This very patch of water in the two-mile broad channel is the opening scene of Scott’s Lord of the Isles. The whole first part of the poem reads like a gazetteer of the Sound of Mull. Our nearest mainland was the Point of Ardtornish with its ruin of castle, once the splendid seat of the Lords, whose minstrels are discovered singing up the curtain in Scott’s opening scene.
Crofters trying the canoes
In its day, this great castle had been the gathering place and parliament of the chiefs of the Isles, and it is said that Edward I of England met them here in a fifth-column assembly to enlist them as allies in his mortal battle with the mainland Scots. Drawing a long and picturesque bow, Scott describes how Robert and Edward Bruce, homeward bound from Rathlin on the task of winning back Scotland, bring their small foundering ship into Ardtornish Bay and become involved in the wedding celebrations of the Maid of Lorne. In the meantime Lord Ronald’s galleys go past, with a following wind and heaving an even faster course with their thousand oars, showing off before the bride. All four settings of that crammed opening narrative – the Maid’s rooms, the minstrels’ hall, the MacDonald armada, the ill-found Bruce ship, with the wind and the rending sails, the well-fed magnificent isles-men on their rowing benches, the harping, the Maid’s tears – they go cutting into one another like a well-edited film. It may be old-fashioned stuff, but, by the Lord! it moves and slashes. We are all, to paraphrase Stevenson, very clever fellows nowadays, but we cannot tell stories like Walter Scott.
The Sound of Mull, with its villages and castles, is now less peopled. At the end of last century, Morven, the lovely land which forms the north of the Sound, had less than a third of the population with which it started the century. From the water, the whole visible land below the mountains is corded with old run-rigs, showing where many people have been. Cultivated patches are now rare, and the old homesteads have crumbled into the bracken on land which, at its present best, is only rough grazing for sheep.
Where have they gone, the people who were here? Mull has had the same decline in numbers. The figures of the first post-war census (1948) showed Mull’s present population to be less than a quarter of what it was in 1811. For every nine people who lived in Mull at the beginning of last century, there are only two today. It is a terrifying deprivation, and we shall be looking at it more closely again.
There are ways of measuring a population which are more revealing than a mere count of heads. A brief survey by means of telephone directories is, I believe, more pointed than one dealing with census returns. The telephone is, of course, not essential to the life of a community, but it is one modern way of assessing a social and active citizenship.
Mull is the home of the MacLeans. They were never a numerous clan, although they had 500 men out in the ‘Forty-five’. Here, and on some of the adjacent islets and coast fringes, is the cradle of the clan, the source of them all. On the whole island of Mull there are only 11 MacLeans on the telephone. There is one more in Buenos Aires, where eleven MacLeans have telephones. London has, in round figures, 220 phoning MacLeans, and Glasgow a hundred more than London. There are 280 in Chicago, and in Manhattan – an island about the size of Colonsay which happens to contain the City of New York – 115. Toronto with 370 has more MacLeans on the telephone than Glasgow. Vancouver has 200, and Calgary, the town in Alberta which was christened by those who went from the village of that name in Mull, has 65. In Dunedin, New Zealand, there are 30. What a scattering is here! In a world hook-up, the ten MacLean subscribers in Durban, South Africa, could absorb the entire telephone strength of the clan in the island they all belong to. It would be difficult to guess at the world population of the MacLeans, although I see no difficulty, and a great deal of joy, in a new numbering of the tribes, if it were to be carried out by all the clans.
In the meantime I will say, for the MacLeans, that while they have been scattered, they have obviously not been lost. There is hardly one of these sundered MacLeans, and the other clansmen, but will be often busy deaving his own coterie with claims of proud ancestry. Here is a great, warm, loyal network of family about the world, ready to be drawn imaginatively together, and that for good.
Late in the evening, we were drawing in close along the Mull shore, where the Aros woods were hanging heavily. There were no special incidents in the afternoon’s travel. We were jumbled from time to time among the conflicting tides which are the characteristic of the Sound of Mull. Scott mentions them, with the eye of a hillman noting another element, and they must have been heavily impressed upon him by the seamen who took him on his Western Isles trip.
The bay of Tobermory is almost landlocked by Calve Island, to the north of which is the main entrance to the bay. The southwest flank of the island makes a long narrow strait with Mull, and it was for this channel we headed, while the houses and spires of Tobermory, so familiar to us from previous cargoboat visits, became more and more distinct ahead. A shoreward wind helped us here, and we got the sails up. Then we were in the canal-like strait, with the bay opening out ahead. Calve Island is an entire farm, and one of the girls was driving in the cows, which kept pace with us along the shore as we paddled. The family came out in front of the farmhouse to wave us past.
The last mile of open water was across Tobermory Bay, where cargo puffers were at anchor, waiting for the next tide for their passage round Ardnamurchan Point. The tide was at its height, and all the shore of the bay was covered, the sea reaching high up the sea-wall. First we steered for the Old Pier. As its dark brown stones approached, we were aware of a frieze of onlookers which thickened at the pierhead, watching towards us, while many others bobbed along the front street and ran down the pier to join those at the end. Soon we were at 50 yards distance, and a generous applause was set up. It was a particularly self-conscious moment. We dug the bay with our blades, much bedraggled and tired, while a hand-clapping crackled like a growing furze-fire, and the children gave shrill cheers.
Shorewards, we heard repeated frequently for the first time the shouted joint nickname by which we were known throughout the Islands from that time forward: ‘The Canoe Boys! … It’s the Canoe Boys!’ – and the shop doors became crowded and windows went up. We headed over to our left, where the river, surging full after the rain, spread out in a high little delta and promised a patch of shore. Before we came to ground, and stepped over the side, the throng was round to meet us, and the younger ones were already waiting ankle-deep in the shallows to pull us in. Dozens of hands of all sizes palmed and supported the canoes as we lifted them up. There was a great assembly present by the time this was done, so that we could have held a meeting there and then.
Through the crowd came pressing the tall figure of Kenneth Macfarlane, the grocer, general merchant, and newspaper correspondent, who took the situation into his versatile hands. He greeted us with a kind courtesy, putting only a few needful questions about where we had come from that day and when we might be leaving. It was as near to a civic welcome as we achieved; then: ‘Are you looking for rooms or a hotel?’ ‘No-we’re camping.’ ‘All right! You, Angus’ – and he enlisted a boy – ‘show these gentlemen up to …’ – and he described a campsite near by. ‘You other boys, carry the rest of the things!’ – and to us ‘They’ll show you where to go. It’s in the wood near the powerhouse, just up at the back there. I’ll get a wee paragraph off to the papers telling them you’ve arrived. You’ll likely be sending off your own stories in the morning. Give me a look in at the shop when you’re passing. The canoes will be safe here.’
There was no more than that. In three minutes after landing the canoes were empty on the shore, surrounded by spectators, and intact in the protection of an unseen authority. We were on our way up the road by the river, each man carrying nothing but his oar over his shoulder, padding inland like Homer’s mariner, in the wake of a line of small native bearers.
We slept that night, and for some nights to come, in a sweet grassy clearing perched a few yards above the main road to Salen and Crai
gnure, and out of sight of all passers-by. We could lie with the morning light watery on the canvas roof, and watch through the open door as the morning steamer clanked off from the pier to make for Oban. The steep gravel pitch up a little cliff face towards the plateau came to be as well known as home, and we could find our way aloft in the black darkness without a handhold, coming up from the lighted main street not 50 yards away.
In spite of its rollicking name, Tobermory has a gentle connotation. The name means ‘Mary’s Well’, and the fine bay has certainly been a refuge and a shorefall for mariners since men have taken to the waters. Like Tarbert, it is a natural building site. Any township following the normal contours of such a ground plan could hardly be ill-built. In its present shape Tobermory is the result of a bold piece of 18th-century planning, when the British Fisheries Society settled on this place and on Ullapool, another handsome grouping of homes, hotels and shore, as the two main centres of the herring industry. By a typical twist of Highland industrial caprice, Tobermory has no contact with the present herring industry.
Of less than a thousand inhabitants, it is nevertheless the largest ‘town’ and the economic centre of Mull. Tourists and holiday-makers are its main business. Its port is the chief outlet for such agricultural produce as the island has to export, and its shops serve a large hinterland. In these shops one can buy, in fair times, not only the enormous proprietary range of present-day groceries, but CoIl cheese, early potatoes from Barra and Treshnish, carrots from Muck, salted herrings cured in Ardnamurchan, salt cod, ling sun-dried on the rocks, honey and gooseberries from Mull itself, and all the rest.
The only consistent row of houses in sight from the bay is the shore range of tenements. The other dwellings are perched here and there on the cliff ledges, stepping up to the skyline, which is dominated by the mass of the Western Isles Hotel, suspended above the pier. One can climb inland and find, on plateaux, streets of whitewashed cottages like fisher rows. But there are, of course, no fishers.
With its hotels and boarding houses, bus tours, boat and car hires, inland fishing, golf course, and a list of attractions, Tobermory has groomed itself efficiently for a career of tourism. What delighted us most about the place at that time was its recently completed and self-contained hydroelectric scheme. The river running down into the bay had been dammed, and a tiny powerhouse erected where a water-flywheel flew and hummed incessantly. This project had been faced and accomplished by a small burgh of only a few hundred citizens. The civic promotion committee had been astounded and warmly encouraged by the response of the inhabitants, as almost every household in the place installed electricity, although the capital outlays had made necessary a very high initial charge per unit. All the appropriate gadgets were also installed – irons, fires, hair-driers, vacuums, bed-lights – and the community at one bound moved from paraffin lamps to electricity, having never known the use of gaslight.
The most common criticism made of the Highlander is that his character is unyieldingly conservative, refusing to change. He is certainly, on his home ground, a slow starter in method, but rarely in the acceptance of amenity. Since the war the Tobermory scheme has come under the wider powers of the North of Scotland Hydro-Electric Board, but at the time it was constructed the supply was a gallant and lonely triumph.
We stayed long enough in Tobermory to become almost citizens. It was a good place in which to see in operation most of the factors which create the Highland Problem. It was also a good place to be. In a few days we had produced and sold several weighty feature articles, and it did appear that we were being sought as, in some way, authorities on these endless themes. A judicious hint of canoeing thrills and dangers spiced some of these writings; in other cases we found that the main topic alone was sufficient; that there appeared to be a public in Scotland interested in these concerns. This is less of a novelty now, but at the time it was difficult to prise open a market for new facts on old worries.
We were able to take time to pause. The publishing of the articles brought in more information and controversy. We were stopped in the street and offered themes. Occasionally a voice, wise in pessimism, would deny all hope, and we would hear a recital such as this: schemes had been tried before for the development of Highland resources; they had failed. They would always fail. The place was done. The young people wouldn’t stay. What was the good of scraping a living here when there were jobs to be had in Glasgow and Canada (the twin EI Dorados!). The soil was too poor for crops. The weather was hopeless, anyway. We would find that out fast enough! For one thing, we would never get round Ardnamurchan Point.
… All this was to apply, with a note of personal resentment at our intrusion, the theme of ‘It’s too late in the year!’ to our mission as well as to our trip. These acerbities were rare, and came only from those very few whose patience had utterly broken down: or others who, having tasted of the sponge dipped in vinegar which is constantly presented to the Highland mouth, admitted to their agreement only those who would take a portion of their despair.
For the rest, Tobermory was overwhelmingly kindly and keen. There was a great run on the canoes, most of Tobermory at one time or another, young and old, having a trip aboard under solo power. Provost McGilp, the banker whose hobby was the buying and selling of farm stock, gave frequent displays of the dash he brought to the civic chair when he paddled round the bay, with a flock of rowing-boats manned by the youngsters in train. Once a destroyer of the Royal Navy anchored in the bay, and the exuberant provost requisitioned one of the canoes, instead of the official launch, in which to pay his courtesy visit. He returned for the launch with a rueful grin. On reaching the destroyer he had paddled all round her, hailing the smart figures on deck and announcing himself, with a request for a companion ladder. But the Navy would have none of him. They simply ignored his irresponsible person, although they plainly heard and saw him. He had to paddle to the shore and return by the orthodox method. Now he knows why they call it the Silent Service.
Tobermory Bay
At dances in the Aros Hall, or by visits to the island, we fell in more and more with the MacDonalds of Calve. This island, the half-closed gate across Tobermory Bay, was a single-family farm, and we felt greatly drawn to the young people who were running it – not only because of their gay company, but because their household was a microcosm of the Highland Problem. We spent some days with them, working at their hay harvest, and paddling back to Tobermory long after dark, when even the town lights were out and only a few lamps, and the red fixed light on the pier, showed us the way ashore.
Soon, one day, we struck our camp above the power-house, loaded up, and paddled with all our goods over to Calve. There we pitched camp near the house, on a green above the shore, and worked at farming.
The MacDonalds of Calve: Malcolm MacDonald pictured with his younger sisters Margaret, left, and Janet.
CHAPTER 10
FAMILY FARM
No season’s winds impair her,
The gentle flower that grows
Deep root-like they who wear her
Strong on the shores that bear her,
Our wild and lovely rose.
The Atlantic fences Calve on all sides. The whole island is a single farm of less than two hundred acres, with a good proportion of arable to rough grazing. Blackfaced sheep cropped right to the edge of the seaweed, and in the spring there was an extra task of shepherding to be done with a constant patrol of the shore rocks, where the unsteady new lambs often fell and got wedged, or dropped into the sea. Once, during a southeasterly gale, Janet jumped in after a week-old lamb which had lost its footing and was swimming feebly in the wrong direction. She was over the shoulders in the chopping breakers before she caught up with him and bore him to the shore.
The Calve sheep and cattle soon lost their young curiosity and gave up investigating the nature of the sea. The dairy cows lived well off the salty grass, and we were at the cutting of ample hay for their winter needs. The hens scraped unobtrusively, and the duc
ks led their small flotillas up and down the strait of water which parts Calve from Mull. The sheep-dogs, instead of patrolling the usual farm road on the wait for strangers, barked any arrivals in to land at the jetty. They were sheep-dogs only, for the herding of the cows was the exclusive duty of a proud little Cairn bitch, who ‘speaks only Gaelic’, as we were told when we met her first. She had an insistent yap, but she reserved it for the cows, and for the collies who dared to intervene in her employment. There was a bull, and three horses.
One other creature on the domestic roll of the farm was an unseen, referred to as ‘Miss Campbell’, for whom steaming heaps of food were frequently carried behind the byre. We heard of her first when scraps and potato-peelings were being piled up after dinner. ‘That’s for Miss Campbell’, we were told without a twinkle; and when we failed to understand, the thing ceased to be the reference of normal usage and became a jest for them again, after years of use and wont. We tried to guess, and failed, not knowing that ‘Miss Campbell’ had quotation marks round her name. At last we were allowed to carry her pail, and were led merrily to meet her, behind the byre, to where her wet flat nose snuffled eagerly at the lintel of her sty door.
Calve Island: this view from above Tobermory shows wooded Aros in Mull on the right, and the mainland hills of Morvern away on the left. The farmhouse of Calve is on the island at a point below the lowest part of the far horizon.
The Canoe Boys Page 12