The Road to George Orwell

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.