Notes from the Isles
This issue, our friend in the north is reminded of the power of Gaelic song, and takes a holiday in the Borders
Not so long ago, Gaelic was the rst language in the Western Isles and was also understood and spoken by many mainland Highlanders. Today this is not the case with quite a few of the younger generation – indeed there are even some young islanders who can’t speak it at all.
Certainly, it was the rst language 50 years ago when we moved into our island home, and one of my greatest regrets is that I never managed to master it, though my oldest daughter Mary did – up to a point. We’ve hosted many happy cèilidhs and the songs are always in Gaelic, so we hum along and clap in unison. On one occasion we had Paul, a neighbour and acclaimed singer with us. He began a familiar song and Mary joined in, very quietly. Paul gradually lowered his voice until Mary, unaware, was singing solo: I was lled with pride – and envy.
The Royal National Mòd was just a vague ‘thing’ in my mind until this year when the festival came to Inverness. Even then I may not have given it much thought until I heard that my neighbour John was performing at one of the concerts. I looked up the Mòd and discovered that it was founded in 1892 as an annual festival of Gaelic culture, including song, instrumental music, dancing, drama, sport, and literature. John is a musician and as he and Maggie have become extra children in my life, I booked a ticket.
The entire concert, including the announcements, was in Gaelic. The rst act was three girls with lovely voices and a guitarist who kept going for an hour to rapturous applause. During the interval, I joined Maggie, who had been at work, for the second act. John and another man, both with guitars, accompanied by a percussionist, an accordionist, and a pianist, sang, solo and in chorus, for another hour and the combination of wonderful voices and melodies and the unique Gaelic language was something I shall never forget. I was completely trans xed.
A recent visit to the Borders reminded me of many good stories I’d unearthed during a journalistic tour many years ago. Totally faithful as I am to the Highlands and the Hebrides, I can still appreciate that chequerboard of farmland, undulating hills, wooded river valleys, and the rocky coastline with cliff-walled shing towns and villages. There are so many treasures, each with an important place in history – Robert the Bruce’s heart is buried in Melrose Abbey. Hoping to atone for his sins, Bruce had ordered Sir James Douglas to take his heart to Jerusalem on his death. When Bruce died in 1329, Douglas obeyed but was killed en route by the Moors, in Spain. The heart, in its casket, was retrieved and brought back to Melrose. During building work at the Abbey in the 20th century an embalmed heart was excavated – and hastily reburied.
Another Borders’ treasure is Traquair House, visited by at least 27 monarchs including Mary, Queen of Scots with Darnley, and their baby son (King James VI of Scotland),
whose cradle is on view, together with Mary’s crucifix, rosary, and purse. Bonnie Prince Charlie was the last person to go through The Bear Gates at the entrance to the avenue on his fated march to Derby in 1745. The staunchly Jacobite Fifth Earl of Traquair clanged the gates shut and ordered that they must never be reopened until a Stuart ruled Scotland again. They remain shut.
My reason for being in the Borders was to attend a houseparty of 12 geriatrics celebrating an important birthday. I didn’t revisit any of the old haunts because I was looking after a very dear, blind friend who wouldn’t have appreciated tours of stately homes, and having already written about most of them, I had no urge to go back. Instead, she and I had a peaceful time walking, talking and picnicking. We also visited a delightful woman whose mother had done all the flowers for my wedding, 62 years ago.
The house we were staying in was a remote old fishing lodge, near the River Teviot. The plumbing and electricity were spasmodic and there were notices forbidding us to pull the curtains. Someone disobeyed this order on the first night and the entire curtain rod crashed off the wall.
The lodge was a splendid relic of the olden days, its walls festooned with antlered skulls and sporting relics and there was one with its fur still intact that we decided was a bison or possibly a buffalo. There was also the skin of a zebra in a passage, which it pained me to walk on. My favourite of all the mementos was a life-sized china spaniel wearing a coloured bonnet, who sat at the foot of one of the staircases and I couldn’t resist giving him a wee pat on the head every time I passed.
The dining room table was 10-foot-square, with three places along each side leaving wide gaps between each. As there was a preponderance of defective hearing aids, mealtimes involved plenty of hand-cupped ears and shouts of “I’m sorry, I didn’t quite catch that, could you say it again...”. There were many reminiscences of when we’d all been a young gang learning to spread our wings. It was a happy couple of days but, as ever, I was very glad, nearly a thousand miles later, to drive up to my beloved old farmhouse on the Black Isle.
We are making plans for Christmas in our island home, and it is going to be not just the 15 members of my family, but my brother-in-law and his 15, too. They won’t all fit in the house and it’s not an ideal time of year for camping, so they’ve rented two bothies nearby. I shall be interested to see if any of the cousins bring their bathing suits and join us in our annual Christmas Day swim in the Atlantic Ocean – wet suits verboten. Watch this space...
During building work at Melrose Abbey in the 20th century an embalmed heart was excavated – and hastily reburied