by Anne Cholawo
I let Taffy off the lead and he leapt forward throwing himself at Blackie, yapping with glee. Blackie was knocked sideways, impeding her attempt to finish the bucket. For the first time, I think, she became aware of the dog. If a sheep can narrow its eyes, she did. Taffy made another attempt, but he bounced off her thick fleece like a beach ball and fell over. She didn’t move. He was just getting up when Blackie rammed him from behind and he flew forward, rolling over. As he was getting up again, he noticed Blackie coming toward him with head lowered. I thought Taffy was going to disappear as fast as his four feet could carry him, but he suddenly seemed aware of the importance of keeping his dignity. His tail went straight up and turning smartly, he walked home. At speed, yes, but with great haughtiness and without looking back. When I got back shortly afterwards, I found Taffy curled up in his chair. He wasn’t asleep and seemed to be deep in thought. He never looked at or chased another sheep again. He just pretended they didn’t exist.
There was a similar incident with Sinbad, the large black Newfoundland dog owned by Duncan Geddes (Duncan lived with his wife Diane and their two teenage children, Tara and Sean, in Burnside, just a short distance from Soay House). For some reason Taffy took great offence to Sinbad and whenever we passed Burnside, if the Newfoundland was outside minding his own business, Taffy’s hackles would rise and he would growl and prowl around the fence, waiting for an excuse to cause an argument. I apologised to Duncan one afternoon as I was passing; it was becoming embarrassing.
‘We’ll let them have a go at each other,’ he said. ‘Once they have a scrap, it’ll be enough.’
He was right. One day we arranged a time for the scrap and when I reached Burnside, I saw Duncan had togged himself up in heavy duty gauntlets and big boots . . . just in case. It looked ominous, however Sinbad had no interest in scrapping. As soon as he was let out of the gate to meet my dog, he headed straight for the sea. He simply wanted a swim. Taffy launched at him, grabbing hold of fur near Sinbad’s shoulder. Sinbad trotted on a few more paces before he realised there was something annoying attached to him. Taffy was tiny in comparison to this huge Newfoundland. Sinbad merely shook himself and Taffy flew off into the bracken. It was a second humiliating experience for him. My dog and I were undergoing parallel life changes; our preconceived ideas of proud independence were crumbling. Taffy coped by deciding Sinbad didn’t exist either. Adjusting to a new identity wasn’t going to be quite that simple for me.
Training my dog in the art of countryside etiquette led to a better acquaintance with Tex and Jeanne and Biddy Harman, that tall slim blonde girl, who lived with them and worked on Tex’s boat Petros. Biddy would also become a good friend and there is no doubt in my mind that had it not been for their help and support over the next couple of years I would have floundered in a quagmire of incompetence, bafflement and loneliness. Tex and Jeanne in particular gave a new dimension to my life on Soay. They made the place an enthralling and vibrant experience for me. I learnt so much from just watching and listening to them. They were full of stories and practical knowledge and I was always an avid listener.
‘You know,’ Tex said to me on one occasion, ‘you should keep a diary while you’re here. One day you’ll reread it and find out how differently you see all this now.’ I wish I had kept that diary, but I had always been very proud of my good memory. Now, sadly, my recall is not so sharp and memories are becoming soft focus sepia tints.
Back then it was all new and exciting. I was young and soaking up this bright and eventful world I had discovered. The people were like characters from a book and I was part of it.
Tex was almost outrageously flamboyant. He had a local reputation for ‘repelling all boarders’ with a rifle or harpoon shaft. It was exaggerated, but he enjoyed the infamy and did all he could to maintain the myth. His larger-than-life personality tended to put his wife in the shade, but she was a fascinating character in her own right. Organised and accomplished in many ways, Jeanne (pronounced in the French fashion) originated from Ealing, London, and had been educated at Cheltenham Ladies’ College. She was well read and intelligent. To my artist’s eye she was like a Norse Valkyrie or perhaps Wagner’s Brunhilde. She was a strong woman, with a beautifully chiselled face and a naughty, infectious laugh. Although in her early sixties, there was not one grey hair on her head. She wore it tied in a ponytail as she had probably done since her early twenties. She also had a lovely, some would say posh, English accent, softened by a hint of a Highland burr. Her cooking was extraordinary, perhaps to Cordon Bleu standard. I had never seen such luxurious dishes before. Each meal was exquisitely made, as were her cakes. There were always tins of biscuits or indulgently creamy cakes on offer. She baked every day, I think, and once told me that in almost thirty years the Rayburn had never been allowed to go out (unless for maintenance).
Jeanne ran the croft, managed the paperwork, maintained the Tilley lamps and kept the Rayburn ticking over. She worried about the plumbing, milked the goats and looked after the hens. She grew vegetables and fruits in her neatly ordered garden to supply the table. We both enjoyed sewing. I used to make or alter clothes when I was an impoverished art student and got enormous pleasure from creating patterns and producing my own garments. I had given away my electric sewing machine before moving to Soay, so I was drawn to the ancient hand-operated Singer that Jeanne used to make all her own clothes, sheets, duvet covers and curtains. Jeanne also had an eclectic, wide knowledge of natural medicine and nutrition for both people and animals. And she understood Latin. We discussed many topics while I had tea there, watching her conjure up yet another cake.
Tex, whose real and unlikely first name was Joseph, originated from the northeast coast of Scotland, but from thereon his personal history tends to merge into general folklore. He surfaced as a full-fledged personality in Gavin Maxwell’s book Harpoon at a Venture when he was Maxwell’s chief harpoon gunner during their shark fishing enterprise. A regular soldier in the Seaforth Highlanders, he had bought himself out of the army in 1939, just weeks before war was declared. He promptly re-enlisted and later became involved with the newly formed British Commandos.
I think Tex existed in blithe ignorance of how his life was smoothed and stabilised by Jeanne’s quiet capability. There is no doubt he had many abilities of his own. There was very little he didn’t know about the sea or boats; he could mend or make practically anything if he put his mind to it. Yet he was an odd mixture. He would make quick, accurate and sometimes overly harsh judgements about people. He could smell out weakness or fraud in a flash and had no fear of expressing his opinion. He was a true individualist, a natural raconteur with an enormous store of dubious stories. He could be very funny, astute, vindictive, shrewd, kind, rude and charming or just plain ‘ornery’. Life on Soay was never dull while Tex was around, but it could get to be a bumpy ride sometimes. I had never come across such characters as either Tex or Jeanne before; they were originals, truly an odd couple sometimes at loggerheads with each other. Yet they were held together in two ways: they made a good working team and they shared a deep love for the island.
One day I was invited inside Tex’s den in the older, lower building attached to the gable end of Soay House. On the door was a brass plaque saying ‘Captain’s Cabin’. Inside, the room was somewhere between an old-fashioned ship’s cabin and a gentleman’s club, lined in natural wood darkened to a warm walnut colour and highly varnished. There were two bunks on the left, built into the wall with matching curtains and duvet covers. In front of an old-fashioned fireplace with a handmade mantelpiece, were two armchairs covered in leatherette; one red and the other green, for port and starboard. There were all sorts of interesting curios on the mantelpiece, including a polished harpoon head. Bracketed on another wall was a huge old gun. This was the harpoon gun Tex had used to hunt basking sharks. He called it Sugan which is Gaelic for rope, or a coil of rope, and I can only assume the gun fired a harpoon which was attached to a rope fixed to the boat so that the shark could be hau
led in. The gun was actually made in the eighteenth century and once had a flintlock firing mechanism, but for convenience, the flintlock had been replaced with a Martini Henry lock action. As Tex was explaining the lock system, I foolishly happened to tell him my father had given me a Martini Henry rifle when I was eleven or twelve. My dad had belonged to a local rifle club and he possessed various rifles and handguns, which had always fascinated me. In our family there was never a gender bar. Dad took me to the club one evening, and seeing I was genuinely interested, he repurchased a rifle he had sold to a club member. The butt had been shortened at some stage, so I was able to get my childish arm round it and still reach the trigger. Apart from target practice and the smell of gunpowder, I could earn 50p at the end of the session if I went round picking up empty brass shells for recycling. (This experience was to stand me in good stead on Soay.)
Tex decided to put me to the test. He took out his .22 rifle and he, Biddy and I went outside for a little ‘target practice’. I hadn’t used a rifle for fifteen years, so was none too confident. He put an empty brass cartridge shell on a fence post thirty to forty feet away. He took the first shot, and it was gone. Biddy got the next one. Now it was my turn, so I tried to remember what it had been like in the rifle club firing range. I aimed, held my breath and squeezed. I hit the bullet case. I felt so incredibly pleased with myself, and very relieved too. (I made a mental note to be careful what I told Tex in future.)
In those early days, the companionship and friendship of Tex and Jeanne eased so many of my cares and worries. In the den I learnt how to splice rope for the first time, a skill that I have put to good use over and over again through the years. The technique is simple, once mastered. Depending what sort of rope you are going to splice together, there are two different tools. A marlinespike (so named because sailors of old used the horn of marlin fish for the purpose) is required when splicing thick hawser or metal guides; these days marlinespikes are made of metal. A fid is smaller, usually made from turned hardwood and used for thinner ropes. Once it used to be hemp, but today most rope is plastic. To splice two pieces of rope together, the ends are unravelled to whatever length seems appropriate for the job. Most rope is plied together in three strands. The ends of the unravelled rope must be melted off to stop them from coming apart and also to give them a hard edge that helps push the rope through itself. The two ends are then put together so the loose strands of ply overlap. The strands of one rope are woven into the part of the other rope that has not been unravelled. The fid is used to open a loop in the main rope and enables the strand to be passed through and then pulled tight. There is a way of doing this properly and you have to see how the ply of the rope is lying, otherwise you just end up with a lump of knotty confusion, no good for anything. However, when it is done correctly the two ropes ‘marry’ into one another beautifully and the splice can be stronger than the rest of the rope: the more force applied, the tighter and stronger the splice becomes. Loops and other useful rope structures can be made using this technique. It is possible to splice rope of more than three strands, but that requires more skill and I have never tried it.
By watching and listening, I also learnt more about carpentry and tool use than I could have gathered from attending an expensive two-year full-time course. All repair and woodwork was done using hand tools that would be considered antique today. They were not antique to Tex, these were the tools of his generation and he used them daily. He had the time and inclination to explain them all to me. Braces and spokeshaves, planes and saws, different hammers for different types of hammering, and different types of saws, such as a rip-saw, used for cutting wood down the grain and not across it. How to drill a smaller hole than required first, to make sure the bigger hole you drill is in exactly the right place. How to counter-sink, and which nail or screw is best for the job. How to plane a piece of wood without gouging great chunks out of it. He taught me not to rush, to take time to do the job properly, and that time was not an issue. All this was the complete opposite of my past working experience when everything had to be done yesterday and even that wasn’t fast enough. I don’t think this was intended for my benefit; Tex liked to talk about these things, and I found it all new and fascinating.
In the same way I gained invaluable knowledge about boats and moorings. How to make a running mooring, the different types of anchors – fisherman’s anchors, plough anchors, sea anchors – and the merits of one against the other. He talked about the correct technique for rowing a dinghy. He warned of the dangers of ropes and chains flying out of control over the fairlead and how to ‘lay’ a rope properly so that it won’t snag when you need it to pay out again once it has been stowed away. He talked about all those things with ease, and so graphically I could have been watching a film in front of me.
Interestingly, I discovered that Tex did not always follow his own advice. He told me once never to try to stop a runaway chain on a boat with a hand or foot, explaining that there was a very real risk of being taken over the side and trapped underwater by the chain. One cold afternoon I arrived at Soay House to find that I had missed an incident in the harbour. Tex and Biddy had been re-laying the mooring for Petros earlier that morning. At some point, one of the anchor chains started racing through the fairlead and what did Tex do? Not wanting to lose the chain, Tex put his foot on it to try to stop it from disappearing over the side. A younger or heavier man might have stopped the runaway mooring, but the speed and weight of the chain was too much for Tex’s wiry frame and he was taken over the side with it, disappearing into the depths. For one heart-stopping moment, there was no more sign of him than a few bubbles. Then he broke the surface with his pipe turned upside down in his mouth and his tweed hat still in place. Luckily Biddy had quickly jumped into the dinghy tied alongside and managed to haul Tex into it. His son Duncan and David Rosie just happened to be passing at the time and Duncan instructed Biddy to take Old Chap home immediately (Tex had been showing every indication of staying on to deal with the chain.) Biddy rowed him ashore and chivvied him all the way home to get him into some dry clothes – it was late November. Tex was none the worse, but it was a very good illustration of what he had been warning me about.
I spent many a pleasant evening sitting in the den with Tex and Biddy playing Scrabble, Canasta or with an occasional dram of whisky. I don’t think ‘living in the middle of nowhere’ would have been so magical or such fun without these experiences.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Island DIY
My next big hurdle was fuel. I had no problems lighting the Rayburn or keeping it running; I came from a family of pyromaniacs and fire lighting was in my genes. I had been making and prodding fires since I was about five years of age, possibly younger. But I had brought only a few bags of coal with me.
I found some wood stashed in the shed and started cutting it up to eke out my coal supply using a small handsaw, which was slow and awkward. The need for coal was not urgent – it was the beginning of the summer and warm – but it wouldn’t be long before I needed more. I still clung stubbornly, perhaps desperately, to the idea that there was a system for this sort of thing. I went along to the schoolhouse and asked Anne Smith how coal came to the island.
Anne and Gordon Smith were well used to remote living. Before coming to Soay they had lived in a lonely farmhouse high in the hills near Inverness where they were pretty well self-sufficient, keeping goats and hens and growing their own vegetables. However, Gordon had to travel thirty-six miles by motorbike to Inverness to teach each day, often through deep snow during the winter months, which meant Anne was on her own for long periods, caring for their two small boys. They decided to try for a life where work was more compatible with the way they wanted to live. Gordon saw an advertisement for a teacher on Soay in the Press & Journal. He applied, got the post, and the family moved to Soay in the early summer of 1983.
Once again Anne was enormously helpful. She explained that she and Gordon normally ordered three tons of coal in 25kg bags
and had it delivered to the top of Elgol jetty. They brought it over in the assault craft about a ton a time. Three tons seemed an enormous amount to my inexperienced mind. I was also beginning to feel anxious about my finances and how much I could afford to spend. Anne offered the use of the assault craft to fetch my coal. There didn’t seem to be any alternative but to accept gratefully. She gave me the telephone number for the coal merchant in Inverness and I made my order. I thought perhaps a ton and a half would be plenty.
The day that the coal arrived on Soay all the men and Biddy were away fishing. Except for Gordon, of course, who was transporting my coal from Elgol. However, the younger women – Anne, Dianne Geddes and Donita Davies (who lived in Ceann a Stigh at the northernmost end of the bay) – all came to give me a hand. It often seemed that it was left to the women to lift or heave heavy objects up the beach and there was a good practical reason for that: if the weather was good enough for delivering supplies it was good enough for fishing. The men went to sea, that was how they earned their living. If there were a way of getting supplies across on a high tide, all the better. The higher the tide, the shorter the distance for carrying stuff. Weather, tide, people and boats did not often coincide.
Like Anne, both Dianne and Donita were well used to the challenges of life on Soay. Donita, who originated from Orkney, had come to Soay in the late 1970s, initially to work as the first new teacher on the island in over twenty years. As the schoolhouse had to be renovated before she could live and work there, she stayed with the Davies family at Ceann a Stigh, and taught the children in their big shed (known as the Villa) until the school was ready. That’s how she met Oliver Davies whose father had bought the house around 1966, bringing his family over from Botswana where he had worked as a civil engineer. Oliver came back to the island at the age of eighteen, and a summer job with Tex convinced him that he wanted to stay on Soay earning his living as a fisherman. Donita and Oliver got married and now had two young sons, William and Peter.
