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Lawson…”
    â€œBill,” said Bill, sensing a promising “roots seeker.”
    â€œAll right then—Bill. All I know of so far is that my third cousin, Hamish Taylor, lives in the Bays and has a boat there for island trips.”
    â€œOh, yes—indeed he does,” said Bill with genuine enthusiasm. “He’s quite popular with visitors in the season.”
    â€œWell—I’ll be meeting him. Tomorrow, I think. And then we’ll see where it all goes from there.”
    â€œAnd are you looking to reclaim your family croft too?!” I said lightly, and then realized that I might be in danger of loosing a “legalistic foray for lost lands”—an occasional island predicament here on Harris.
    The minister laughed and his weather-lined face, bronzed to a leathery hide by torrid Australian summers, seemed suddenly younger and animated—“Oh, no, no—that’s all past now…I just decided it was time I visited the home of my ancestors while I’ve still got…well, y’know…oh and, and also…this…”
    He opened his anorak pocket and pulled out a very creased photocopy of something printed in an uneven and old-fashioned typeface. “You may be interested in this, Bill.”
    He handed the sheet to Bill, who studied it carefully, nodding with professional appreciation, and then passed it to Anne and me. “So typical of the time,” Bill said, with a sad smile and a wispy sigh.
    It turned out to be a clipping about a ship that had left Skye for Harris on the sixteenth of December, 1852, to pick up one of many cargoes of emigrants. Parts of the photocopy were blurred, but from what we could tell, it must have originally been written in log form by the captain or one of his literate officers. It read:
    Fine vistas of Harris from a distance. Background of hills of most rugged character. Soil of massive peat and compost. Upon landing we saw their black houses…pervaded with filth to an extent we feel reluctant to describe…What a coarse and rugged place with the inhabitants in a most wretched state. Getting the poor creatures on board was really very affecting and the parting scenes were most distressing…
    The next paragraph describing the voyage was difficult to decipher except for one touching sentence:
    Few of these wretches were not sick and many died on the voyage, but their habitual reverence was not diminished and evening services were observed daily throughout the many weeks of our hard crossing…
    We all stood quietly for a while imagining the plight of these crofter and cottar (squatter) families abruptly uprooted from their homes and cast into the unknown of the “new world.”
    The minister finally broke the silence. “Well—that was more than a hundred and fifty years ago and, terrible as it must have been for them, many went on to help build fine communities in Canada—and certainly in Australia.”
    â€œYes,” agreed Bill. “Chris and I often go to visit these places—mainly in Canada and the USA.”
    â€œWell,” said the minister, with a broad grin, “we’ll have to see if we can’t get you an invitation to come and visit our little town near Melbourne.”
    â€œThat would be very nice.” Bill smiled. “Whereabouts are you exactly?”
    â€œSmallish place called Hamilton, just over a hundred miles from the city.”
    â€œAh,” said Bill.
    â€œWhat?!” was my amazed response. “Hamilton. I don’t believe it. I’ve been there. Ten years ago…I have an aunt there. She’s living in a nursing home on the edge of town. Near that wool museum of yours—that place with ‘the world’s largest ball of yarn.’”
    â€œToo much!” laughed Bill. “This is becoming like one of my genealogical reunions!”
    Â 
    I T WAS TIME FOR A SHIFT of focus. Anne felt the same but was