Ardnish Was Home

by Angus MacDonald

  It hadn’t been that serious an issue around Lochaber, although Clanranald had sold almost all their land in the last hundred years to finance their gambling and high living in the south. In fact, that was how Ardnish came to be owned by the Astley-Nicholsons and Inverailort by the Cameron-Heads.

  Anyway, each year at the start of the summer everyone around got involved in the clipping. We would meet at an early hour and have a cup of tea and a bowl of porridge. Each of the men heading off on the gathering would have several collies scampering around.

  The hill would be divided up by my mother: ‘Donald Angus, you go up the Alt Ruar burn, and where it peters out at the top, cut up past the trees and bring all the sheep from there to where the big boulder hangs over the cliff, back to the fank. Donald Auch, you go with him, but at the top, go over and do the other side of the hill.’

  It seemed that everyone in the area was called Macdonald or Gillies, and what is more, most were called Donald as a first name. So they were given a second name, and maybe also a name of where they lived. For example, my father was Donald Peter Auch – achadh being a field in Gaelic – because he had the grazing of the big field behind Peanmeanach. You could also be known after your job: Allan the whaler became known simply as ‘the whaler’ because he used to go off on the whaling boats.

  So, half a dozen men and a few youngsters would head off, with maybe twenty dogs loping along behind their masters. It was quite a sight. They would cover maybe a dozen miles before they were home; big strides across the rough hillside, with never a pause for a breath. Every man was fit. They never once looked at the rough ground as they strode across it. I didn’t notice this until I’d been away, but the Highland shepherd is always looking at his dogs or his sheep, never where his feet are about to go.

  Johnny, ‘the Bochan’, was well known in the area. An old man now, he had never married and had seventeen collies. He never missed Sunday Mass, walking five miles each way to see the priest.

  Just behind the Polnish church was a shed, about the size of an outside toilet. He would cram all the collies in – with the last two or three picked up by the scruff of their necks and dropped in on top of the others – turn the latch on the door and go in for Mass. One time, a couple of visitors came by and, hearing whining and snuffling from the privy, unhooked the door. The sheepdogs came tumbling out and ran straight through the front door of the church and up the aisle to find their master.

  He was well known for his love of a dram, very friendly and good with the craic on visits, frequently staying until he was swept out of the house at dawn. My father said that everyone he drank with had a head as sore as can be the next day, but the Bochan was never affected. Many a girl had set their eye on him, my mother said, but he was happy in his croft at the end of Ardnish peninsula, with its beautiful views of the sunsets over the Small Isles. He had a wee boat to catch a fish or two, and was always available to help with gathering.

  As the sun fell towards the west and smoke rose from the village fires, the sheep would begin to arrive in the village. A couple of hundred here, and the same again from the west. There was a fenced-in bit of lowland, known as ‘the park’, and 1,600 ewes and lambs would be there for the night. We would get to our beds early, as the next day would be the busiest of the year.

  We were up before daylight, and you wouldn’t believe the noise of the bleating and plaintive cries when we separated the lambs from their mothers.

  After our early shift, we went in for a big breakfast, with the men being joined by my Macdonald cousins from Laggan, two fourteen-year-old twins from over the hill. Kirsty McAlastair and her father rowed across from Glenuig, setting off at four in the morning.

  Not just a gathering of sheep, it was a gathering of the people. It tied the communities together, introduced the young to one another, and brought important money into the village in the form of pay from the estate. This week it was Ardnish; next week it was Meoble; and the following Glenuig. We all helped each other.

  We would be given different jobs. The most important was the clipping, where three men sat on triangular stools and wielded twelve-inch-long scissors, which they sharpened on a piece of sandstone. The wit was sharp, too. ‘Damn it, Archie, get your son on that stool. You’re too old to make yourself a cup of tea, never mind wrestle with an Ardnish ewe.’ Or, ‘Watch it, Bochan. That ewe will have herself in your bed by the end of the night, the way she’s looking at you.’

  Then there were three who went into the fank and took a ewe each by the horns and pulled her towards the clippers. When the stool was empty, she was twisted onto her back in a very inelegant way, legs pedalling like fury. The clipper would start at the neck and clip down between the skin and the wool. The Bochan was the undisputed champion; it took him only a couple of minutes, and he never drew blood as he deftly moved his clippers back and forth. He could clip all day without a sore back; everyone else had to take it in turns.

  The others did a variety of jobs. That day, Kirsty and I took the fleece and rolled it into a ball, twisting it this way and that, and pulling a bit through that we could use to bind the bundle together. There was a knack to it. The fleece would then be chucked across to those packing it into the hessian bale. As a bonus, there was always a chance for a wee bit of flirting with me knocking the fleece out of Kirsty’s hand as she was finishing, or a nudge off-balance as she threw the wool up to Sandy.

  My father shouted at me, ‘Boy, will you get on with the job and stop mucking about,’ as the others would remind him that he might just have done the same thing when he was a lad himself. The bale was hung from a ten-foot goal post, and Sandy would jump up and down to pack the wool in. He knew to make sure the top few fleeces were nice and clean, as the wool buyer from Lancashire would open the bag and look at the quality before be bought it.

  Tea would be brought along by my mother, a piece would be eaten, and usually we would be finished by darkness. That day, there were fourteen of us working together. It was a beautiful day I’ll always remember.

  My mother told us that Jemima Blackburn used to get rowed across from Roshven House to paint everyone at the clipping, sometimes with a couple of friends. She would come if it was dry and there was a breeze to keep the midges away, an easel would be set up out of the way on the bank, looking down into the fank where the men and sheep were working. She was well liked. The Bochan would shout up – in English, of course – ‘Make sure you don’t make my nose too big in that painting of yours, Mrs B,’ or my father would be asking what percentage of the royalties the men would get if she sold the painting. The craic was always good at the clipping. The Astley-Nicholsons’ factor came across to see how we were doing, too, with half a case of whisky for us for that night. Sometimes Sir Arthur and Lady Gertrude rode across, and we would have to speak in English (those of us who spoke it). The Bochan had a collie called Arthur, and he’d shout, ‘Arthur, Arthur! Come away and lie down!’ which disconcerted the laird somewhat and made us children giggle with delight.

  Exhausted though everyone was after two long hard days, with aching backs from all the bending over as we handled the shears, and wet though from the drenching we’d endured after lunch, everyone agreed it had gone well. We had mutton stew that night, having received permission from the factor for a sheep to be slaughtered. Quite a few drams were taken and stories about the old days told, then Sandy, fired up by the whisky, suggested a swim. Soon, the five of us younger ones were pelting across the machair and into the sea. We tore up the seaweed and covered our heads in it, and took it in turns to dive off the rocks while our families kept an eye on us from the house.

  And that’s my story of the clipping of the sheep . . .

  WAR

  John, who has been quiet throughout my tale, speaks up: ‘It’s just like our place back in Dunedin. It’s all about the sheep, the water – even the people have the same names. I didn’t think there were any of you left in the old country, thought they’d all moved to New Zealand.’ He sighs. ‘A
nyway, I’ll be heading off first thing. Please don’t get up. I’ll get my own breakfast. It’s been lovely to meet you all, and good luck getting out of here. I’ll be sure to tell the Poms where you are if I can.’

  We all shake hands, sorry to see him go.

  ‘Time for bed,’ says Prissie, and the others leave Father Joseph and me alone.

  ‘You tell a good story, DP. Where did you learn that from?’ he murmurs.

  ‘It’s just the way in the West Highlands, Father. Everyone sits in the front room, the neighbours come by, you will have seven-year-olds and seventy-year-olds around the fire, there will be tea or a dram in the hand, and the stories of the ancestors are told back and forth. My father will have told me stories of two hundred years ago, which are as fresh as when his great-grandfather told his grandfather. It’s the same with poems and songs – we’re brought up with them.’

  The priest and I talk late into the night. He is very weak now, and I feel he may just slip off to our maker as soon as we depart. He tells me he has lost a lot of blood. I even wonder, briefly, if I should give him the last rites. I don’t, and I later regret it. It is good to talk to him; I know he enjoyed hearing about my family and its strong faith. I take some comfort in the thought that he will pass on knowing he was with a friend to the end.

  Chapter 8

  WAR

  Up at dawn. It is very quiet outside. The shelling in the distance has stopped. Hopefully, this means our lads have got off the beaches and are safely on the ships and heading home. John had told us that General Stopford, the overall commander, had been sacked and replaced. One of the worst campaigns in military history, he said. Certainly tens of thousands of dead men – and no ground won.

  As we drink our coffee we discuss John; we all agree what a charming man he is.

  ‘If I wasn’t going to live in the Highlands I’d go to South Island,’ I say. ‘God’s country, I hear. You can get good farm land for buttons, and Scots are welcomed with open arms.’

  Prissie packs for each of us: a blanket twisted around some clothing, and as much food as we can carry. Louise conceals the pistol in her clothing. We are dressed in the drab peasant clothing of our absent hosts. Louise and Prissie wear shawls over their heads, trying to look like the old grandmothers from home. I am as strong as I have been for a month, but can only really move at half the pace of a normal man. How am I going to make it?

  We say emotional farewells to Father Joseph, silently willing him to slip away before the Turks come. He is gracious, holding our hands and whispering a prayer to St Christopher, the patron saint of travellers.

  ‘Thank you,’ I whisper.

  God, we will need it.

  *

  The plan is to head away from the battle lines and stick to the coastline. We reckon we have about twenty miles to go before we come to any towns or proper roads. Hopefully, our route won’t be on the Turkish troops’ supply lines. Talk is of the clear skies and sunshine. Hard crisp snow lies underfoot, perfect for making progress but bad for making our dark bodies distinct against the glaring white. It isn’t too bad at first, but as I begin to tire, I catch a foot and fall awkwardly several times. And despite the bitter cold, I am in a terrible sweat which chills me to the bone whenever we stop moving.

  We stick to the bottom of the glen, on a goat path through thick brush, which at least gives us some cover, though every twig that snaps under our feet makes us pause and listen.

  After what seems an age, probably only an hour or so, Louise spots a hut and we rest. My legs are shaking violently, and I feel feverish. I sense Louise is worried about me. But we have to get some real distance between us and the front line; if the battle has really finished, there might be troops withdrawing our way.

  We stay in the hut until late afternoon. I try to sleep a little. Then we are off again, to try and cover more ground. After a while the moon comes out, and it is a great help to me, as I stumble along, desperately hoping for another building to give us shelter for the night.

  I start to experience vivid flashbacks: Sandy dying, my childhood. I cling to the recollection of Sandy. He is always in my thoughts. At times like this, he would have been the reassuring one, my rock of stability. I so much wanted him to meet Louise; his opinion of her would have meant the world to me. I am certain he would have loved her.

  Louise and Prissie hold my hand in turns, and I do my best to keep moving at a steady pace. We end up lying against a wall, huddled against each other for warmth. But the night is awful. Our clothes are soaked with sweat which has frozen, and we are hungry. Every inch of my body hurts.

  The next morning, Louise tells me I was crying out all night.

  We can’t light a fire, as we are still too close to possible troops, and farmers in the area would spot us. I feel hellish stiff from the night’s cold. We shiver and shake until the sun rises.

  And then, I hear Louise exclaim, ‘A donkey! Over there by that barn.’

  ‘Sssh,’ Prissie warns, ‘the farmer could be anywhere.’

  We lie on the snow and wait. After a while, Prissie creeps forward and, seeing no footprints in the snow, urges Louise to join her. The donkey is apparently very hungry and is following Prissie around, hoping for food.

  Louise has the halter that we made a couple of days ago. ‘It’s perfect,’ she says, delighted at the change in our fortunes. The girls fuss around the animal, stroking its ears and patting him.

  ‘He’s so small and you’re so tall, DP,’ says Prissie. ‘Your feet will be dragging along the ground, but you’re all skin and bones, as light as a feather!’

  I clamber on. Very uncomfortable it is, too, but we can move much more quickly now. Louise takes my cromach in one hand and the halter in the other. With her shawl over her head, I think how biblical the scene must look.

  The donkey makes a huge difference to our speed, though its noisy hee-hawing is a concern.

  Late afternoon, we reach the base of a cliff. It looms above us; according to Prissie, it must be about five hundred feet high. She scrambles a way up, to see if she can observe anything.

  ‘Just goats and hares,’ she says on her return. We plod on.

  After an uncomfortable hour or so, Louise spots a building and goes to investigate. To our delight, it turns out to be a derelict farm, hidden from the main track which skirts the mountain, nestling in a hollow.

  ‘Even a fire would be invisible here,’ Prissie beams, as we make our way towards it.

  We lead the donkey inside, and feed it hay from an outbuilding. Already, this was promising to be a much better night than the one before.

  The fire is wonderful. We chew contentedly at our dried goat meat and stare into the flames.

  ‘What shall we call your donkey?’ says Prissie. ‘I know. What’s the word for donkey in Gaelic?’

  I explain that we don’t have a word for donkey as we don’t have any donkeys, just as we don’t have a word for camels . . . They giggle.

  ‘If he was a horse we’d call him marc-shluagh. Marc means warhorse.’

  ‘Perfect! Marc it is,’ declares Louise.

  As we huddle around the fire, Louise nudges me gently. ‘It’s going to be a long night, DP. I think we need another story. Tell us about your sister . . .’

  HOME

  Sheena emigrated to Mabou, Cape Breton, in Canada about four years ago. When her Angus was drowned off Smirisary she had a terrible year. Her carefully planned life was destroyed, and she had begun to feel as though she didn’t really fit in, that her life had no purpose. Mother was great with her, keeping her busy, but at tea-time Sheena would just sit quietly. She had always been such a lot of fun, collecting gunpowder from father’s gun to make bangers that made everyone jump at ceilidhs, or, famously, putting a goat in the room of a drunken man who’d made advances to her. It was sad to see her spark gone.

  Emigration had been a big thing at home. From about 1840 there had been a steady trickle of people leaving, mainly due to the land not being able to suppor
t the population, with the potato crop failing and a cholera outbreak. Father Rankin had set up berths for ships to Australia, and over 500 had gone from Moidart alone.

  My father always said it was the kelp boom that created the problem: the population had doubled on the west coast. Then that collapsed and there was a huge demand for sheep’s wool, so the lairds wanted the cattle off and sheep on. That was all very well, but sheep need far fewer people to handle them. So, you had people with no kelp money and no cattle of their own, and the laird employing just the odd one or two shepherds, rather than the many men who had been required before. Then the price of wool and mutton fell, too, and the estates became deer forests, often for English industrialists.

  Years ago, Ardnish had four real settlements, and 200 folk lived on the peninsula. It’s now down to about thirty, scattered here and there. Of these, only two have regular jobs: John MacEachan, the postman, and John Macdonald, a shepherd at Laggan. A bit of fishing and shellfish collecting, a bit of money from gathering and clipping the sheep, and other piecemeal work done for the laird, a hind or two taken when the factor wasn’t looking, and, of course, money sent back from the family who had left for Glasgow or further afield – that was how we managed. The old and the sick died of starvation, really. Every house had rent to pay, and finding actual money wasn’t easy, but luckily our laird would allow us to build walls or do other casual work in lieu of rent.

  The people from Ardnish tended to go to the east coast of Canada – Nova Scotia, New Brunswick or Prince Edward Island. It was often the priests who organised the boats. It was a voluntary thing in our part of the Highlands, though once news started coming back of the free land given to settlers, the moose to eat, furs to trap and sell to the Hudson Bay Company, good housing and plentiful wood, there was a rush, even though the winters were harder than ours. And one thing the people there really knew about was how to endure a long hard winter.