Echoes at Callanish: A Story of Stones, Stars, and Spirit
- Ruben Flores
- Apr 16
- 5 min read
Updated: May 29
The Isle of Lewis in the Outer Hebrides of Scotland is steeped in ancient history and myth. This remote, windblown land is home to the Callanish Stones, a 5,000-year-old stone circle older and more enigmatic than Stonehenge. For my wife Cindy and me, visiting this sacred site wasn’t just a vacation—it was something much deeper. A journey into stillness, memory, and wonder.
We chose September for a reason. The weather in the Western Isles tends to be calm and mild this time of year, and with luck, the Northern Lights can be seen dancing across the sky on clear nights. That possibility alone was enough to make the trip feel like a calling.
First Glimpse of Lewis
“Sir, please put your seat in the upright position. We are landing,” said the stewardess, tapping my shoulder.
I blinked awake to see Cindy grinning at me and pointing toward the window.
“Look! That’s Stornoway Harbour,” she said, eyes wide with excitement.
“Wait—are we on Lewis or Harris?” I asked.
“Both,” she said. “Lewis is the flat north; Harris is the mountainous south. Same island, different names, different stories.”
As we descended, Lews Castle came into view, surrounded by trees near the harbor. We made a mental note to visit. Once we landed, we picked up our rental car and headed into downtown Stornoway to grab a SIM card for the GPS, some snacks, and groceries before heading to our Airbnb near the Callanish site.
To our surprise, the town was alive with celebration. September 3rd marked the anniversary of Lord Leverhulme’s offer to gift the island to its people—an act that led to the formation of Scotland’s first community trust. That spirit of collective ownership is still present today, woven into the warmth and pride of the islanders, most of whom speak both Gaelic and English.
We wandered through Stornoway’s colorful streets, chatted with friendly locals, and picked up fresh supplies before driving inland.
Arrival at Gealabhat and Meeting Berny
The deeper we drove into the heart of Lewis, the more dramatic and beautiful the scenery became. Rolling moors, scattered lochs, and beaches with sand so white it looked tropical. The terrain was wild and open, the kind of place that slows your thoughts and speeds your heartbeat.
Of course, our GPS led us to the wrong house. But a kind older woman pointed us over a nearby hill, and soon enough, we found our Airbnb—Gealabhat Bed & Breakfast.
A man pulled up beside us.
“Are you Cindy and Ruben?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Gregor MacLeod, your host. You’re a little early, but no worries. I’m just heading into town. The Barn Suite Studio is at the end of the driveway, next to the white cottage. Go ahead and make yourselves at home. Dinner’s at seven.”
With a wave, he was off. Seconds later, a small dog appeared in the driveway, staring at us. Then he turned and began walking up the drive, glancing back to make sure we were following. His name, we later learned, was Berny—Gregor’s loyal companion and unofficial concierge. He led us straight to our suite like he’d done it a hundred times.
The Sleeping Beauty and Callanish Stones
From the window of our cottage, we could see her—Cailleach na Mointeach, the Woman of the Moors. A range of hills shaped unmistakably like a reclining woman. Locals call her the Sleeping Beauty.
That view alone was worth the trip. But what lay beyond was the real draw: the Callanish Stones.
“You ready?” Cindy asked, jacket on, a light in her eyes.
“Almost,” I said, cramming my drone and camera into my backpack.
Berny reappeared like clockwork and walked ahead, tail wagging, as if he knew our plans.
We passed two Highland cows on the way—huge horns, shaggy coats, standing like statues beside the road. In Gaelic, they’re called “Heilan Coos.” Majestic and calm, they felt like ancient guardians of the land.
When we reached the stones, Cindy quietly stepped off the main path. She began her ritual—walking slowly, touching each stone, chanting softly in an ancient language. She always does this at sacred sites. It’s how she tunes in, honors the spirit of the land, and asks permission to enter.
I watched her while walking the perimeter of the site. Thirteen stones form a circle here, with a tall central monolith and arms stretching out like a cross. Most are aligned with the cardinal directions—except for one that points northeast, the direction associated with enlightenment and wisdom in mystic traditions.
“This isn’t the end,” Cindy said, standing between two tall gateway stones. “It’s the beginning.”
The rain came and went. A rainbow appeared. Cindy placed flowers at the cairn in the center of the circle. I took out my flute to play, but the wind swallowed the sound. I moved closer to the main stone, and suddenly—complete stillness. The flute sang.
That night, Gregor welcomed us into his home for a candlelit dinner made with fresh vegetables from his garden. Over dessert, we discovered he was a local celebrity—host of the Gaelic cooking show Grannie’s Kitchen on BBC Alba. He told us stories of learning to cook from his grandmother, of inheriting her recipe book filled with notes and smudges. It felt like we’d stumbled into a legend of our own.
After dinner, we stepped outside into the dark. The sky was filled with stars.
“Maybe tomorrow,” Cindy whispered, still hoping for the aurora.
The Lunar Dance of Callanish
The next day, we set out to explore more of the Callanish complex. There are 24 known sites scattered across the landscape, each one aligned to lunar and solar events. They form a prehistoric calendar, a kind of ancient observatory in stone.
We visited Callanish II and III. Callanish III, in particular, seemed to pulse with a different kind of energy. It’s aligned with the 18.6-year lunar cycle known as the Major Lunar Standstill. When that event occurs, the moon glides along the body of the Sleeping Beauty like a lover, touching her form before vanishing into the sky. It’s one of the most poetic cosmic events on Earth—and it only happens here.
We visited other circles and finally made our way to Clach an Truiseil, the tallest standing stone in all of Scotland. Towering and defiant, it stood alone in a field like a sentinel.
It felt like it had been planted there by giants.
A Farewell in the Night
We planned to spend our last evening quietly, packing and preparing for an early flight. But at 2:30 a.m., Cindy nudged me awake.
“I need to go back to the Stones,” she said softly.
I groaned but got up.
Outside, the sky exploded in color. The Northern Lights. Green, pink, violet, and blue ribbons danced above us. It felt like the cosmos was alive and watching.
We walked back to Callanish in silence. Cindy stopped at the gate, touched the stone, and stepped inside. We laid a blanket at the center of the circle, leaned our backs against the tall central stone, and looked up.
The wind stilled. The sky shimmered.
The stones were silent—but not empty.
In that moment, we felt small. And whole. And grateful.
Until Next Time
The next morning, we flew to Orkney, but Lewis stayed with us. The stones, the sky, the people, and the stories—they lingered like a song you don’t want to stop humming.
The Callanish Stones left something in us. A memory that wasn’t ours, but felt like home.
We’ll be back.
See you next time.
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