A Stornoway Afternoon: Cake, Coffee, and the Ghosts of Former Stores

An hour and a half by yourself on a Saturday afternoon in Stornoway is a unique gift. This time, there will not be any iced tea detours (I am not into that) or stressful laps around the parking lot. Me, a little list of errands, and a leisurely pace through a town that is subtly changing its own narrative.

Stornoway is different now. You can feel it in your bones if you have been here long enough. Stores closed, others became apartments, or vanished entirely from the public consciousness. Murdo Maclean was among the most recent to pass away; it was a loss that felt intimate, like a chapter that was gently coming to an end.

I stopped for coffee at the Blue Lobster
before running my errands, or as we say here, "received the messages"—a delightfully odd word that somehow translates to grocery shopping. I ordered it in black. As usual, the barista asked if I wanted anything to go with it. A heaping chunk of spiced orange cake caught my eye; it was delicious, heavily frosted, and covered in orange curd. It seems insulting to call it a "slice." This cake had a presence.

As I sipped a damn great coffee (the kind that makes you say "mmm" out loud without realizing it) and bit into the lemony sweetness, my thoughts drifted. Back when going "to town" meant bringing a pocket full of crumpled bills and Woolworths. Let us go back to Saturday freedom with D.A. and Mark, when going through CDs in Woolies was the epitome of discovery and £10 felt like a lot. A meatloaf. Nasir was still in charge of James Mackenzie's. And Hugh Matheson's—the sausage rolls covered with marmalade glaze, the way they used to arrange the Christmas hampers. The things you recall and how they persist in your senses are amusing. Even now, I still properly brown sausages and top them with marmalade.

The Scaramuccis operated the Coffee Pot, which was a pre-bus custom. authentically Italian ice cream. Peter's smile, warm and familiar. My first (and final) guitar lesson was at D.D. Morrison's. I used to buy tonic wine for my grandmother "for medicinal grounds" at Kenny Froigan's, the "green chemist," as a rite of passage until someone eventually requested identification.

And now? The town is still alive, nevertheless.
Mackay's attracts a constant flow. Clutching cups, the tea-break mob made their way back to their vans. Customers fumbling with Argos flat packs. While returning to their parking spot, Icelandic bags blocked off circulation. Before the bus, a pint. Outside McNeill's, there was smoke. If worship is your thing, then do it.

Loyal followers are split according to marag preference, and the butchers are still very busy. The long line at W.J. is a minor win for neighborhood businesses.

Errands have a rhythm, too. The last spade handle broke, so I went to the Crofters for a new one. Autoparts, where friendly faces behind the tills make even routine transactions feel personal, offer alloy cleaner and dash wipes.

The internet does indeed make life easier. It has two sides, though. Purchasing jeans in four sizes and returning them all is simple. Even when they do not fit, wouldn't it be preferable to try them on in a store that genuinely values your presence? Instead of hoping that a late package does not become a New Year's apology message, wouldn't it be preferable to purchase gifts from someone who knows your name?

Perhaps landlords need to be more daring. supported specialty enterprises, artisan stores, and microbusinesses with promise. Perhaps we choose to invest in the community rather than letting it happen to us.

My cake was gone when I returned to the Blue Lobster. The smell of inexpensive perfume drifted by—Impulse, most likely. You can taste the air as you reminisce about the bus rides home when the girls in our class were experimenting with fragrance. Pobble, poor thing, had no chance.

I paid my money, which was rather reasonable, I may add, and then I returned to our town's well-known streets. It was not only free time throughout that hour and a half. It served as a reminder. That a place is a community because of its people, talks, customs, and errands. When we are not looking, we lose this.