By John Morrison. As the pilot presses a button which brings the helicopter engines to life with a roar, Norman John Gillies positions a set of headphones carefully over his ears and adjusts the microphone in front of his mouth. He turns to three middle aged passengers in the seat behind him, smiles broadly, gives a thumbs up and shouts, "St Kilda here we come".

Bridget, Shirley and John can all hear him through their own headsets. They are sharing a unique experience. It is the eve of the 75th anniversary of the evacuation of St Kilda and for the first time the Gillies family are going back to their father's birthplace.

The 41 mile journey from Benbecula to St Kilda is a short hop by helicopter and within minutes of departure the pilot points out some rocks, jutting directly skywards, on the horizon. Norman John and his wife Ivy see them immediately. He knows exactly where to look in the vast ocean opening out below and he guides her eyes with an outstretched hand. Their son and daughters lean towards a side window, craning their necks. They cannot see anything at first, but seconds later their excited shouts come through the interconnected headphones. This is their first sighting of a place they have wanted to visit since they heard of St Kilda on their father's knee.

Overhead, the sky is blue but further out the islands' high cliffs act like a magnet for the clouds that have raced, unimpeded, for thousands of miles across the north Atlantic. As the helicopter approaches, St Kilda looms larger, the land dark against the blue sea, the hilltops enveloped in a white cumulus cloud which gives the impression that you are approaching another world.

The pilot's calm voice comes through the headphones. John MacKenzie is a veteran of the skies around the Hebrides, regularly conveying men and supplies to the radar station on this the furthest outpost of the British Isles. He explains the landing routine and apologises in advance for any bumps on the approach but the passengers are too excited to worry. They can see Hirta, Soay, Boreray, Stac an Armin, names which have become so familiar through the stories told and retold by their father.

Minutes later the helicopter touches down safely. The engines are switched off, the rotor blades begin to slow down and finally stop. Norman John is the first to emerge, walking gingerly across the rocky ground, shoes in hand. He was unable to put them on in Benbecula after struggling into an awkward sea survival suit with such tightly fitting rubber attachments around the neck and wrist that they threaten to cut off the blood supply to his head and hands. In his earlier life, Norman John would not have worn shoes. The leathery skin on his young feet was so tough that no rock made him wince.

The rest of the family quickly join him, all looking equally uncomfortable in their survival suits. Looking up towards the deserted village Norman John shouts into the wind, "We are here. I bet you didn't think you'd see the day. I'm so happy to be back in my small island home."

The questions come so quickly he is unable to answer them. "Which house was yours?" "Can we really go inside it?" "Where did you play?" "Where is the school?" "Where is the church?"

A small group of workers have made their way around the bay from the radar station to watch the arrival. They are mostly laidback Gaelic speakers from the neighbouring Western Isles. Over the years they have watched, with wry amusement, many excited visitors overcome by the aura, mystery and the almost physical impact of stepping onto St Kilda. But they know this group is different. Norman John is a St Kildan. He is the last remaining son of the island, a living link with a civilisation which stretched back to the Bronze Age. He has come home.

The Gillieses are shepherded into a small grey portacabin with two benches and about twenty hooks for hanging survival suits. There is a notice on the door – International Air and Sea Terminal. Clearly, you need a good sense of humour to survive the winter here.

It takes a lot less time to get out of a survival suit than into it and the family are soon walking up the grassy slope towards the houses. Every step evokes a memory for Norman John. Turning round to face the sea, he points to the black, jagged cliffs that protrude from the waves like giant's teeth guarding Village Bay and tells of two uncles who were drowned in 1909 when their boat was ambushed by a squally sea on the way back from a fishing trip. Norman John's grandfather survived by clinging to the rocks. His desperate cries were heard above the storm in the village and another boat was dispatched to bring him back to safety.

Genealogy is important in places like this and the next baby boy born into the family has carried the names of the two men, Norman and John, into another century. That boy, now eighty years old, explained why he was never called Norman. Or John. He was always Norman John, or Tormod Iain in the native Gaelic language of the islanders. Both names given equal status. Both lives equally remembered.

The houses of the last inhabitants still stand, huddled, in a crescent shape along what the islanders called 'The Street'. Behind them the highest hill, Conachair, rises sharply for 1400 feet like a protective sentry before plunging dramatically back down to the sea. This is the highest sea cliff in Britain and gave some shelter from the worst ravages of the Atlantic storms

The slope down towards Village Bay is gentler. The rocks that divided each family plot, which ran from the house to the sea, are still visible. This is where the crops that helped sustain the islanders and their animals through the long winter were cultivated. The brown Soay sheep, survivors from the Bronze Age and unique to St Kilda, are still grazing here, undisturbed. One of the most primitive breeds in the world they are smaller than most other sheep but much hardier. They had to be.

Norman John leads his family through the village. Although 75 years have passed since he was evacuated along with 35 other inhabitants his memory is still sharp. He can recall the family names from each house, the number of children they had, and which part of the world they were scattered to. Norman MacKinnon, his wife and eight children lived at No 1. Finlay MacQueen lived alone at No 2. No one had lived in No 3 since 1924 when William MacDonald, his wife and eight children had moved to Leverburgh in Harris before settling in Stornoway.

Pointing to an empty space between two houses he tells them, "This is the Post Office." He uses the present tense although the outline of where the corrugated iron shack once stood is all that remains. At the next house he stops again, "I used to come down here to play."

As Bridget, Shirley and John look around them in awe and amazement everything they see begs a question. "What are the dome shaped stone buildings that are dotted around the island? There must be hundreds of them." Their father explains that this was the St Kildan fridge.

The 'cleits' vary in size but most are about ten feet in diameter and about five feet in height. They were ingeniously constructed with each stone selected according to its shape and size. The building tapers inwards to form the roof which is closed with bigger, heavier stones and was once protected from the rain by a covering of turf which has long gone. Gaps left in the walls allowed the ever present wind to blow through freely to preserve all their produce – sea birds, eggs, hay, corn and turf for the fires. Most of the cleits are close to the houses but they can also be found on the neighbouring islands when they would be used by hunting parties culling sea birds.

Eventually, Norman John reaches house No. 15. He places his right hand against the gable end which no longer supports a roof, bows his head slightly and then, slowly, turns to face the rest of the family, "This is my home. This is where I was born."

It is an emotional moment for all of them. His three children, who were brought up in Ipswich close to Chatham barracks where Norman John was stationed in 1945 and where he met his wife Ivy, have all seen photographs of St Kilda and heard the stories. In an instant their father's early years are not being gleaned from sepia prints or developed by their own imagination after hearing his stories. They are seeing and touching for themselves.

Norman John takes a few steps forward and turns into the doorway of his first home. Walking inside he points to the end wall on his right, "The two bedrooms were here." Bridget is shocked, "What? No privacy, Dad?" Dad smiles. His children are seeing where his life began but he will never expect them to fully grasp what and where he came from.

Turning to his left Norman John walks towards the other gable end, leans down and looks up through the hole where the hearth used to be. "This," he tells them, "is where my mother did the baking and cooking. Scones, oatcakes, puffins."

This was the staple diet of the islanders. It's reckoned every person on the island ate at least 100 fulmars every year along with a large number of gannets and puffins. The family have heard many, many times about the huge St Kildan appetite for sea birds but it still makes them laugh out loud.

The mood changes when Norman John stands at the stone framed window which looks down to the sea. He pokes his hand through the gap where the glass used to be and speaks in a voice choking with a raw, rasping emotion that has not been diluted by the decades, "These are very precious memories to me. I can still see her standing there on the wall calling me in Gaelic, Tormod Iain thig dhachaigh gu do bhiadh. Norman John come home to your tea." As the tears well up in his eyes the old man is left alone for a few moments with his memories.

Norman John lost his mother before he reached school age. In January 1930 Mary Gillies, who was pregnant, became seriously ill. A passing fishing boat carried a message to the mainland requesting medical aid but a boat did not leave from Tarbert in Harris until the 15th of February. Norman John can still recall how his mother stood on deck, wrapped in her white shawl, waving good bye as this boat moved slowly out of the bay. He never saw her again. Help had come too late.

The death certificate tells us Mary Gillies died in Stobhill hospital in Glasgow on the 26th of May because of a blood clot and abcess on her lung. The baby she was carrying had been delivered by Ceasarian section thirteen days earlier. Little Annie passed away the same day as her mother. Norman John does not know to this day where his mother was buried. He did not find out that he had a little sister until 1991 when his own son John started researching the family history.

The death of a young woman and her baby had a devastating effect on the confidence of the remaining islanders. It reinforced their feeling of isolation and of increasing helplessness in emergencies. That spring no crops were planted on the island. Evacuation, which had been considered on several previous occasions, had become inevitable.

After walking through the village the Gillies family are keen to explore the rest of the island. One of the workers at the radar station arrives with a Land Rover and offers to take them up the narrow, winding military road which almost reaches the summit of Conachair. It is a terrifying helter skelter ride for the unfamiliar. The nonchalance of the driver, who goes up and down several times a day, seems to add to the unease of the Gillies family. At the side of the road on the right, the hill plunges downwards for hundreds of feet towards the deserted village. There are no crash barriers. A vehicle going over the side would disintegrate long before it would stop rolling. But for thousands of years St Kildans had to walk up here to collect turf for the fire and sea birds for dinner.

At the summit, while the rest of the family come to terms with the wind which is considerably stronger than below, Norman John moves around as stealthily as one of the Soay sheep. The scenery is breathtaking. Landscape artists will tell you that it is difficult to recreate Scotland on canvas because the country seems to move at 3000 mph. In St Kilda this can be multiplied by ten. The light changes every nano-second. Showers appear from nowhere. Four miles away Boreray is covered by a thick dark cloud which carries a heavy shower. Within seconds the downpour has moved on. Shafts of light appear through the cloud. The black cliffs are soon sparkling in the sunlight.

Norman John tells of feats of endurance which would embarrass the toughest soldiers in the SAS regiments. In the 1700's three men and eight boys went to Stac an Armin to collect gannets. While they were away an outbreak of smallpox wiped out most of the population on the main island and no one was able to go to collect them. Somehow, they survived for nine months before being rescued. How often they must have looked across at Conachair and wondered what was happening down in the village on the other side.

Conachair has stood above Village Bay since the volcanic eruptions which forced it up from the seabed many thousands of years ago. It bore witness to the arrival of the first Neolithic settlers. It saw times of plenty when the island supported a population of 200. And times of famine and disease when the islanders only survived because of outside help. In the early 20th century it witnessed the slow death of St Kilda as the people gradually moved away to take advantage of better opportunities and an easier life on the mainland.

On a cold day in February 1930 Mary Gillies would have pressed against the rail of the ship until Conachair and the island where she had left her only child disappeared over the horizon. Its image must have been seared on her memory as she wept with the anguish of separation and the physical pain in her chest which would soon claim her life.

On a sunny day in August of the same year, when five-year-old Norman John and the other islanders were evacuated they watched from the deck of the 'Harebell' until the familiar outline of Conachair became faint and finally disappeared. Many of them wept. They knew they would not be back. The link between the people and the island was severed. An ancient civilisation had ceased to exist.

75 years later, on another fine day in August, Norman John Gillies, his wife, son and daughters stand on the brow of Conachair and pose for one final photograph for the album. It will take its place alongside the last photograph of Mary Gillies sitting outside No 15. Norman John's children never met their grandmother, but her short life has shaped theirs. After smiling at the camera the family move silently towards the Land Rover to go back down the hill where the helicopter is waiting for them.

Further Information:

Courtesy of Scottish Government - Scotland.org .

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