The story I’ve sold is about traditional ways of life and Gaelic culture, which have, to a limited extent, remained unaltered by the march of commercialisation and global homogeneity. In order to give this little tale some legs, our first stop on the Uists is the Hebridean Smokehouse on North Uist.
The night before, an old lesbian staying at our campsite had complained about the Smokehouse, damning it as a tourist trap, filled with overpriced goods. We decided to visit it anyway.
I like people like proprietor Fergus Granville. I’ve been fortunate that work has introduced me to a few people like him over the last few years: a tiger-spotter in Nepal; a rug-maker in Guildford; a cave-explorer in Iceland, and now a peat-smoking fisherman in the Outer Hebrides. Three of them, including Fergus, were educated in expensive English schools which left them with wonderfully posh inflections. All of them, one way or another, were born into a life of privilege but – crucially – the trait that they share most closely is that they rejected the trappings of that existence and decided to lurch into something else altogether. Something filled with plenty of risk and no guarantees of success.
In his own way, each man succeeded and along the way each has led an extraordinary life, the kind that if I had the time, skill and backing, I’d love to write about at length.
Like at least one other of these extraordinary gentleman, despite his Etonian lilt Fergus isn’t English at all, but a rough-hewn Hebridean. After they were married, his parents – Irish and Scottish – decided that their money would go further on the Western Isles than anywhere else, so they came out here and started a fish-farming business*. It was tremendously successful, so they sent their son away for a decent education and taste of the wider world. Fergus found it bitter and dull, and within a few years chose to come back to the North Uist. Rather than simply taking over the reins of his father’s business, he decided to branch out on his own and buy the Hebridean Smokehouse.
Like at least one other of these extraordinary gentleman, despite his Etonian lilt Fergus isn’t English at all, but a rough-hewn Hebridean. After they were married, his parents – Irish and Scottish – decided that their money would go further on the Western Isles than anywhere else, so they came out here and started a fish-farming business*. It was tremendously successful, so they sent their son away for a decent education and taste of the wider world. Fergus found it bitter and dull, and within a few years chose to come back to the North Uist. Rather than simply taking over the reins of his father’s business, he decided to branch out on his own and buy the Hebridean Smokehouse.
 |
| Not our picture. |
The majority of Scottish salmon is not Scottish salmon. Not genetically, anyway. Yes it’s raised in Scotland and spends the majority of its life in her waters, but it’s a Norwegian import. Fergus claims to be the only producer to use the indigenous species, raised in its native waters.
“These foreign fish have to be pumped full of chemicals and hormones to survive in the Scottish waters,” he says through mad smokers teeth. “If farmed naturally in two groups – one Scottish one Norwegian – 80% of the foreigners would die, while 80% of the natives would survive.”
So why bother going to the habit of importing the dainty foreigners? This isn’t football.
“It’s to do with maturation. Without wanting to sound too boring, the Scottish fish reach maturation after about a year – after that they’re full of sperm and eggs and no good for eating. It takes the Norwegian salmon three years, so they grow much bigger and are still perfectly edible.”
So, if he were trying to compete with the big boys, Fergus would have to kill thousands more fish to match the output. But he’s not – instead he’s going for a bespoke product that, in my opinion, justifies his inflated price tags. The fish are killed by hand, hopefully decreasing the amount of stress they suffer; a frightened fish released adrenaline and its meat becomes stiffer. The carcass is then always supported when being handled, no holding them by the tail and posing for pictures, like a prick.
 |
| Obviously not our picture, either. |
 |
| Not our picture; not Fergus. |
Back at the Smokehouse millennia-old peat is used to gently smoke and flavour fish that have been loved to death, before they are individually packed and shipped off across the continent. Almost 80% of Fergus’s business happens through mail-order around Christmas when Royal Mail lay on an extra plane just to get his salmon out of here. Another portion of it is taken by Emirates and Qantas who serve it to the crooks and honeymooners occupying their first and business class seats.
I like Fergus. I like the fact that he cares and that he’s proud of what he does. And, yes, I like that he gives us so much free fish at the end.*This is the humble story Fergus told me and that I diligently wrote down for you, dear reader. But while doing a little more research, I later this discovered this. And this (go to number 10.) Initially I felt he'd been a little dishonest by not declaring his blue blood, but the more I think about it, the more I admire the fact he doesn't want to use or be defined by his title. In the end, Fergus - or Earl Granville, if you prefer - is a decent sort. He just happens to be utterly extraordinary.