But this was quite different. Magnificent to look at, maybe, but dangerous to the people fighting the fire and lethal to sheep caught in corries with flames all around them. And for much of the island’s grazing to be destroyed could have serious economic effects.
For a few moments, we were mesmerised by the spectacle, viewed from our lofty perch, but speedily realised that we should be over there helping. Luckily, we always kept wellies in the vehicle, so we changed from our town shoes, pulling on extra sweaters, and were just setting off on foot when we were startled by the blast of a klaxon. The island’s elderly fire engine lumbered past, travelling at a protesting 20 miles an hour. Long ago, the islanders had realised that they could not rely on a swift response to a 999 call and were apt to tackle any fire without recourse to the fire service at all. But this was a major conflagration that needed all the help available. The monstrous vehicle, which might once have been red, descended the hill with its brakes squealing and grinding. I could see six men packed into the cab.
As we followed on foot, I became aware of the rare sight of a shining, frozen Loch Annan surrounded by flames. The icy surface reflected the pink and grey clouds of smoke and the glowing hills, while the contrast between the silver loch and the brilliant colours of the roaring flames was spectacular.
The firemen were wrestling with hoses and pumps. Loch Annan would provide plenty of water now that the surface ice had been broken: some of the crofters had been wielding pickaxes. Then, to our utter amazement, we saw the factor’s Land Rover crossing the loch towards the opposite hills – on the ice! I held my breath. How did Richard know that the ice was thick enough to take the weight of a Land Rover? Much later, when I asked him, he shrugged and said nonchalantly, ‘I just hoped!’ Crazy man! But he had a small generator and was trailing a hose to the inaccessible side of the loch so that a fireman, already in position, could direct the flow to the more remote areas of the fire.
As soon as we approached, we were given fire beaters – big floppy rubber flaps on stout poles – to whack the smouldering peaty ground. It had not really occurred to me that, just as peat burns in fireplaces so, after a dry, windy spell of weather, when the peaty ground is tinder dry, it would readily burn where it lay. The thought of the ground burning beneath your feet was horrific!
There was a modern house high in the hills near Loch Annan. No one knew how the absent owner had obtained planning permission to build out on common land but there it stood among the heather-clad, peaty soil. And now it was in grave danger. We, the family, were instructed to beat the hot, smouldering ground around ‘yon daft house’ and we were joined by many of the crofter women. Our feet became uncomfortable on the hot ground, and added to the smell of burning heather was a distinctly rubbery aroma. Our boots were beginning to melt!
About a dozen people saved ‘yon daft house’ from the fire that night while the sweating, exhausted men gradually subdued the flames on the hillsides. The firemen pumped water for hours to wherever they could reach, as did Richard until the generator broke down. Somewhere over the back of a hill a group of men lit a ‘back fire’ to provide a firebreak.
Gradually, the roaring and crackling subsided, the flames died to a pink glow and the fire was almost out. Men began to gather to consume vast quantities of tea, beer, water – anything that would quench their raging thirsts. They collapsed onto the ground, too tired to speak. Some of them had been there for six hours with no let-up in the filthy, backbreaking work. Many of the women, most of whom had been beating with us, dipped scarves into the loch where the ice had been smashed and attempted to wipe their smoke-grimed faces and hands.
It was midnight before it was decided that we should all go home. A number of men would be left behind to watch for any more outbreaks, due to the smouldering peat. The firemen rumbled off in a cloud of exhaust fumes and we started the long climb back to the Land Rover. We were black from head to toe and our boots had assumed an odd shape due to the heat. We were completely exhausted. We even had trouble climbing into the Land Rover and would still have to clean up before we could get to bed.
Surprisingly, after we had all showered and gathered by the Rayburn – we were too tired to light the fire – we felt refreshed.
After some hot soup, we all trailed upstairs to bed. But I was too tired to sleep and lay mulling over the night’s events and thinking about the future. Would the weather allow Beth and Paul to come for Christmas? How were Nick and Andy progressing at school? Their reports were due soon. I hoped my new relief nurse would like the island and the work enough to stay: she was very young. Were John and Joanna really enjoying the Papavray life? And there was their baby to look forward to. I was to be a grandmother next spring!
I wondered what else the following years might hold for us all as I finally fell asleep on that cold winter night in our Hebridean home.
EPILOGUE
Just a dream?
I shall go back there one day. One day before I die.
I want to be there for the first winter gale, to hear the boom of the sea as it thunders among jagged rocks and beats against granite cliffs, as it surges into dark caverns, rattles over pebbles or rushes to meet chattering burns as they plunge to their salty destiny. I must watch again those foaming green waves crashing loudly and incessantly on the shore, while the wind whips spindrift high into the air and the tiny fishing boats toss wildly in the restless water.
I can almost see the snow on Ben Criel, the ice on Loch Annan and the tall plumes of peat smoke rising from little white croft houses in the still frosty air. I want to smell again the heather and bog myrtle, feel soft summer rain on my face and watch the fierce fire of a setting sun as it paints the sky with orange, gold and crimson light, lending its mirrored glory to the sea and its surreal splendour to the shimmering slopes of distant mountains. Later, I would be left in the peace of the long Northern twilight, to dream of the days when we lived and loved and worked in this blessed place.
Will I ever again sit in a cottage kitchen and share a ‘cuppie’ with a crofter’s wife as I used to do? Or perhaps taste the oatmeal porridge that only Scots can cook to perfection? And talk once more with the dear, unique people who still live on that remote, rocky isle?
I wonder if I shall ever travel on the little steamer to the stone pier at Dalhavaig, or drive over high, undulating roads beside peat hags, or walk on the shore at Dhubaig, listening to stags roaring high in the hills. Shall I see the croft house in which we lived so long ago? Or hear skylarks heralding the spring or watch greylag geese as skein after skein comes home to Papavray? Perhaps it’s just a dream.
Once we had a different dream and that one came true. We spent many wonderful years in this Hebridean sanctuary. How long ago was it? So much has happened since those far off days, but a lasting love of Papavray and the music of memory beckon me back. But perhaps that is all that I will ever have: memories of that Hebridean island. At least I have those, and they will do for now.
Glossary
Ben or Bheinn a mountain
besom an irritating, unpleasant woman
bodach an old man
burn a small stream often fast-flowing and stony
byre a stone barn
cailleach an old woman (often wife), not necessarily derogatory
ceilidh (1) a neighbourly gathering in each other’s houses for food, drink and entertainment (amateur but often very accomplished) (2) a large, organised dance arranged for the tourists
Ciamar a tha Hello, how are you?
clootie dumpling a pudding made in a cloth (the cloot) and boiled. It contains flour, suet, dried fruit, oats and sugar
lum chimney
loch a lake – may be freshwater inland or sea loch
peat decomposed vegetable matter, laid down thousands of years ago, mainly in the acidic soil of Scotland, Ireland and other countries, dug for fuel (or gardens)
peat hag an area of peat bog which has been delineated for rental
sheiling rough shelter fo
r crofters on the high summer grazing.
strupak tea and a bite (and a gossip)
Tha gu math Fine, thanks. How are you?
The Island Nurse Page 26