My initial reactions spark at the off hand tone of the first page. Why did the writer bother with this trip? This point is answered in the excellent, diplomatic introduction by Tom Herron. The author made the trip for money and a considerable ego boost at being asked, by the original publisher, to undertake such an unsuitable assignment.

My curiosity was aroused by the topic of the book. I had previously read Kevin McNeil’s, ‘The Stornoway Way’, a novel set in Lewis in the present day, whereas ‘I Crossed the Minch’ offered an insight into life on Lewis and the other Outer Hebrides Islands in the 1930s. How would the two insights compare? The only comparison I could draw was that neither book complimented Lewis. MacNiece is honest, informing his reader that he is taking the trip for mercenary reasons and states that he is not qualified to write this book. He hopes a native would take up the task to do ‘justice to their noble tradition’. I felt here, he absolves himself of responsibility and this caused the first tides of my anger to stir.

It soon became evident that he arrives off the boat with some preconception that these wild islands in the Atlantic would be similar to his beloved homeland of Ireland and in particular the West Coast. This places the talented gentleman with a task of chronicling a place he is disappointed in.

I moved into my furious state. MacNeice moans about the Island people, the drab landscape, ‘the monotony of heather’, the food. He describes Scotland as being a ‘race of preachers and engineers’. He even finds fault with Scottish dog breeds in particular Deerhounds, declaring them ‘snippy’ compared to the far superior Irish Wolfhound (of course). He gropes his way over the Islands with his eyes and ears closed. The only conversations he records are with people of standing; the editor of the Stornoway Gazette, which was produced in English, schoolteachers or his middle class friends. And yet even these interactions are not sufficient for his cultured mind. He invents two travelling companions Crowder and Percival who are pompous and abusive to the author and, to the reader, superfluous and irritating to encounter.

The locals he mentions only in passing as a means of providing him hospitably which he appears to accept as his right. The Gaelic language he holds up as a barrier to local conversation, but there are times when he does glean some information from the natives and makes little use of these moments. For an educated person, language should not be a barrier but an opportunity to explore. For example, there is no mention from him of the unusual and traditional singing style found in Hebrides Presbyterian churches; using a Presentor to feed a ‘line out’ of Gaelic psalms, gives rise to an emotional swelling surges of voice. Music has no language barrier; a smile has no language barrier.

He adds into his text a Gaelic bridal song translated by his friend Hector MacIver, but he fails to pass comment on it, good or bad. This was one of the many times I felt the author tries to fill the pages with relevant items to justify his fee.

My frustration was heightened because during my reading of this book I attended a photography lecture on the region in question. There is no doubt this is an area of intense and unique landscapes, and yet MacNiece, who is an outstanding poet, misses this view because he is looking for Ireland’s West Coast beauty. But my frustration turned to sorrow at his lost opportunity when, in a period of self examination, MacNiece himself recognises his failings and can find no solution. He attempts to salvage his efforts by embarking on a further trip to the Islands and almost pulls it off. One particular episode he recounts walking for miles in the rain and his joy spills onto the pages. I was left wishing he could go back and make amends but he ends the book stating he would never return.

The style of the book is an unusual mix of personal journal, travel accounts, poems, intellectual references and fanciful trips into other dimensions with Crowder and Percival, his imaginary friends. I found it amusing that some of his namedropping episodes had not time-travelled well, one such name he throws at the reader to impress is Anthony Blunt, the spy uncovered in 1979 and subsequently stripped of his knighthood.

There is no doubt MacNeice was a gifted poet, his poem about the leaving of Barra is breathtaking, but in this book he projects himself as an overbearing, name dropping snob. And it is the author’s personality rather than the writing that makes ‘I Crossed the Minch’ a fascinating read. This account could be described as an insight into a time gone by on the Islands, but it is also an insight into class structure and intellectual snobbery of the time.

Moira McPartlin is a Scot with Irish roots. She began writing and attending creative writing classes at Strathclyde University in Glasgow in 2000 as a release from a busy career in Finance. She writes shorts stories and poetry and has had work published in Storie, The People's Friend, and The Scottish Mountaineer. In 2006 she won the Mountaineering Council for Scotland annual poetry competition and for the past three years, has regularly contributed book reviews and articles to www.laurahird.com. She resigned from a global position in Shell Oil in October 2005 to concentrate on writing her first novel Torque which was completed in July 2007. She is currently working on her second novel and developing her website. Moira has two adult sons and lives in Stirlingshire with her husband. She is a keen mountaineer and in 2006 compleated her round of Munros (Scottish mountains over 3000 feet high).