There will be an Avis

‘There will be an Avis at the airport’ said my city-wise friend as I made yet another phone call whilst trying to plan a fool proof journey into the unknown.
‘Mmn, I’m not so sure. It’s the Outer Hebrides you know’ I said. I liked the sound of those two words, Outer Hebrides. They had a magical quality, promising adventure, wilderness, remoteness, isolation, and new beginnings, all of which I was desperately in need. Much more descriptive than the Western Isles which could be west of anywhere.
The time was almost thirty years ago, pre-Internet age. I was seeking sanctuary, escape from city living, a stressful career and ill health. I had been searching for Utopia for a while. A better climate from that of England had been prescribed. Yes, I know that will make you wonder why I was heading into the Atlantic Ocean. I had ruled out Cyprus and Spain. Attractive though the sun might be, I am not an ex-pat type sitting on a balcony sipping G and T and an animal lover such as I would have spent all my waking hours in the dog pound in Nicosia.
I was drawn to the west coast beauty of northern Scotland but as an unhappy driver in wintry conditions a sixty-mile journey to Inverness and civilisation filled me with trepidation. Islands have an inexplicable magnetism for me. I journeyed to Arran but deemed it too close to the mainland – not islandish enough. Then I stayed in Skye and marvelled at its scenery but despaired at the lack of beaches. It would never be the place for me and my dog, both ardent beachcombers. It was whilst in Skye that I noticed Caledonian MacBrayne offering a day trip to Harris. The photo of the rocky landscape attracted me, and it seemed a pleasant way to spend a day, not that I had any thoughts whatsoever of seeking a home so far north and west.
‘I don’t suppose I can take a dog’ I asked the man behind the CalMac office desk.
‘Oh yes’ said he in his slow, musical Hebridean accent.
Off we went on the early morning ferry and that was the beginning of a love affair. At Tarbert I looked around for the coach which was to transport me on the tour of south Harris. Only a dishevelled bus awaited me, my small terrier, and another dozen or so day trippers. The weather was typically Hebridean with sunny showers. We journeyed along the Golden Road gasping at the different view around each corner, wondered at Rodel Church (no English cathedral would have welcomed a tourist with dog in arms) and then marvelled at the expanse of white beaches culminating in Luskentyre, which to this day steals my breath on each visit. Bouncing around in that rickety bus I knew I had found my place.
That was why my friend was trying to convince me about an Avis being present at Stornoway airport. My love affair had led me from remote Harris to the more populated and serviced Lewis. It was December, cold and dark and I had an offer of a few days stay at Carloway with friends of a friend of a friend, folks I had never met. I didn’t listen to the Avis advice but after several phone calls booked a car from the one rental company in Lewis. I took a lengthy train journey to Glasgow and then flew to Stornoway where the airport then was housed in an elongated hut. There was little sign of protocols or security, just very friendly, welcoming folk. On my return, in daylight, I photographed the airport hut to send to my friend with the caption ‘Where is the Avis?’. I located my ‘hire car’, a mud splattered, ancient Mini and set off into darkness. Satnavs did not exist, and I found my way across the moor on a December night without one wrong turning to be welcomed into a family home. Now thirty years later in the age of Internet and Satnav, I would not contemplate such a journey and I still marvel at how I found that house which I would struggle to locate today.
I had a checklist. I asked interminable questions. I drove from west to east, from Butt to Harris, scoured the streets of Stornoway and within a few days had a series of ticks on the list. I am a reasonably sensible, measured person and over the next two years I visited a couple of times before making the final decision. But I knew my path in life on that dark December night in the croaking Mini.
Friends in the south told me I was mad, others said brave, but it worked for me. I spent eleven happy, if gale ridden years, in my renovated old croft house welcoming B&B guests to ‘my island’.
Oh, and there was not an Avis. Maybe there is now. Perhaps I will Google it.