The long, barren archipelago on the far north west tip of Europe is home to every dyer, blender, carder, spinner, warper, weaver, finisher and inspector of Harris Tweed. No part of the process takes place elsewhere.
As such, the land and people are woven into the very fabric of the cloth, reflecting as it does the colours of the landscapes, the beauty of our vistas and the values of our people.
To the north of the remote string of islands lies Lewis, a rugged and bleakly beautiful land of heather and moor, loch and stream and home to the three main mills and the main harbour town of Stornoway. Lewis is connected by a narrow isthmus of land to Harris in the south. More mountainous than its northern brother, Harris has some of the world’s finest beaches of golden fine shell sand, shallow azure blue seas and a myriad of hidden crofts and villages.
South of this main body a string of smaller islands tails off to the south, the machair meadows and loch-laden isles of the Uists and beautiful Barra at the furthest tip.
For hundreds of years these islands have produced a special tweed…Harris Tweed.
'S truagh nach robh mis' ann an Eilean Mo Chrìdh' Eilean mo ghràidh far an dh'àraicheadh mi, 'S truagh nach robh mis' ann an Eilean mo Chridh', Eilean nam fuar-bheann àrda.
'Pity that I was not in the isle of my heart, Isle of my love, where I was brought up, Pity that I was not in the isle of my heart, Isle of the cold high mountains.'