Cianalas
Through an exploration of the history of crofting, photographer Antony Sojka champions what’s truly important in life
words & photography – antony sojka
location – edinburgh, scotland
‘Cianalas’ is a Gaelic word meaning “a deep seated sense of belonging to the place where your roots lie. There is no sadness or melancholy in cianalas, only the realisation of what is truly important in life.”
Upon reading Eilidh Izat and Jack Arundell’s feature exploring their project to build two smokehouses in Scotland’s Outer Hebrides, I wondered what it would take to cut through our often individualistic urban communities and start [re]building that rich sense of belonging often found in rural areas.
This same question is what drew me to the Outer Hebrides years before; an area known for a healthy mix of beautiful landscapes and harsh living conditions. This combination creates strong bonds within families and communities choosing to live on the islands, as well as those born and raised there. Residents rely on each other to make it possible to survive with so little, in such a merciless corner of the earth.
During the Highland Clearances, between 1750 and 1860, common land that had always been managed equally within tenanted communities was replaced with large scale livestock farming for the benefit of landlords. Throughout the Industrial and Agricultural revolutions of the 18th Century, land which was commonly used for grazing and open arable fields – land that supported its residents – was turned over as an asset to bring financial profit to whoever owned it. Unfortunately, not much has changed since.
Displaced farmers were moved to crofting communities where good land was scarce [and, therefore, of little value to landlords]. A croft usually consisted of just a few acres of poor arable land, surrounded by a shared grazing area.
With increased demand, and therefore increased prices, it is now almost impossible for young people to settle with a viable amount of crofting land to succeed.
With the Crofters’ Holdings Act of 1886, tenants were given the security of tenure which meant that the land could be passed on to future generations. This act created an incentive for crofters to improve their croft, which set in motion generations of knowledge transfer and pride in the crofters’ way of tending to the land.
In 1976 crofters were given the right to buy their crofts – a welcome freedom from landowners. But this also opened up the market for others to buy crofting land, as well. Many people drawn by the romanticised idea of living in an area surrounded by nature started buying up croft houses to serve as holiday homes, with no intention to work the land as the traditional farmers had.
This policy decimated essential housing for crofters, especially new crofters and grown-up children of crofters who then struggled to find land. With increased demand, and therefore increased prices, it is now almost impossible for young people to settle with a viable amount of crofting land to succeed. Communities that were established for generations are now starting to break.
Reading into the design practice of Izat Arundell’s smokehouses makes me feel optimistic. One of the smokehouses is to remain stationary while the second one will be moved and located in different places around Scotland in a most beautiful endeavour. Perhaps, in the future, the nomadic smokehouse could develop into a place that helps gather stories and knowledge held by different communities in Scotland – making sure that generations that, for now, can’t find or afford a croft, are able to at least find a place to gather and share insights which might be crucial for their communities.
In his essay “The Work of Local Culture,” Wendell Berry explores the impact of communities losing their memory and local culture. He argues that if people in the same community have never learned each other’s stories, they end up not knowing each other. And without knowing each other, people tend to distrust and even fear one another. Companionship is crucial to rural communities.
People tend to gravitate towards remote locations as a holiday haven as they provide a break from the omnipresent influx of stimulation which rules our daily lives. Such settings provide the opportunity to breathe and observe one’s surroundings without the feeling of being sold anything, unlike life in most cities. But maybe our nomadic-self needs to bring the knowledge of the quiet life back home and find ways of incorporating such experiences into our everyday, wherever we are. Much like the smokehouse, we should keep that fire going – stoking that which makes us human and fuels our deepest longings. Instead of feeling like one has to escape home in order to find quietness, we should invest our time becoming a community rather than just an individual.
Even in the city, one can explore nature. Take time to watch the birds in your vicinity. Look up the name of the plants you find on your path to work. Observe how the trees change colour throughout the year.
And just like the smoke rising up out of a smokehouse can lead us to a place of warmth and safety, the many wonders outside our own doorsteps can lead us to great discoveries. I encourage you to share these wonders with your neighbours and friends, wherever you may live, thus making your own community a little richer and warmer.
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