"Drunk" on Boreray

It has been raining hard all morning. In fact, if I am to be completely honest it has been raining nearly the entire time since I stepped aboard this small expedition ship in the tiny port of Oban, Scotland. I actually love the rain and wonder why I have never moved to Seattle (okay, too many people). But as a rule, rain makes me happy although it does raise havoc with my camera equipment. I have spent the morning slogging about Hirta, the most well-known island in the St Kilda archipelago deliriously happy as I photograph the Soay sheep and their month-old lambs. St Kilda is a place I never thought I would step foot on and to be fair, many who try are foiled by the weather. But luck has been with me—perhaps it is tucked in the raindrops.

From the sheepy perspective, St Kilda is most noted for its Soay population. Approximately two hundred sheep were relocated to Hirta in the years after the human population was evacuated in 1930. The Soay are the subject of ongoing research owing to their pure (and ancient) genetics. But St Kilda is also home to the Boreray, a “younger” breed with a mixed lineage. The St Kildans kept a “reserve” flock on Boreray Island that they would visit once a year, harvest the fleece, and often take a few animals back to Hirta to repopulate the local flock. Owing to the near impossible conditions of landing on Boreray, the sheep were thrown into the water and then rescued by the rowboat. Genetically, the original Boreray were Scottish Tan Face (now extinct) but by the mid-1800s, Hebridean Blackface rams were brought to the island to “improve” the breed.

However, in order to see the Boreray on St Kilda one must leave Hirta and go to Boreray Island on the outskirts of the archipelago and even then, there is no guarantee. Borerays and boulders are all but indistinguishable. Undaunted by the challenge, I station myself on the observation deck with camera in hand as we cruise past the nearby stacs (sea cliffs) bulging with birds. My fellow passengers, many of whom are avid British birders and now thoroughly “drunk” on the million or so birds that live in this archipelago. Alternatively, I am hoping to catch sight of a single Boreray sheep. I don’t care if it’s young or old, brown or white, boy or girl. Just one little Boreray and I too will be “drunk” with delight. But it isn’t looking good. The seas are tossing us about. The fog refuses to lift. And at any moment I am certain that one of the hundreds of fulmars, gannets or petrels circling above will no doubt shit on my head.

Boreray Island isn’t terribly large, just less than two hundred acres. Archaeological evidence suggests it was inhabited by farmers in the Bronze Age, but that appears to the be the first and last time any humans ever tried to call this bird-infested rock home. The island has two angles: ninety degrees, and slightly less than ninety degrees. The birds love it as they roost on their nests protected from predators. But for the two-legged, it seems incomprehensibly steep and not much better for the four-legged. I turn to Hannah, our expedition leader (and a devoted birder who is thankfully sympathetic to my sheepy desires) and ask if there really are sheep on this island? She assures me there are. “You have to look for the rocks with little legs,” she explains in her impeccable English accent while squinting through her binoculars at the hills in the distance.

I believe her. Well . . . sort of.

Standing at the bow of the ship facing the full force of the wind straight on, I imagine this is the very feeling dogs get when they poke their head out the car window. The noise is deafening and my eyes are instantly rendered bone dry, but I trust my ears are not flapping uncontrollably. If it were another ten degrees cooler I would no doubt be subject to frostbite. (Reminder—it’s the middle of May.) With the aid of my telephoto lens, I detect lots of little white swooping dots—more damn birds, and I can also see the white rocks like mini-marshmallows in a lime Jell-O mold. But no sheep. I contemplate running back inside for a cup of hot tea, but we all know how that story ends. The moment you leave your watch the long-awaited event appears. Even if you try and fake out karma and just pretend to leave, it never works. So, I continue standing, getting colder by the moment.

After several more minutes of listening to the drunken birders talk excitedly, I no longer share in their joy. Please God, I whisper, just one little Boreray? Pleeeeze . . .

The captain maneuvers the ship as close as is safely possible to the island. But even if I was in a small rowboat and not a two-hundred-foot expedition ship, there is no place to safely land. There are, however, any number of places to smash into the rocks. Suddenly, Hannah gives my elbow a nudge with hers, keeping the binoculars fixed at all times.

“I see four sheep on the hill,” she says, with only the slightest hint of excitement.

“Oh my gosh, Where? Tell me, where?”

She identifies a long narrow ridge that’s “a bit to the left of the big gray rock that has the split to the side with the slightly darker gray rocks below.” I look through my camera, not at all sure I’m looking at the right gray rock let alone the one with the split. Hannah kindly passes me her binoculars and begins to point until finally I see the four white rocks with little white feet.

“I see them! I see them! I can’t believe I can actually see them.” I begin pressing the shutter that starts firing faster than a nail gun, pausing just long enough to broadcast to the crowd that there are sheep on Boreray! My announcement is met with even less excitement than the cucumber sandwiches served at tea, but I don’t care, I have finally seen seem, Boreray on Boreray, and without Hannah’s help I am certain I never would have seen them at all.

It is only after the island has long vanished from our wake that I dare to leave my post, anxious to return to my cabin and inspect my pictures more closely on the computer. I hope the photos provided herewith will offer proof of this exciting moment although without benefit of enlargement, they are all but impossible to detect.

Aside from their ancient roots and remote locale, the Boreray belongs to the Northern European short-tailed breed. However, of equal interest is the quality of their fleece. It’s rough and tough on the outside but according to The Fleece and Fiber Sourcebook, underneath it measures 17.5 microns, which easily falls within the cashmere range.

In my strange wooly world, I couldn’t have asked for a happier ending but several weeks later I discover this wasn’t the ending after all. I would soon get to meet my first Borerays in person, not a quarter of a mile away, and not from the deck of a ship, but standing in the very same pasture.

Stay tuned for the next chapter, the "Lost Flock."