Written eleven years ago, and published somewhere in a long-forgotten online magazine or website.
When I was about twelve I wrote a composition for my English class about a holiday with my great-aunt on her croft on Skye. My English teacher told me how lucky I was to have seen that way of life, as it was fast disappearing. He happened to be a Skyeman – and he was right.
I'm now fifty two, so this is going back a bit. I can't remember what I wrote, except that I mentioned my aunt's fondness for dulse, the seaweed that grows on the rocky shoreline, and that she'd sent me to fetch some for her, and that I returned with the wrong thing. I wish I still had a copy of that composition, freshly written as it was, and from a child’s perspective.
I returned to the croft often as a teenager. My aunt was a MacAskill, and my grandmother's older sister. Her croft was half a mile or so away from the former family home, which had been a traditional black house. At that time, which was the 1970s, most of the people within a radius of a couple of miles were related to me, and even if they weren’t I could turn up at their door confident that I'd be invited in for a "strupach". This usually involved stewed tea, home-made girdle scones or Mother's Pride bread, with crowdie or jam. People were generally pleased to see me, I think, most of them being very old and possibly lonely and bored, but with hindsight I'm sure at times they could have seen me far enough although they were far too polite to say.
In summer, there was a stream of visitors, all family, from Glasgow and the central belt mainly. They all referred to Skye as "home" and they were all made welcome. The tiny cottage with its outside loo became so crowded that on one memorable occasion I'd to share a bed with my aunt. I lasted about five minutes before shifting to the sofa.
I remember once one of them bringing with them from Glasgow the remnants of a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken. Having been brought up in the country I'd never seen such a new-fangled thing before. I thought it was great.
My great-aunt's first language was Gaelic, of course, and I learned some when I was there. The thing I was most proud of was being able to command a sheep-dog, in Gaelic. I like to think I probably still can. I also learned Gaelic at school, and recited in the Provincial Mod, coming fourth (in a group of four - and that was with much coaching from my grandmother!) The mobile library used to come round occasionally, and I remember the librarian (who was English) refusing to address me in anything other than Gaelic, and scolding me because I'd stubbornly reply in English. I was never good at it and I've forgotten most of my Gaelic now.
In addition to the mobile library, every week the mobile shop came round. You went inside and got your tinned ham and peaches, and your bread and marmalade and so forth. There was a butcher who came on a Thursday, I think, sometimes at two in the morning depending on how his round went. Not many people had cars.
My great-aunt told me many stories about crofting life in years gone by. I wish I'd written them down, because I've forgotten such a lot. She was a thoroughly kind-hearted and good-natured woman, who had never travelled further than Inverness, and that was only because her sister, my grandmother, invited her every winter. She was an avid reader, and like many of her generation, could recite impressive amounts of poetry from memory. She was also, like many Highlanders, a devotee of the Free Kirk, and besides attending church every week there would be a nightly prayer and Bible reading. On one occasion I assisted with "Communion", which lasted if I remember correctly, a whole week. Food and tea and constant general hospitality had to be provided for the communicants and the minister. This was at another aunt's house. I felt quite uncomfortable because I had to wear a skirt, rather than my usual jeans. Trousers were still, at that time, considered unsuitable for women and definitely not to be worn to church.
On the sideboard was a strange lamp with a photo of - I think - a waterfall, which lit up and revolved when switched on. Sadly it didn't work. I think someone brought it back from South Africa - a cousin once or twice removed had emigrated there.
Another crofting relative would rage at me because I didn’t know my family history – some, and I still don’t know who – had been among the Land Leaguers of Glendale. They’d fought for their rights, and subsequent generations had forgotten. He kept sheep, but he hated them for what they represented. “This way of life is over,” he’d say, disgustedly. “We’re the last of our kind.”
When I’d mention Skye to friends in Edinburgh (where I lived for a time) they'd say "Oh yes - the Cuillins - have you been there? Do you know Loch Bracadale, or such and such a place?" No, I didn't. I only knew the croft, and the distance I could explore round about, and the journey there.
My aunt died in the early 1980s and her house was sold. It was renovated by its new owner, and rented out as a holiday cottage. Trips to Skye were very different after that. I'd camp, or stay in B&Bs. I felt bereft. But the positive side of that was that I got to know the island in a different way and explored a much wider area.
It wasn't until about fifteen or so years ago that I learned of my connection to the Giant MacAskill and I went to the museum in Dunvegan to check out his enormous socks, among other odd items. My MacAskill ancestors - one branch of them - had apparently moved from Harris to Skye in the 1700s. They were shepherds near Neist Point, I believe.
My grandmother was in service in the local landowner's house on Skye when she met my grandfather, who was the local police sergeant. I think he had very little to do. When he retired they moved to Inverness and I have very happy memories of their cosy and welcoming home there. Sitting by the coal fire after a good tea, watching the black and white television among comforting wafts of my grandfather's pipe tobacco. My grandmother was an expert oat-cake baker. She made them with fine oatmeal, whereas my aunt's were thick and "coarse". She could also bake a fabulously light "fatless sponge", which she sometimes made as a treat when she visited us. My grandmother loved to speak Gaelic, it was her first language and to her English was a very poor second. She was a lover of fine hats and a believer in - well, it was not really spoken of, but "second sight". There were tales of ghostly funeral processions being seen before a death, and so forth, but it was all very hush hush. My grandfather was from Petty, near Inverness, and he did not speak Gaelic although I am quite sure he could have done so and that he most definitely understood it. He was a tremendous story-teller and would regale us with amusing tales in the evening or sitting back digesting after meals. The one that sticks in my mind is about the Well of the Seven Heads. If only I'd had a tape-recorder.
My grandfather served in the trenches as a Scots Guardsman in World War 1. I have a letter that he wrote to me in the 1970s about his harrowing experiences when I was studying O Level history. His father's cousin was Sir Hector Macdonald, an extraordinary, brave, and, to some, controversial character who was knighted by Queen Victoria and whose sword is now in Edinburgh Castle. There is a monument to him in Dingwall. He was a hero of the Empire, hugely popular at the time, but tragically he shot himself in a Paris hotel room in 1903 as a scandal about his private life broke. Several books, a play and a television programme have been made about Sir Hector, most recently The Devil's Paintbrush by Jake Arnott, which I found riveting to read because of, among other things, the theory that he shot himself following lunch and a drug-fuelled binge with Aleister Crowley. He certainly travelled far from his crofting roots, but he did not forget them. Thousands came to mourn him, and many refused to believe that he was really dead. He is buried in the Dean Cemetery, Edinburgh, and to this day his grave is decorated with scarves and flowers.
There is a theory that Hector made the wrong choice when he accepted a commission. In those days, it was a remarkable opportunity for a soldier from the ranks and one can completely understand his decision. I suspect that, like me, he was brought up to believe that he was "just as good as the next man". Unfortunately, while he undoubtedly had his supporters, many of the officer class did not go along with that and would not allow him to "fit in". It must have been a difficult and lonely life, and when rumours about his sexuality and private life became a scandal, there were few to whom he could turn for help.
I didn't learn about my family connection to Sir Hector until very recently. We are still unsure why such a well-known character was not widely discussed in the family, considering that our grandfather was such a prolific teller of stories and legends. It may have been modesty, or on the other hand it may have been because of the "scandal". We will never know. One thing I'm sure of is that memory is fickle; this is my account of what I recall of the past, but my brother for example – and my other brother, who emigrated to Canada over thirty years ago, and no doubt other family members - will have a very different set of impressions. I suppose that is why it's important to have a written account.
As for me, I’ve lived in Perthshire for many years and don’t intend to move. If I win the lottery, I’ll buy a place on Skye, but that aside, I’d never be able to afford it. I worked as a nurse for many years, then after an illness I started writing as a hobby about five years ago; on the advice of a local writer I started a blog, which became a long-running series of Tales inspired in part by my affectionate memories of evenings spent by the firesides of Highland relatives and friends. I was surprised and very proud when my blog was reviewed in Northwords Now in 2011. The blog has been very much a reflection of Me and as such as taken various odd and dark twists and turns, but the heart of it will always be those firesides and the people who sat round them telling tales.
