My dad was condemned to work much of his working life in the industrial heartland of Manchester.  I could have found my way to ICI Trafford Park blindfold.  The warm wheat smell of Kellogg’s, the hot electrics from Metropolitan-Vickers, the burnt rubber from the tyre recycling plant, the metallic smell of British Oxygen, the tainted hot steam from ICI.  My mother blamed this atmosphere for my father’s late ill-health, ignoring the twenty cigarettes he smoked every day for much of his life.  Almost sulphurous, this must be what Hades smells like.

Sited at the end of Westinghouse Road, one of the oldest thoroughfares in the park, the Dyestuffs Division factory overlooked Trafford Moss, undeveloped land, popular with peat diggers. Less than a mile north was the original location of Trafford Hall, demolished in 1939.  In 1897, the Manchester Golf Club obtained a lease for 80 acres of land and laid out an 18-hole course, using the hall as the clubhouse – a short walk from the grand entrance to ICI.  Sited close to the Manchester Ship Canal, even then, the aromas on the course could be quite overpowering (golfsmissinglinks.co.uk – Manchester Golf Club (Manchester St Andrews – 1882 – WW1).

1947-48 ICI Works Council at the gates on Westinghouse Road – undeveloped Trafford Moss is in the background, with the original site of Trafford Hall beyond. My dad is far left on the back row.

Paternal nepotism delivered a series of holiday jobs: site postman, tuck-shopkeeper, toilet cleaner and canteen washer-upper.  This, in turn, delivered an Austin Mini 850 on my seventeenth birthday.  An obsession with speed and a teenage conviction of immortality proved a dangerous combination, so the first accidents were not long coming.  The more recent obsession with motorcycles is just an extension of a teenage preoccupation.  When my father retired, he collected stamps. I bought a Ducati.

If the sulphurous air in Trafford Park was the work of the devil, the Atlantic-washed atmosphere that rolls across the Isle of Harris must also hang in the air at heaven’s gate. On a mild September Monday afternoon in 2024, I rode off the Ullapool – Stornoway ferry and breathed it deeply.  With the rest of the day to fill, I circumnavigated Lewis anticlockwise taking in the mandatory stops: Port of Ness, Butt of Lewis, Gearrannan Blackhouse Village, the standing stones at Callanish. The skies were leaden, but far out to sea in the west, a thin bright light promised a better Tuesday, the day I would finally play the Isle of Harris golf course.  Thwarted by gale force winds in 2016, eight years later I was hoping for better.

Tuesday did not start well. The bright light, if anywhere, was still out at sea and a dull beginning soon transformed into steady rain.  Pulling into Lochs Services on the A859 for petrol, things got worse.  Much like a golf carry-bag in a strong wind, a motorcycle at rest has but one ambition – to fall on its side.  Motorcyclists put the idea of high-speed accidents out of their minds and ride on regardless, but slow speed or static drops are a constant concern – there is the embarrassment and, in the case of modern, fully laden adventure bikes, the difficulty of picking them up again.  I did not drop the BMW at the services but parked on a sloping forecourt, sloping so much that once on its side-stand, the lean was so great I needed outside assistance to get it vertical again.  In a soft Hebridean accent the good Samaritan confirmed “I’m a rider too, I know what this service station is like – this weather is going to be a good test of the wet-weather gear – looks like it is set in for the day”.  I did not want to hear this.

And then, a minor miracle occurred.  Failte do dh’Eilean na Hearradh, said the sign and through the top right-hand corner of my rain spattered visor, blue sky crept into view.  The further I rode south, the brighter the light became.  At the turning for Hushinish and Amhuinnsuidhe Castle, the rain had stopped. At Tarbert, clear skies emerged to the west and, as I passed the turning for Luskentyre, Aunt Julia brought out the sun.  Pulling into the car park at Harris Golf Club, the skies promised a perfect day. I had arrived at heaven’s gate, Scarista.

The view from the car park promises much – the sweep of Traigh Scarista, Ceapabhal (Chaipaval) the highest point on the nearby uninhabited peninsula with Toe Head beyond – as far west as you can go on Harris without getting your feet wet.  In contrast, the clubhouse is invisible – comprising three shipping containers dug into the hillside in a hobbit-like fashion.  A grand design; Kevin McCloud would surely approve.

The view from the car park on arrival – Traigh Scarista and Ceapabhal with the 4th green and marker post just visible

Arriving by motorcycle demands that I rent clubs and judging by the excellent hire sets, this must a be a regularly used service as golfers arrive, empty handed, from all parts of the world.  Preparation was a slow process – clambering out of motorcycle gear, donning something more appropriate, storing helmet, boots and tank bag, remembering to extract camera, phone, tees, and golf balls – all of this in the dark as my arrival coincided with a power cut. I was not unexpected, but timing was always going to be an issue, so I was fortunate to meet the captain, Melanie, and greenkeeper James, a man whose job presents challenges peculiar to a golf course at the edge of the known world – equipment maintenance, repair and acquisition being top of the list.

James, the greenkeeper – a man with a challenging job, expertly performed.

And then, of course, there is the weather. Considering its location, it is a wonder that a course was ever laid out at Scarista – Established 1935 says the scorecard but history is more complicated. The Oban Times and Argyllshire Advertiser of 10 August 1912:

New Course Opened at Scarista, South Harris – Through the kindness of Lord Dunmore, South Harris is now provided with a nine-hole golf course, the formal opening of which took place last Wednesday afternoon (7^th August 1912).  The work of construction was carried out under the direction of Mr Marling, Royal Aberdeen Golf Club.  The ceremony of declaring the course open was performed by Dr. Tolmie Obbe.  Thereafter a number of golfers from the various shooting lodges, who motored over to take part in the opening of the course, played a round.  The best return was made by Mr Norman Robertson, factor of South Harris, whose two rounds were 35 and 36 = 71, which for present will figure as the record.  The course is situated, with the waters of the Atlantic below and some of the finest bens in Harris in the background.¹

History is merely a list of surprises. It can only prepare us to be surprised yet again – Kurt Vonnegut.

There is an intensity to long distance motorcycle travel that is unsurpassed by any other form of transport. You are in the moment, in the scenery, pressed on by wind and weather, flowing with every undulation and corner, completely alive, and addicted.  It also intensifies the arrival.  I am here, I have made it, I am alive, I am standing on the first tee at the Isle of Harris Golf Club.  And, what an opener, the 249 yard (yellow tee) downhill par 4, Borve – and all you see is the sea, and Taransay.  Elevated drives are always a joy, even when they leak right into the rough – and I had no excuses, the wind was gentle for these parts.  Pitching into a narrow green protected by a mound, I came up short through a misplaced fear of finding the briny.  It is a very fine introduction but, for me, the gem comes next. At 289 yards, the par 4 Scarista loops around the bay to an elongated coffin-shaped green.  Longer hitters may take a direct route but bailing out right and pitching in from 100 yards+ I came within a few feet of the pin.  I missed the putt, of course, but the prospect of a birdie always leaves a lasting impression.  The third, the 298-yard St Kilda, climbs back up the hill to the top of the course taking a dogleg left to a green surrounded by raised banks, always a help to the wayward approach.  The fourth is also delightful surprise – a 130-yard par 3, Ensay is blind from the tee but pitch over the marker post, walk forward, and you are presented with a glorious, over-sized green, which only the most wayward can miss.

The second tee, Scarista, with Taransay in the background

The opening holes have a magic to them – mild progression from right to left, right to left, right to left and finishing with a short blast over a blind brow.  They have a rhythm, flip-flopping like a motorcycle through a series of opposing bends, it is equally satisfying, a golfing delight, counter-steering the irons.

It is tempting to imagine this is the original layout, but the course has been through several iterations.  The club website says there is evidence the course was used in the time of Lord Leverhulme in the 1920’s but we now know it was first opened in 1912, re-opened in 1935 and re-opened again in 1985. Regardless, the astonishing backdrop has been unchanging throughout.  Post World War II resurrection was first mooted in January 1964 at the inaugural meeting of The Harris Council of Social Service.  Among many suggestions, it was proposed that renewed attempts should be made to re-open the golf course in the Scarista district.² No further progress would be made until 1981, the meeting concluding that the salvation of Harris lay in the revival of its traditional industry, namely weaving.

The second green with Ceapabhal in the background

The 1985 course would extend slightly further north than the 1935 version, which was run by the father of the late TV broadcaster, Scarista born Finlay J MacDonald (1926-87).  The course redesign was the responsibility of Finlay Morrison, an Edinburgh-based professional golfer with strong links to Harris.  Born on nearby Isle of Scalpay in 1914, he appeared in the Open on five occasions and played alongside some of the greats in the game.  “I was at home in Harris around 1981 and someone asked me if I would help them redesign the course. I spent the next few weeks walking the machair with my clubs and suggested where they should put the tees and the greens”. ² Finlay was to reach the grand age of one hundred, surely attributable to the Harris heavenly air.

Johanna and Julia MacLeod were also born and raised on Scalpay and the family surely known to the Morrisons.  Johanna was the mother of the Scottish poet and teacher, Norman MacCaig whose modern English poetry is loved for its simplicity of language and subtle humour. Julia is the subject of his fine poem, Aunt Julia:

She was buckets
and water flouncing into them.
She was winds pouring wetly
round house-ends.
She was brown eggs, black skirts
and a keeper of threepennybits
in a teapot.

Aunt Julia spoke Gaelic
very loud and very fast.
By the time I had learned
a little, she lay
silenced in the absolute black
of a sandy grave
at Luskentyre.

Rosamol Beach at Luskentyre

On several occasions while on Harris, I mentioned my intention to ride out to Luskentyre, not in search of Julia’s grave, but to pay my respects to her landscape and listen for her seagull’s voice.  On each occasion I was met with blank stares.

If MacCaig does not have the local recognition he deserves, no such fate has befallen the golf course. Charles Murray, 8th Earl of Dunmore, Lord Leverhulme and, more recently, Nick Faldo have sung its praises, and all have a connection with Amhuinnsuidhe Castle (Gaelic for Sitting by the River – pronounced Aven-suey).  The Castle was built in 1865 for Charles’ father, the 7^th Earl of Dunmore and was subsequently occupied by Lord Leverhulme before passing into the hands of Sir Samuel Scott, whose wife, Sophie, is said to haunt the castle. Just five years after their extravagant 1896 society wedding, Sophie was named in a high-profile divorce case. This combined with a habit of running off to her relatives suggest she was not always happy at the castle and her ghost possibly not as benign as advertised.  While the registers were being attested at her wedding, a member of the choir sang “Be thou faithful unto death” from Mendelssohn’s “St Paul”.

After the war Amhuinnsuidhe was sold to Sir Thomas Sopwith, the aircraft-manufacturing tycoon before eventually being purchased by the Bulmer family, the cider producers.  Jonathan Bulmer lived there for ten years before selling up, following the breakdown of his marriage and the need to fund his divorce settlement.

It was at this point that a case of I’m a Celebrity, Get Me into Here broke out on the island.  Potential buyers were named as Mohamed Al Fayed, Michael Jackson, Madonna, Sting and Nick Faldo. The interest is surprising considering its unique lack of privacy – the public road to Hushinish passes just feet from the front door. Ultimately there was an unusually happy ending – the North Harris Estate was the subject of a successful community buy-out and is now managed by the North Harris Trust which is governed by a board of twelve volunteer Directors who are elected to represent the various local communities.  The castle was sold separately and is now rented out for fishing and field sports parties.  The islanders would seem to have a had a lucky escape.

*

In recent years, the fifth, Langavat, has changed from a par 4 to a 486-yard par 5 (off the whites), utilising what was the ninth fairway in the opposing direction.  James was keen that I should play off the back tees to get the best view on the course.  It was good advice, the churning sea and the full sweep of Traigh Scarista making for an inspirational sight and, a challenging par 5.  From the high tee, the ball descends into green valley where the sound of the sea diminishes and remains out of sight until the ninth, no longer a backswing in tune with the rhythm of the waves.  The intended destination was unclear to this newcomer such that I improved significantly on the back nine when I had a better idea of where I should be heading.  The sixth tee, Toe Head, is at the extreme of the course and plays uphill as the shortest par 4 on the course.  A dogleg right, the challenge is to find the smallest of greens imaginable, protected by two bunkers to the front – you could fit half a dozen of these greens on the ample acreage of the fourth green – variety is the spice of life.

The fourth tee with the 5th fairway beneath

The seventh, par 3 Pabbay, plays across the hill and over the 6^th green to a target which slopes dramatically from right to left, following the natural contours of the land. Hitting the target is one thing, holding the green is another.  This is followed by another par 3, the 182-yard Taransay where you need to fly most of this distance to avoid a ball-swallowing hollow, lined with heavy rough.  I speak from experience.  Finally, the par 4 340-yard ninth, Killegray climbs the hill parallel with the road, a drainage ditch providing the only risk for a medium hitter.  Carrying a bag on ageing knees makes for slow progress and a tired swing such that I take four to reach the green, enclosed by high green banks on all sides.  And then, it is time to start again.  This is the joy of 9-hole courses – a second chance to take on the holes you made a hash of at first attempt.  Another opportunity to make a hash of the holes you played well.  The repetition imprints the course on your memory, unlike 6000-yard inland courses with unrelenting tree-lined fairways.  Every hole at Harris has individual character, and unique geography – once played, never forgotten.

So, once again, I stood at the 1^st/10^th with the exciting prospect of launching another ball at, and into, the blue.  Much time, effort and cash is thrown at the perceived problem of attracting new blood to the game by the various Golf Unions.  One enhancement that would be sure to attract the merry hordes would be golf balls that emitted coloured vapour trails.  The Red Arrows achieve this by injecting diesel and dye into the aeroplane’s hot exhaust. While this solution might not be immediately transferable to a golf ball, it is visible, tangible, analogue solutions we require.  A tracer on a smartphone is the last thing needed – hold your head up, hold your head high – reach for the stars.  Gerhard Zucker would have understood this.

On 28^th July 1934, Herr Zucker attempted to introduce a rocket based postal service from the Isle of Scarp to the mainland of Harris, a distance of approximately a half mile.  A 30-pound canister containing 4800 letters was attached to the rocket which sat on a wooden runway with hoops to steer it in the intended direction.  Those in attendance included the Lochmaddy postmaster, the local MP and Sir Samuel Scott from nearby Amhuinnsuidhe Castle.  Herr Zucker signalled to the crowd to retire to a safe distance, connected up the electric fuse and pressed the button.  Instead of the rocket shooting over the Sound of Scarp, however, there was a dull explosion, and when the smoke cleared the wreckage of the runway and the rocket was seen on the shore, with the letters strewn about.  The rocket was split open and twisted out of recognition, but although most of the letters were charred few were badly damaged.⁴

One of the letters that survived the explosions

Three days later a second firing was attempted, this time from Samuel’s castle, thereby avoiding the water crossing.  Again, this resulted in abject failure … there was a flash of fire, a cloud of smoke, and when the air cleared the letters were strewn about the wreckage of the firing apparatus.  It is understood that a piece of the rocket was found somewhere near the objective.⁵ Gerhard blamed the German Government for banning the export of the firing canisters he had used in earlier, more successful experiments.  Deemed a danger to himself and the public, he was eventually deported back to Germany where he was arrested on suspicion of cooperating with the British.  How far we have come – compare this with the October 13^th, 2024, SpaceX Starship take-off and its Booster 12 rocket subsequently finding its way back to the launch tower and, by comparison, golf balls emitting coloured vapour trails seems a trivial challenge.

*

Another eight holes of delight and it was over.  The power was still off in the clubhouse, so clambering back into the biking gear was again accomplished in the near dark. Melanie recommended the restaurant attached to the Isle of Harris Brewery, so I pointed the bike in the direction of the pier at Leverburgh.  It did not disappoint.  With the sun streaming through the window, a beer in hand (zero alcohol) and the arrival of the Berneray ferry on a glistening sea, it was time to reflect.  The following day I would head south, catching the Tarbert ferry to Skye, but not before riding out to Luskentyre and then circling the Island, taking in the Golden Road.  What I get from these experiences is personal, deeply felt and near impossible to explain.  It is much more than playing a series of golf shots or bonding with a motorcycle over long days in the saddle.  It is a unique sense of place and my part in it – I have felt this since my first journey to the northwest in 1973 – it is peculiar to wild places, and it only surfaces when I am there. Riding a motorcycle and playing golf in the wild is a mental reset, I come away renewed.  The land snaps us clean like freshly laundered sheets – Barry Lopez.

Holm Beag on the road to Luskentyre

1. Oban Times and Argyllshire Advertiser – Saturday 10^th August 1912
2. Stornoway Gazette and West Coast Advertiser – Saturday 5^th December 1964.
3. The Herald – 31^st August 2015.
4. Daily Record – Monday 30^th July 1934
5. Dundee Courier – Wednesday 1^st August 1934
   

   Going Home – the BMW R1250 GS