such books as Down
and Out in Paris and London and
The
Road to Wigan Pier
to his name, it was in 1945 that Orwell finally had his first
commercial success with Animal
Farm. For
the one and only time in his impoverished career he’d made a bit of
money, which meant he could take a break from the treadmill of
journalism and devote himself to the novel he was desperate to write:
working title The
Last Man in Europe.
For this he needed peace, quiet and solitude, and a friend suggested
Barnhill, an isolated dwelling on the remote island of Jura in the
Hebrides, off the west coast of Scotland. In those days getting there
was a 24-hour marathon slog from London via train and steamer; but
for Orwell, who described Barnhill as “un-gettable-at” (no phone,
no electricity, with oil lamps and log fires) it was the perfect
hideaway.
There was also a sense of
urgency to the quest. Orwell was suffering from TB. He was living on
precious borrowed time if he hoped to complete his novel.
Before
leaving home on my personal quest I drew up a timetable and
pre-booked the ferry; also four nights at the Port Mor campsite on
the island of Islay. (The locals pronounce it Isle-a,
I discovered.) The remaining days of the trip I left open, reckoning
that since this was October, and off-season, there’d be vacancies
at other campsites.
Driving
the two-berth Devon Aztec motor home was easier than I thought, as
long as I kept in mind its length and allowed for extra clearance
when turning. The elevated position and panoramic windscreen provided
great views. The van itself was fitted with everything we could need,
including cooker and oven, microwave, fridge, toilet and shower, and
TV with a DVD slot. Twin couches converted into a large double bed,
and the electric fan heater was highly efficient (which we very
grateful for when Force 8 gales were blowing straight off the
Atlantic all the way from Newfoundland!).
We stayed two nights on a
campsite just outside Inveraray on the banks of Loch Fyne, then drove
south alongside the loch down the long spit of land known as the
Kintyre. We didn’t go as far as the Mull of Kintyre (made famous by
the Paul McCartney song) but headed for the port of Kennacraig where
we caught the boat to Islay.
On
the two-hour ferry-ride, something remarkable happened. Standing on
deck, watching the misty outline of the islands growing sharper, my
wife and I got into conversation with a woman taking photographs, in
her fifties at a guess, who turned out to be an American travel
writer. Sarah and her companion, a retired airline hostess, had been
coming to the British Isles on walking tours for the past twenty-two
years; obviously serious, hardened walkers, not amateur ramblers like
us! This year, Sarah informed us, they’d rented a place on the
island of Jura, The house was called Barnhill.
Coincidences
are always weird. But to have a chance encounter with someone
actually staying in the pilgrimage shrine we had come all this way to
see — the entire purpose of our trip — was strange indeed. After
explaining our interest and introducing ourselves, Sarah invited us
to stop by the house. (As a writer herself she knew all about the
Orwell connection of course.) Though if the weather was anywhere near
decent, she reminded us, they would most likely be out during
daylight hours, trekking over the hills and exploring the rugged
coastline.
Our
first three days we spent at Port
Mor,
the pre-booked campsite overlooking Loch Indaal. Each morning we woke
early, at 7am, hoping the wind and driving rain might ease off so we
could set out on our trip to Jura, but the weather was foul. Then,
with only two days remaining, the skies cleared and gave us our
golden chance --
Off
we went, catching the ferry which takes less than ten minutes to
cross the narrow straits from Port Askaig. The only road on the
island then leads all the way to the north of Jura whose fewer than
two hundred human residents are vastly outnumbered by its six
thousand deer. Jura is in fact a hunter’s paradise — also teeming
with pheasant and grouse, which seem hell-bent on a kamikaze mission
as they run alongside us, perilously close to the wheels.
After
about twenty-five miles the road peters out to little more than a
rutted track, passable only by Land Rover or SUV. A sign warns you:
No
Motor Vehicles Beyond This Pont.
Now’s the time to don the fleeces and weather-proofs and pull on
the walking boots for the final five-mile trek. Apart from a short
sharp shower or two, the day is perfect and the views truly
spectacular.
Jura
has a gaunt, sweeping beauty of russet-browns and purples: bracken
and gorse covering mile upon mile of gentle contours, with glimpses
in-between the slopes of white-flecked ocean whipped by the Atlantic
westerlies. It’s a vista that’s savage and scary in its
remoteness and bleakness, yet also uplifting, indeed inspiring.
An
hour into our expedition we pass a Land Rover by the side of the
track; the vehicle must belong to Sarah and her companion, and I
scribble a note and leave it under the windscreen wiper. Secretly I’m
hoping the two intrepid American hikers will see the message and
return to Barnhill in time to make us a cup of tea and show us round
the house, which I’ve read somewhere has changed hardly at all
since Orwell lived there in the forties …
Alas,
my wish was not to be granted.
No
matter. Our ambitions and exertions are finally rewarded when below
us in a cleft of hills, facing the sea, we spy the long solid
structure of Barnhill itself. White-painted walls gleaming in the
sunlight and roof of grey slate. Having met, however briefly, the
couple renting it, I tell myself that having a snoop around and
taking photos isn’t too great an intrusion. In my mind’s eye I
picture Orwell living on the property, his tall, painfully stick-like
figure working in the vegetable patch (it was just after the war when
food was scarce) and preparing meals in the farmhouse kitchen. I even
know which bedroom he worked in -- upper left as you face the house.
Propped up on pillows, portable typewriter on his knees, here he
battled against time and ill-health to complete his masterpiece while
smoking unfiltered roll-ups, which can’t have helped the TB much.
Our visit was soon over, less
than thirty minutes, but it was sufficient. I’d made the
pilgrimage, walked the same track my literary hero had trod, peeked
inside the house where one of the most famous and influential books
of the twentieth century had first seen light of day. Mission
accomplished.
There
was one final, almost mystical moment to round off our trip. Sailing
back to the mainland, watching Jura grow dim and distant in the soft
evening light, it reminded me of the island Bali-Ha’i in the
musical South
Pacific. The
magical island, you’ll recall, where dreams sometimes do come true.
(This article first appeared in the Rochdale Style mag)
©
Trevor
Hoyle
Trevor
Hoyle’s most recent novel is the environmental thriller, The
Last Gasp,
published by Quercus.
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