In the early hours of 29th August 1930, a clutch of villagers placed open bibles and some oats inside their empty homes. The doors of 16 black cottages were then locked for the last time. The stoic individuals, young and old, silently carried their few life possessions to a government ship, helping each other, as was their nature.

The HMS Harebell was at anchor in Village Bay, waiting. Some said prayers into the biting wind. Finally aboard, the tethers were lifted and they set off on a bitter-sweet journey into the unknown, ending an unlikely story which had lasted two thousand years. This is, of course, a description of the evacuation of St Kilda. These 36 individuals were its final inhabitants. It was the end of an era. Another now looms. Of the evacuees from the island, only two survive. Rachel Johnson is 86; her memories few. Norman John Gillies is 84. He lives with wife Ivy in a house in Suffolk.

Memories

Norman John was only five years old when the Harebell berthed at Lochaline Pier, Morvern, and mainland life became the new focus of the St Kilda people. Watching the tearful women wave goodbye to Hirta, the excited boy knew little of the importance of this voyage. As long as he is alive, though, that island at the edge of the world, and the way of life it signified, will continue to have a foothold in living memory. ‘If people ask me, I always say I am from St Kilda. I am a St Kildan,’ says Norman John, surrounded by family pictures. Despite being a great grandfather, he is acutely sharp. His ability to retain dates is impeccable. He recounts these now in an accent his wife of 60 years calls ‘east Anglian Scottish’, though he still has a few phrases of the native Gaelic. ‘From the first day we bought the house here, I got a sign made up. I called it St Kilda.

There was no disputing what the name would be,’ he says. Norman John’s retention of dates, while commendable, is unsurprising. Although he was born on 22nd May 1925, it was a tragic incident in March 1909 that was to shape his life. ‘My name Norman John comes from my mother’s two brothers,’ he explains. The brothers of Norman John’s mum were drowned at Dun. They had been tending sheep and were about to land when a huge wave capsized the boat. ‘My grandmother had had a premonition,’ he recalls.’ She knew something was going to happen. That is how I got my name.’ It is 79 years this month since Norman John left behind house number 10, Village Bay.

Looking back

Today, other than army staff and workers from the island’s owners, the National Trust for Scotland, the archipelago echoes with the call of the gannet and the fulmar. A UNESCO World Heritage site, St Kilda‘s gabbro stacks are a haven for seabirds. Still, Norman John’s memories of the place will always invoke the people who called it home: their daily work, habits and beliefs. ‘When I went back to the island for the first time, it was strange to see no roof on my house and the grass growing everywhere. There was a kitchen and cooking area and two bedrooms. I can remember my mother getting dishes ready there. We never seemed to go hungry at all. It is amazing. They killed thousands of birds, but it was like God was providing for them. It was a happy community because everyone shared.’ Theories have been expounded as to why two millennia of human habitation came to an end on St Kilda.

Older islanders, like his grandmother, didn’t want to leave. However, Norman John is able to separate sentimentality from reality when he casts his mind back to the final days. Six soldiers manning a WWI wireless station on St Kilda wove tales of mainland life many men found enchanting. More and more left to work in Glasgow. One of them was the late Lachie MacDonald. He was 24 and keen to witness a life with less hardship. ‘Lachie went to Glasgow in 1926 to visit his two brothers. That unsettled him,’ says his widow, Nancy, who still lives in Fort William. ‘He thought it a leisured life because it was very hard work on St Kilda.’

The death of Norman John’s own mother, Mary, was the final straw. Ill with appendicitis, bad weather meant she couldn’t get off the island for over a fortnight. She died in Stobhill Hospital, Glasgow, on 26 May 1930; the child she had given birth to 13 days earlier dying on the same day. It is another date Norman John can never forget, nor can he forget the memory of his mother waving to him from the boat as she was rowed away.

In that moment, staying on the island no longer seemed feasible. ‘I don’t dream about the island. I have memories like seeing my mother going, little things like that. Leaving the island was a blessing, really. It gave more opportunities for the young people to broaden their education and the work they did. But I want people to always remember St Kilda. It is a special place. There is no way people could ever go back to live there now, but it is good to go and think about what happened. To think about people living there for so long. It is amazing, really.’

fieldfacts

The National Trust for Scotland, 28 Charlotte Square, Edinburgh EH2 4ET Tel: 0844 4932100 www.nts.org.uk Many visits to St Kilda begin in the Western Isles. To find out more about this fascinating area and plan your trip visit www.culturehebrides.com