Calum’s Road
Roger Hutchinson is an award-winning author and journalist. In 1977 he joined the weekly West Highland Free Press, and is still attached as a columnist to that paper. His book The Soap Man (Birlinn 2003) was shortlisted for the Saltire Scottish Book of the Year in 2004, and Calum’s Road was shortlisted for the Royal Society of Literature’s Ondaatje Prize in 2007.
Praise for Calum’s Road
‘An incredible testament to one man’s determination not to fold against a far-off bureaucracy and a physical symbol of someone who raged against the dying of the light’
Torcuil Crichton, Sunday Herald
‘An extraordinarily fine book’
James Hunter, West Highland Free Press
‘It helps the Gaelic cause no end that Calum MacLeod makes for such an appealing and admirable hero’
Harry Pearson, Daily Mail
‘Calum’s story is still an inspiration, even 18 years after his death . . . Roger Hutchinson’s book has become as unexpected a cause célèbre as the feat of engineering itself’
Steven Bowron, Sunday Post
‘Rings true in the characterisation of a man inured to hard toil, a crofter turning his hand to numerous tasks and skills to make a living, and yet intelligent and well-read, immersed in the political manoeuvrings of his day and a bearer of the history of his people. The book attains a lyrical quality in some passages, yet steers clear of sentimentality.’
Angus MacDonald, Northern Times
‘The inspiring tale of how an unforgiving landscape was conquered by one man’s determination’
John MacKay, Sunday Herald Books of the Year
‘A splendid book’
Professor Donald MacLeod, New Statesman
‘Roger Hutchinson points out that like good roads, parables not only survive the passing of the years but grow stronger with them, and Calum’s road has now established itself effortlessly in the folklore of the Highlands and Islands’
Bruce Stannard, Scots Magazine
‘A story of heroic anti-authoritarian, anti-socialist, anti-mainland, anti-council, anti-bureaucratic bloody-mindedness . . . It has an immediacy, feel and sympathy that does its subject full justice’
David Crane, The Spectator
‘A rare and impressive man is celebrated here . . . It’s inspiring to read about a man who wouldn’t succumb, wouldn’t let the government threaten his way of life’
Sue Baker, Publishing News
‘It’s quite possibly the mythic, almost Sisyphean element written into this modern-day parable of the difference one man can make that renders the tale compelling’
Steven Carroll, The Melbourne Age
‘A tremendous read. Not just of construction, determination and a desire to better a community that had shrunk through the clearances. But of an attitude. If no council, organisation or body will help us, we must do something ourselves’
Tavish Scott, The Shetland Times
‘A gentle and justified tribute to the human spirit’
Ray Chesterton, Sydney Daily Telegraph
‘What a book. Social history, biography and commentary, by a man with deep affection and respect for the hero of his tale, as well as for all the other islanders involved’
David Ross, The Herald
‘A brave story about a brave man’
Mick Herron, Geographical Magazine
‘A modern parable of human endurance’
Mary Miers, Country Life
Calum’s Road
Roger Hutchinson
This ebook edition published in 2011 by
Birlinn Limited
West Newington House
Newington Road
Edinburgh
EH9 1QS
www.birlinn.co.uk
First published in 2006 by Birlinn Ltd
Copyright © Roger Hutchinson 2006
Maps drawn by Rachel Ross
The moral right of Roger Hutchinson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form without the express written permission of the publisher.
ebook ISBN: 978-0-85790-002-9
British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
The publisher acknowledges subsidy from
(Highlands & Islands Arts Ltd)
towards the publication of this ebook
The publisher would like to dedicate this book to Joyce McLelland (1921–2006), an extraordinary person who was loved by all who knew her
Do mhuinntir Ratharsair, na bh’ann, na th’ann ’s na tha ri teachd
Contents
Preface
Maps
The Island of Strong Men
The Book of Hours
A Few in the North Would Not be Catered For
No Chance of Being Run Down by a Car
A Kind of Historical Justification
The Last Man Out of Arnish
Notes
Bibliography
Preface
In February 1979 I had been working as a journalist on a Highland newspaper for fifteen months. There arrived in the editorial office notification of some council work that was apparently due to commence on a crofter’s homemade track on the island of Raasay. It was, I was told, a good story.
I took the small car ferry from Sconser in Skye to Raasay. I then motored up a long and winding single-track road to Brochel Castle in the north of the island. I took the car up a short, steep hill past Brochel and saw ahead of me an apparently limitless expanse of peat bog, heather and granite. A grey road wound across this solitude and disappeared out of sight. It was a perfectly good stone-based road – wide and gently contoured – but it had no tarmacadam topping. As a result it consisted of two parallel wheel tracks and a large central ridge inside trim rocky verges. The wheel tracks were worn and rutted with use. The central ridge was pronounced and studded with sharp stones that seemed likely to remove any ordinarily slung exhaust pipe. I could not realistically contemplate driving any further, and so I parked and looked around.
I knew from the map that this was the road in question and that the relevant crofter lived almost two miles further along it. It was cold and beginning to rain. It would soon be dark. The last ferry back to Skye would leave in little over an hour. I looked around the silent emptiness, shivered and resigned myself to missing the road’s maker.
Then there was some movement among the trees and shrubbery down the hillside to my right. A wiry man, five feet eight inches tall, walked easily up out of the vegetation, smiled at me shyly and offered his hand. He was, he said, Calum MacLeod.
He had a weather-worn telegraph pole balanced on his right shoulder. He had found it washed up on the shore – he pointed several hundred feet below us – and thought that it might be useful. I suppose we talked for fifteen or twenty minutes, but he did not rest the pole upon the ground, or show any indication of needing or wanting to put it down, until I asked to take his photograph. At that point he dropped it smartly and struck an experienced pose for the camera.
I now know that Calum was sixty-seven years old at that time, and I cannot say that he looked much younger. His face, beneath a battered tartan bonnet, carried the wear of a hard life spent out of doors. But I knew well enough that I, forty years younger than Calum MacLeod, could not in my late twenties, nor at any time after, have carried that telegraph pole even ten yards up the slope below us. If I had managed to move it five paces I would then have seized any opportunity or none to drop it and take a very long rest. ‘He was hardy, boy, was Calum’, as a
shared acquaintance would say. ‘There was not an ounce of spare flesh on him.’
Calum told me about his road. He told me of the requests made in the 1920s to Inverness County Council by his parents and another ninety adults for a road. He told me – as he would tell so many others, in a tone that wavered between wry amusement and disgust – of how the council ‘kept putting it off and putting it off, until one after another of the young families left because there seemed to be no prospect of a cart road, and eventually there was nobody left but myself and my wife’.
He told me of his eventual conclusion, in 1964 – that was the year which he cited to me in 1979 – that if he did not build a road between Brochel and Arnish then nobody else would.
Not many months after that encounter I walked the length of Calum’s road for the first time. It was a glorious early summer’s day, but the one and three quarter miles appeared to be unnaturally long. Its surface was as before – which is to say that only the wheel ruts and the rugged central ridge prevented a car from traversing it – and it made for relatively easy hiking. But the terrain gave, and still gives, this highway epic proportions. Rarely can more than a quarter of a mile of Calum’s road be seen in any single stretch. Everywhere its next section disappears elusively from sight, around bends in the cliff-face, or down into glens, or off over hilltops. One and three quarter miles of a motorway (or, as Calum himself would say, of an Autobahn) is as quickly traversed as it is seen. One and three quarter miles of the road between Brochel and Arnish is like an odyssey.
And later I walked it again. And later still I drove one motorcar after another along it. With every passage it seemed increasingly not only to represent some kind of heroic last stand but also to be a parable. Not a myth or fable, for it is firmly grounded in fact, but a simple morality tale.
The test of its allegorical power would be, of course, endurance. Like good roads, parables not only survive the passing of the years but grow stronger with them. And Calum’s road has established itself effortlessly in the folklore first of the Highlands and Islands and then of Scotland, and steadily thereafter of the United Kingdom and the whole great wider world beyond Loch Arnish. A curious physical process seemed to be under way in which, as the Gaelic Hebridean society which Calum MacLeod fought for, embodied and loved slipped into history, so his immense, defiant gesture became increasingly significant. A cultural mountain had eroded, but as it was washed away the remnant bedrock of Calum MacLeod’s road appeared as haunting and precious as fossilised footprints on any other distant shore. Television programmes lingered over it. A strathspey in D major was written about it by a member of the popular band Capercaillie. In the early summer of 2004 an exhibition of art entitled ‘Calum’s Road’ was mounted in the Skye gallery An Tuireann. It featured pottery created by Patricia Shone, who, according to one critic, ‘took clay over to Raasay and pressed it on to the tracks of the famous road, which resulted in beautifully textured jars with uneven edges and peaty colours, which I could not resist touching’.
Calum’s road started to feature – in prose that was either breathless or brutally factual – in the guidebooks. ‘Those who make it to the north of the island’, reads one such entry, ‘may wish to note that the two miles of road linking Brochel to Arnish were the work of one man, Calum MacLeod. He decided to build the road himself after the council turned down his requests for proper access to his home. He spent between 10 and 15 years building it with the aid of a pick, a shovel, a wheelbarrow and a road-making manual which cost him three shillings. He died in 1988, soon after its completion, and to this day it is known as “Calum’s Road”.’ It has been described as a wonder of the modern world. There has been mention made in the twenty-first century of applying to UNESCO to have Calum’s road recognised as a World Heritage Site.
There were many disputes between councils and communities concerning access roads in the Highlands and Islands in the twentieth century, and there doubtless will be more in the twenty-first. Why, then, has Calum’s road become such an enduring parable? Why not Rhenigi-dale in Harris or Drinan in Skye? Why not all of the arterial routes of South Uist or the road to Applecross in Wester Ross? The answers are elementary. The first is that Calum MacLeod’s community was the smallest of the small, the most neglected of the neglected; it was located on the furthermost point of one of the least prominent of the lonely Hebrides. And the second is, of course, that a road was finally built to Arnish not by the council, or the Department of Agriculture, or the Royal Engineers, and not even by a community, but by one extraordinary man.
There is clearly a risk – if ‘risk’ it is – of sentimentalising a definitively robust and unsentimental story. I am not immune to such things, but, luckily, the story itself seems to be. The metaphor, the parable of Calum’s road, inspires flights of fancy. The evident engineering, the solid rock and tarmacadam of Calum’s road inspires a mostly bewildered but deep and lasting respect. Whatever else is said and written about this subject, the least firmly grounded of visitors to Arnish will leave with one essential, important conclusion: that here lived a man who desired not fame and money, nor television and radio programmes, nor medals and recognition by UNESCO, nor paragraphs in travel guides, nor tributes in magazines and newspapers and books; a man who would have been astonished and bewildered by the tribute of an exhibition of art. Calum did not even want a driving licence. He merely wanted a road.
As I hope the dedication of this book makes clear, I owe thanks to many people. I am especially grateful, for their time, experience and expertise, to those former residents of Arnish and Torran Julia MacLeod Allan, Charles MacLeod, Jessie Nicolson and John Nicolson. A number of council and library officials were helpful beyond the call of duty, particularly Gordon Fyfe, Fiona MacLeod and Sam MacNaughton in Inverness, and Alison Beaton, Carol Campbell, David MacClymont, John Macdonald and Moreen Pringle in Skye. Ian MacDonald of the Gaelic Books Council was instructive on the subject of Calum MacLeod’s writing. Kirsty Crawford at the BBC archives in Glasgow tirelessly excavated distant radio and television programmes. Lorna Hunter of the Northern Lighthouse Board and Chris Henry of the Northern Lighthouse Museum directed an arc-light on the history of the manned lighthouse in Rona. The recollections and corrections of John Cumming, Gina Ferguson, John Ferguson, Donald Malcolm MacLeod and Alistair Nicolson, all from Raasay, were invaluable. Houston Brown, Cailean Maclean and John Norman MacLeod assisted this project with characteristic enthusiasm. Norma MacLeod freely offered essential advice and information. The personnel and facilities at the archive libraries in Stornoway, Portree and Inverness, and at the National Archives of Scotland in Edinburgh, were as accommodating as ever. My agent, Stan, was a pillar of strength, and Hugh Andrew and his team at Birlinn were supportive to a fault. And, once more, the extraordinary patience and skill of Joan MacIntyre made the researching of this book more of a pleasure than I had any right to expect. All errors and omissions are mine, not theirs. Moran taing.
Roger Hutchinson
Isle of Raasay, 2006
The Island of Strong Men
There are indeed no roads through the island, unless a few detached beaten tracks deserve that name.
James Boswell, Journal of a Tour to the Hebrides, 1773
On a spring morning in the middle of the 1960s a man in his fifties placed into his homemade wooden wheelbarrow a pick, an axe, a shovel and a lunchbox. He trundled this cargo south from his crofthouse door, down a familiar, narrow, rutted bridle path, up and down rough Hebridean hillsides, along the edge of hazardous cliff-faces, through patches of bent and stunted hazel and birch and over quaking peat bogs.
After almost two miles he stopped and turned to face homewards. Before him and to his left were steep banks of bracken, turf, birch and hazel. To his right, green pastureland rolled down to the sea. There were sheep on this pasture, and, close to the shore, a small group of waist-high stone rectangles which once, a century ago, had been the thatched cottages of a community called Castle. The vestigial maso
nry of a medieval keep teetered on an outstanding crag a few yards from the deserted homesteads, melding into the bedrock so naturally that, 500 years after they were first erected and 300 years since they were last occupied, it had become difficult to tell from a hundred yards away where the remnant walls of the man-made fortress finished and the natural stone began.
Then, alone in an empty landscape, he began to build a road.
He started by widening his workspace. He cleared the scattered clumps of wind-blasted native woodland which lay on either side of the old track. He chopped the dwarf trees down, and then he dug up their roots. He gathered the detritus carefully into piles at the edge of his planned route. He worked a long day. He was accustomed to working long days.
And at the end of that first long day, when he reassembled his equipment in the wheelbarrow and began his walk home, he had denuded several yards of ground. He had, in fact, accomplished slightly more than one-thousandth of a task which would take him twenty years to complete, which would pay him not a material penny and would cost him little more, but which would leave his manifesto marked in stone upon his people’s land.
His name was Calum MacLeod. He belonged to the township of South Arnish in the north of the island of Raasay.
This story is set in a very small place. On the North Atlantic rim of Europe, off the north-western seaboard of Scotland, lies a group of islands known as the Hebrides. There are several hundred Hebrides. None of them is very big, and none of them, in a global context, has ever been home to a great number of people. But almost all of these islands have at one time or another given shelter, hearth and home to somebody, somebody who could find a way of surviving and even thriving through eight months of winter and sixteen weeks of indifferent maritime weather.
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