Gaelic Ring: Oban to Barra, Eriskay, South Uist, Benbecula, |
The notion of Voyaging lies deep in the human psyche, and it is probably no exaggeration to say that our own 21st century journeys are very much part of that old condition: to travel, search, discover and make connections. You can of course mundanely consider a journey in merely functional terms: getting from point A to point B as quickly as possible. It can be a journey of great anxiety: Shall I arrive in time? Where shall I stay? Have I enough money to cover the journey? Do I need to book ahead? What will happen if... Or alternatively, it can be a journey of great joy and discovery – are these stories about Fionn, the great Gaelic warrior, really true? Do these Fairy Knolls exist? Was there really an old Gaelic cure for warts which involved ‘putting nine nines of the joints of the corn (oats) in a secret place, such as under a stone. Do not go near them again, and as they wear away the warts will also disappear?’ Was there really a cure for stomach-ache which went like this: ‘When a patient is in desperation, put a rope round his feet and hang him by the heels from the rafters. Repeat at reasonable intervals: this will undo the knot in his guts.’ What is a 'reasonable interval', I ask myself!? How much of the old ways still survive into the global 21st century? Will you still hear Gaelic spoken as a natural tongue? Yes. Can you still hear beautiful Gaelic hymns sung on Barra and can you still hear the great Gaelic psalms sung on North Uist? Yes again. As with all things, you will discover what you brought with you as much as finding what you hoped, or least hoped, for. The journey you're about to undertake is, I believe, one of the Great Sea Journeys of the World. Okay, so it's not through ice-floes to the Antarctic like Shackleton, or round Cape Horn like Magellan, or eternally west towards heaven like St Brendan, but it takes you through a landscape and over a seascape which is as beautiful, historic and fascinating as any other corner of the globe. This is an open environment: one of big skies, sparkling waters, glens and mountains, tumbling rivers, eagles and primroses, deserted villages and thriving communities. It's an environment where the ratio of sky to land seems disproportionately balanced in favour of the heavens, with the marvellous consequence that the calibre of the light is unique and distinct: ranging from liquid and translucent on the good days to sombre and awesome in the rough weather. Whether you begin this journey at Oban and end at Mallaig or vice-versa is in a sense irrelevant: you can do either, and on the intervening voyage you can of course go island-hopping, stopping off for as long as you want to experience a whole variety of different islands, from the more remote ones now just inhabited by the singing birds to the ones bustling with human activity at various Gaelic Fèisean (Festivals). My own journey would begin in Oban where I spent my teenage years on the near island of Seil, with its famous Bridge over the Atlantic. Next door are the islands of Luing, Easdale and Belnahua – the renowned slate islands of Argyll which roofed many buildings throughout the world, from Norway to New Zealand. Before or after your journey to or from Oban to the Outer Hebrides, please do take time to discover the great Gaelic inheritance of Argyll, from Knapdale in the south through to Appin in the north, from famous Cruachan Beann in the east through to Iona and Tiree in the west. My own people were originally from Argyll, so it’s little wonder that I know and love this beautiful corner of Scotland. As a busy seaport carrying passengers from the mainland to the various islands, Oban was once known as ‘The Charing Cross of the Highlands’, and certainly in midsummer, as the Caledonian MacBrayne ferries sail in and out, it still has a busy, thriving atmosphere. For me personally the small town of Oban was, I suppose, the gateway to the big world. The big world that has now become the global village. There I saw orange street lights for the first time. There I watched a steam-train for the first time. There I saw a colour television for the first time. There I saw Lauren Bacall on the big screen for the first time. But more importantly, there I met and came to know the great writer Iain Crichton Smith. It was here, with the boats constantly coming and going, that Iain wrestled with the notion of metaphysically coming and going – with the issues of bilingualism, exile, homecoming, law and grace, staying or leaving. So that every time I sail out of or into Oban, or any other harbour, I think of his moving lines reminding us how many Gaels were forced to leave their homeland, for one reason or another: “The many ships that left our country Leaving Oban you weave between land and sea: the islands of Kerrera and Lismore and Mull on one hand and the mainland of Morvern (from the Gaelic A' Mhorbhairne meaning Sea Gap) on the other. As you pass Ardnamurchan Point – the most westerly point on the whole British mainland – you enter the sparkling Sea of the Hebrides with the Small Isles of Muck, Eigg, Rum and Canna to the north and the great Cuillin of Skye beyond that. The rocky island of Coll and machair-filled Tiree are clearly visible to the south, and as you sail across the Sea of the Hebrides itself, you can see on the western shore, a long bead of islands stretching from Barra Head in the south to the Uists, and on to far distant Harris in the north. I can never forget that this too was what the Norsemen saw when they came sailing down in their birlinnean more than 1000 years ago, and what the Kings and Lords of the Isles themselves enjoyed as they ruled these mighty sea-waters for half a millennium. On this sail from Oban, the small beautiful Isle of Barra is the first physical port of call. And what a port of call, and how aptly named – Bàgh a' Chaisteil in the original Gaelic, simply translated as The Bay of the Castle, or Castlebay as it has become known. In the bay proudly sits Kismuil Castle, the famous stronghold of the MacNeil of Barra. Like all great Clan Chiefs, the MacNeil had his piper: it is said that each evening the piper played the MacNeil into dinner, and once he had eaten his first morsel the Clan Chief would declare: ‘The MacNeil has sat down to dine. Now the rest of the world may eat!’ Barra, with its beautiful beaches and its famous cockleshell strand, where the planes from Benbecula and Glasgow still land, is more than worth spending time on. Here, as elsewhere in these western islands, you will hear Gaelic spoken in the local shops and Post Offices, on the local buses, in hotels, and of course most evenings you can enjoy some great Gaelic singing and music at various ceilidhs. One of the most beautiful sights in the whole world must be to see the flower-filled machair land of Barra or Uist in early summer: to see the clover and buttercup-filled strands round Eòiligearraidh in May is surely to catch a glimpse of heaven. Barra hosts some of the finest stories and songs in the Gaelic tradition, ranging from Luran (essentially a story-device to get children to eat their daily porridge: if you ate the porridge it made you fast enough to catch the fairies who stole the cows) to great songs such as Latha Dhomh 's Mi 'M Beinn a Cheathaich (One Day When I Was In The Mountain of Mist), which is the real original of the English song known as Kismuil's Galley. Barra was also famous for dancing – so if you get the chance please make your way to the local ceilidh to learn some great steps. Unless you decide to stop forever in Barra (and who would blame you!), the next stop, the famous small island of Eriskay, is just as enticing. Here, on what is known as Coilleag a' Phrionnsa (The Prince's Cockleshell-strand), Bonnie Prince Charlie landed for the first time on Scottish soil on his ill-fated mission which ended in the disaster of Culloden, where the great dream of a Gaelicised Scotland finally died on the heather. The gorgeous Roman Catholic church of St. Michael stands rock-solid on top of a hill above Am Baile (The Village), and from it you can see across the new causeway to South Uist, sparkling like a precious jewel on a summer's day. I was born and brought up on South Uist, so naturally it holds a special place in my affections, but even laying that obvious bias aside, Uist is genuinely one of the joys of Gaelic Scotland. It has everything: a living community, beautiful beaches, stunning wildlife, and on the eastern side the magnificent hills of Ben More, Corghadal and Hecla. The verdant glens between these hills were once well populated, until the people (including my own great-grandparents) were brutally cleared in the mid 19th century to make way for sheep. This is the land of the marram grass, land of the barley, as the old song puts it. It has miles and miles of long sandy beaches, on huge wide stretches of which your only companions will be the cormorants and the oystercatchers. Recently the people of South Uist have bought the island for themselves – one of the great joys of recent years has been the community purchase of various estates throughout the Highlands and Islands, which has seen the scourge of absent landlords replaced by local ownership. The island trustees are now intent on developing one of their prize assets: the gorgeous Askernish golf course, designed by old Tom Morris. But as with the neighbouring islands, it's the people who matter: the crofting way of life, which ensured a viable population in places such as Uist, is coming under increasing threat from market-forces and globalisation. Tread softly, the poem goes, for you tread on my dreams, and nowhere more so than in these islands: treat the environment and the people with huge respect, and the rewards will be doubled to you, in terms of its natural beauty and its communal return. Like neighbouring Benbecula, Flodaigh, Grimsay, North Uist and Berneray, South Uist is one of the central rings in the great Gaelic circle. The ruined castles of Ormacleit in South Uist, of Borve in Benbecula and the remains of Teampall na Trianaid (The Church of the Holy Trinity) in Carinish in North Uist may signify time's decay, but equally you will find signs of growth and vitality, from the marvellous Ceòlas Festival held in the south end of South Uist each July, to the splendid artistic work done at Taigh Chearsabhagh at the north end of North Uist. The central island of Benbecula has hosted a military base for fifty years and yet survived: maybe evidence that despite the current environmental calamity facing the world, all things natural will survive. This central island also hosts the excellent community school at Lionacleit, which serves all the young people from Eriskay to Berneray. It has a very fine library, café and swimming pool which are all open for public use. North Uist was the birthplace of two of Gaeldom's finest bards – the great 18th century bard Iain MacCodrum, and one of the 20th century's finest, Dòmhnall Ruadh Chorùna. The very name MacCodrum immediately brings us into the bardic territory of legend – the story goes that the great MacCodrums were actually seals in human form. Aside from their connection with the sea, this legend no doubt has to do with totemism: there was a strong taboo against killing the totem animal, and no one bearing the name of MacCodrum would kill a seal or eat seal flesh. Like thousands of other Highland lads, the other great North Uist bard Dòmhnall Ruadh Chorùna fought in the muddy trenches during World War I and left us one of the great Gaelic love songs of all time as a consequence: An Eala Bhàn (The White Swan), where his darling left behind at home in Uist is compared with the exquisite white swan. The Western Islands and Highlands of Scotland have been emptied of its people over the centuries by clearance, emigration, education away from the native soil, and by war. Dòmhnall Ruadh Chorùna (whose grandfather had fought at the Battle of Corunna in Spain during the Napoleonic Wars) was more than aware of the endless despoliation of war: “ Boys, march at ease! That so many of its native people have remained, and that the Gaelic language survives at all, is the real miracle. And that it survives and is thriving is evidenced by mentioning two other North Uist bards who remain very much alive and kicking – Calum and Rory Macdonald, the Runrig songwriters who brought a kind of new meaning to the words 'Gaelic Rock'. The Sea of the Minch separates North Uist from the Isle of Skye, and one of life's pleasant journeys (the winter one is a tad more challenging!) is certainly the CalMac crossing over the sea to Skye from Lochmaddy to Uig. At an hour and forty-five minutes, it’s long enough both to enjoy the sights and have a meal on board – with the hills of Harris and then Lewis on the horizon, Skye in the approaching distance, the sea-birds wheeling overhead and the very real possibility of seeing a diving dolphin beyond the ship's wake. It is important, of course, to realise that the sea connects as well as separates: at one time the sea was the highway which brought communities together. In a world which sometimes seems increasingly brittle (perhaps ironically in days of increased global travel and communication), it seems to me important to stress the things that bind rather than separate: our common legends, songs, hopes, needs and aspirations. As you cross the short stretch of water between the Uists and Skye, remember for instance the legend of the two giants who each morning and each evening sang across the waters to each other from both sides of the Minch: even pre-Internet, the desire to communicate was universal and necessary. Skye itself, of course, is the diamond in the ring! Not that I'm biased, living in it! But you should see the sunrise over the great Cuillin Mountains! Or the sunset from the west over distant Canna, Eigg, Rum and Muck, right on to the edges of the world! You should see the Quirang, north of the main town of Portree! You should see Camas Fhionnairigh! You should have heard Sorley MacLean reciting his great poetry (which you now can at www.sorleymacleantrust.org.uk). You should hear one of Skye's great pipers – any one of them – playing Pàdraig Mòr MacCrimmon's moving pìobaireachd, The Lament for the Children, preferably in the Great Hall of Dunvegan Castle. You should go fishing, or walking or just take the bus anywhere for a day! You should visit the Armadale Castle gardens in Sleat. You should, most certainly, call in at Sabhal Mòr Ostaig, the wonderful Gaelic College in Sleat. Sign on for a course to learn Gaelic, even at a distance: whether you live in Ankara or Alaska, you could become fluent in this great ancient living language, thanks to the wonders of modern technology. At the very least, learn how to read and pronounce the local place names while you're here: all the road-signs, as with the CalMac signage, are now proudly bilingual, giving the native language a strong visual as well as verbal presence. Thanks especially to Gaelic Medium Education, there is now real hope that the fragile revival of Gaelic can take real root and flourish. And then, of course, you leave Eden! You return to the mainland, via Mallaig: the finishing or starting point for one of the great railway journeys of the world, preferably by steam-train, through Glenfinnan and down on to Fort William and from thence to the four corners of the known world. Circles are, of course, endless. My hope is that you will take the Gaelic Rings with you, at the very least as a metaphysical echo: that the people you meet and the places you see on this journey will become an integral part of your own onward journey. Learn some of the stories while you're here. Learn a bit of the language. Take a proverb, or a song, or a prayer, or a memory, or a hope, or even a riddle back home with you – here's one, for instance: “It can go into the sea and it won't be drowned, It is, of course, 'A' Ghrian'! The Sun! I don't know if you've ever picked up a conch-shell from the beach: on these, too, lines and rings are wrought. Small and fragile, but toughened by time and tide, these shells are both beautiful and delicate. If you put one to your ear they say you can hear the great deep sounds of the mighty ocean, swelling: as lovely a metaphor as I can think of for the islands we've travelled through, where a tiny beautiful thing speaks with a permanent voice. I hope that this has been more than a mere journey from A to B: may it have been from A to Z, and back again. |