There is only one place in the world where Harris tweed is woven. Clustered along Scotland's western coast
drifts a handful of far-flung islands called the Outer Hebrides, and it is there that I
dreamed away the spring of my Watson year.
Few people know of these remote
isles, although they boast some of the most striking scenery I encountered during my
entire journey. They are thought perhaps to be lonely, populated by a reserved people who
maintain their Gaelic culture and language. Yet only there is Harris tweed woven, as it
has been for generations. Both the fabric and the folk that produce it are veiled in
intriguing mystery.
Harris tweed has a curious
reputation; somehow this venerated woolen fabric has gone down in history as the scratchy
stuff of grandfather's Sunday jacket or dully colored cap. Yet today's Harris tweed is an
entirely different creature altogether — it is light, soft, supple, subtly colored.
And it is the only textile I know
which is protected and regulated by an act of the British Parliament. The cloth, according
to Her Majesty, must be handwoven in the Outer Hebrides, in the home of the weaver, using
Scottish pure new wool that has been spun and dyed in the islands.
The Isle of Lewis is the largest
of the western isles; its capital, Stornoway, or Steornabhagh, as the local Gaelic
speakers call it, is the home of Lewis Castle College, an old institution whose campus
boasts an excellent harbor view, thick forests and a lovely 19th century stone castle. It
is also the only institution authorized to instruct new weavers in the art of Harris tweed
weaving.
I wasn't prepared for the
enormous, hulking looms that greeted me when I first enrolled at the college. These
mechanical wonders defy the definition of handweaving, since they are actually powered by
foot.
In its infancy, the tweed industry
began on wooden hand looms like the ones I'd been using in Germany and Finland. But as
demand outpaced the supply of cloth which could be woven on such looms, the clever Scots
turned their eye to a new machine, the Hattersley.
Long a mainstay in the Borders
area of Britain, these industrial revolution relics were appropriated by Harris tweed
weavers as a means to produce more cloth at a faster rate without mechanization.
They are solely operated by two
foot pedals, which are linked in an intricate and precise way to the gears and cams which
control the pattern, advance the threads and fling the shuttles back and forth.
Recently, Harris tweed weavers
began using the newer, wider Griffith rapier loom, which was designed specifically to
accommodate current cloth cutting techniques in the fashion industry. This modern
contraption, which costs as much as a small car, whizzes out meters of cloth with amazing
rapidity, is capable of a wider variety of pattern combinations than its predecessors and
is pedaled like a bicycle.
But the Griffith is a pretentious
creation, smug in its precision, sure of its capabilities. Call me the old fossil shaking
her finger and droning on about “newfangled” ideas, but I found the Hattersley a
more appealing machine, despite its limitations and clatter.
After a few busy weeks of
pedaling, I affectionately nicknamed my loom Hattie. She was gracefully molded cast iron,
painted a soft, ethereal mint green, proud despite her age, which she knew she was
showing, and still ready to put out a few meters of cloth to show those Griffiths a thing
or two.
Most weavers on the islands are
men, so my weaving background seemed to surprise my teachers, Angus and Mal. These two
gentle fellows oversaw my instruction during a period when the school had no other pupils,
so they could tailor lessons to match my interests. And I was interested in learning as
much as I could.
Angus mapped out a prodigious
course for me. First I had to master the pedal timing — Hattie was dangerous during
those first days as my inexperienced feet sent shuttles flying in all directions. After I
finished weaving the ancient warp which had been left on the loom, I was given my first
new warp. I had to tie every single thread — 672 in all — in the new warp onto
the old one before Hattie was ready to go again.
I progressed through several
simple warps before I began to whine for more challenge, more colors and more shuttles.
Mal, a former industry designer, had an eye for color and designed most of my warps for
me. His creativity was constrained by the colors the school had available for student use
— mostly brown — but you'd never know it to look at the stunning end results.
Harris tweed is a twill weave, but
that encompasses a number of elegant weave structures. Diamonds, hound's tooth, celtic,
herringbone — the range of possibilities is amazing. Most pattern changes are simple,
requiring only re-threading before weaving can begin. Some of the more complicated
designs, however, require a trip under the loom, best done in a pair of coveralls with an
array of wrenches on hand.
Color amplifies the possibilities
available to the creative weaver. Throughout my stay on Lewis, I was constantly awed by
the subtle beauty of the island's ever-changing hues. The light, the landscape, the
soaring clouds and brilliant sun, all blended into natural harmonies that soothe the soul.
These colors once inspired the
Hebridean weavers, who used natural plant dyes, and remain at the heart of design today.
There are no flat colors in Harris tweed. Every strand of yarn, even those that appear to
be solid colors, is composed of a blend of dyed wools; take a closer look sometime and
marvel at the mix of shades hidden in every piece of cloth.
Once a tweed has been woven, it is
delivered to the mill for finishing. Each piece of cloth is washed, felted, finished and
inspected on-site before it receives the renowned orb trademark. I took field trips to the
two largest mills to see this process in action.
The mills also dye and spin the
wool into threads, which they then measure and prepare for the weavers. They also select
the colors and designs for the next season, so the work that was being done when I was
there was, at the earliest, for the spring of 2000.
When I wasn't busy weaving, my
host family, the Ferdinandos, kept me entertained. They included me in all their
activities and shared island life and culture with me. On weekends, we drove through the
countryside past heather moors and stacks of drying peat, past the sparkling surprise
lakes which dot the landscape, and through the mountains of Harris.
We visited all the well-known
historical sites and those hidden nooks known only to locals. They took me to see highland
dancing, and I even went along with them to a traditional ceilidh being held in the local
school. On sunny days, we picnicked on the sparkling, pristine beaches and wished their
azure waters would warm up so we could swim.
At the end of the course, I
received a certificate which, if I ever chose to use it, would enable me to enter the
ranks of Harris tweed weavers. I was reluctant to leave the bonny, billowy western isles,
but I took with me an in-depth knowledge of a very unique textile and the environment in
which it is created. That, and over 100 meters of beautiful, rainbow colored Harris tweed. |
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