by Tony Parsons
Angus retraced his route and travelled back to Dalmally and then by way of Taynuilt and Connel he came to the picturesque town of Oban. From Oban he crossed to the island of Mull and traversed it to reach Fionphort, at its western tip. Just across the Sound was Iona, the tiny island Angus reached by boat. What Catriona read of her father’s stay on Iona was taken from the diary she had given him. Nothing he had ever written approached in any way what he wrote on this small island.
What was it about the island of Iona, only three-and-a-half miles long and one-and-a-half miles wide, that exerted an almost mystical influence on so phlegmatic a man as Angus Campbell? Certainly he was, and always had been, a regular churchgoer and a pillar of his church. He didn’t go about promoting himself as a Christian, but he was a better Christian than most people. Something had happened to deepen his conviction when he visited Glastonbury, and Angus now sought reassurance that this really meant something. Other than visiting the Holy places in Israel, where better to find reassurance than Iona. For a Scot, Iona was the holiest place in the country, and a place of pilgrimage for hundreds of years. That it was in his own county, Argyllshire, added to the island’s significance.
Iona, in the Inner Hebrides, was chosen by St Columba as the site of his first monastery. St Columba and some of his followers came to Iona from Ireland in AD 563. Iona became the early centre of Celtic Christianity – indeed, the cradle of Christianity for Scotland. The monastery St Columba founded was burned by marauding Danes in the ninth century, and a Benedictine monastery was established in 1203. The cathedral of St Mary, erected on the site of St Columba’s first monastery, dates from about this period. The reverence held for this holy island is reflected in the fact that the cemetery of St Oran’s Chapel, the island’s most ancient building, contains the graves of something like fifty Scottish kings, including Duncan and Macbeth, and is also the burial site of kings of Ireland, France and Norway. The crosses and other remains bear witness to what was built here and its antiquity.
Angus’s diary recorded that it was to the Cathedral Church that he went first. He seemed to have been befriended by a local fisherman or farmer, lived frugally on bread, fish and cheese, and sat for many hours in solitude at the holy places. It was all so unlike the Angus Campbell Catriona and David knew as to be almost unbelievable.
I am sitting beside a shell-strewn beach on the western side of Iona. A fresh breeze is blowing from the west, from the vast Atlantic Ocean above Ireland. Above me the gulls are wheeling and screaming and some are skimming the water for tiny fish.
As I sit here I ask myself why did St Columba come here? Why did he choose this small, poor island of all the islands he could have chosen? He would have come past Islay and Colonsay, and to the north of Iona there is Tiree and Coll and Eigg and Rum, not to mention Skye, Lewis and Harris. Was this the only island available to St Columba and his followers? Why not Mull, which lies across the Sound? Did the McLeans deny the Irish entry to Mull? Were the McLeans here at that time?
This must have been a very different coast when St Columba came to Iona. Intrepid Irish settlers had moved into Scotland, some through what is now Argyllshire and, perhaps, because of the respect held for monks in Ireland, where a burgeoning monastic system developed in the sixth century. This Irish monasticism led to missionaries going forth to Scotland, the north of England and central Europe. (You can see, Catriona, that I studied this matter before I left Inverlochy.) In those early years the Scottish kingdom was known as Dalriada. Some centuries later the Norsemen raided this coast. They were pagans, and had no respect for symbols of the Christian faith. They burned St Columba’s monastery to the ground in the ninth century.
Although St Columba came to Iona following an internecine ecclesiastical dispute, I wondered whether he came here by chance or by some Divine guidance. I confess that it is the possibility of the latter that has drawn me to this holy place. As my days draw in, I feel the need to ‘believe’ in a stronger, fuller way.
A long time ago, nearly 2000 years ago, something extraordinary happened that caused men and women throughout the ages to pass on the message of Christianity. Many died for their belief, but there were always more to follow them and to take Christ’s message throughout the world. Iona is special to me, Catriona, because this is where Christianity began in Scotland; in my own shire of Argyll, which was Dalriada.
Perhaps you will say that I am an old man in my dotage but this pilgrimage is important to me. I have the strange feeling that I was meant to come here. It isn’t something I can put a finger on, but it is there. If it is only imagination and I find nothing, this trip shall not have been wasted because I feel very much at peace in this place. It is as if something or someone I cannot see is close to me.
As Catriona read through these evocative and personal passages she understood why her father had such a strong desire to travel to Iona.
There was a fine sea mist early and then it cleared and the sun shone between the clouds. I went to the old cemetery at St Oran’s and walked from grave to grave. This was the burial place of kings, Catriona; a great many kings. They must have considered it a very special place to want to be buried here.
I walked further and came to an old cross, one of several left from the very early days. Then I walked up a slight rise and sat down. The sun had been obscured by a cloud and then the cloud passed and it shone again. There was a strange light in the sky. It was as if a golden ladder had reached down to the sea off Iona. Then there was a great rushing sound something similar to our willy-willies. When it passed there was absolute silence. Absolute. I got to my feet and looked about because I feared some sort of wind storm. But there was nothing like that. Then the golden ladder of light began to dissipate. When it had disappeared, and only then, I heard the gulls screaming and everything was as it had been. I felt curiously light and free of the tiredness that plagued me. I knew then that I had been right to come to this holy place.
I am leaving Iona now and I shall not see it again. There is something wonderful here and I urge you and David to visit Iona and to stand where I now stand, on the rise above the old cross, and find it for yourselves.
What Angus didn’t write in the diary was that the pains in his chest were worrying him considerably. On the way to Iona he had called on a distant medico cousin who was also a Campbell. Ian Campbell had frowned when he tested his heart. ‘It’s not pills you’ll be wanting but an operation, Angus.’
‘Just give me something to stop the pains, Ian. I’ve another call I must make before I can think of an operation,’ Angus said. Duncan, a cousin from Inveraray, had told Angus about a good young handler by Loch Etive, and Angus intended to pay him a visit on his return from Iona.
Ian Campbell shook his head. ‘You should be going straight into hospital, I can’t think what your family was about letting you come all this way in your condition.’
‘They didn’t know, Ian,’ the old man confessed.
So Angus was now on his way to see Willie Cameron, who owned a small farm and was a rising sheepdog handler. A couple of centuries ago the Camerons and the Campbells had been bitter enemies, but all that was long ago.
It took Angus a little while to find Willie Cameron. He asked first at Inveresragen and was directed to the south side of the loch. He drove up a secondary road and found Willie close by the sleepy village of Glennoe. The north-west Highlands rose behind Willie’s property, with Beinn Eunaich at the head of Glen Liver and Glen Noe.
Willie was a tall, lean man in his mid-thirties. He had inherited his farm and had been to an agricultural college before he took it over. His wife Jean was dark-haired like Willie, a buxom young woman with flashing brown eyes who seemed not at all overcome to be entertaining a landed gentleman from Australia. They talked beside a warm, crackling fire, the conversation mostly about dogs. Willie had seen several of the dogs purchased by Americans but he didn’t yet have the reputation to attract international buyers. He didn’t keep a big lot of sheep because he ran catt
le, too.
By and by Angus and Willie left the comfort of the house and walked down to the barn where Willie kept his dogs. They were tied out on sunny days and kept inside in bad weather and at night. There was an old bitch, a retired male, a younger male and a leggy young bitch. Willie had won a trial or two with the younger male and obviously had a great regard for him. Glen was a fairly conventional type of border collie, black and white with medium coat and semi-erect ears. Willie cast him around half-a-dozen black-faced ewes across the burn and brought them up by the house. Willie demonstrated his flank commands, which Glen executed perfectly. He was a clapper, going down naturally while he held his sheep. When Willie called him in, Glen showed solid force and moved the ewes to a gate. The dog did everything Willie asked of him but he did it in a mechanical kind of way.
‘You’ve got nice handle on him, Willie,’ Angus admired.
‘Aye, he’s not too bad.’
‘The leggy bitch. What is she?’ Angus asked.
‘Ooch now, she’s a bit lively yet. I’ve not had her at a trial, you ken,’ Willie said.
They walked back to the outside of the barn where Angus had a long look at the young bitch. She was mostly black and tan with very little white about her, and not much coat either. One ear was erect, and one half so. It transpired that she was bred from Willie’s old bitch Nan by a dog somewhere up by Ullapool. This was a noted dog in the area and being used because he wasn’t related to Cap or any of the other J. M. Wilson dogs.
‘She’s hardly a typical border collie, Willie,’ Angus suggested.
‘The dog is the same colour, Mr Campbell.’
Angus began to get a little bit excited. Up north and almost black and tan. Could these be Rutherford-strain dogs?
‘Do you know anything much about the breeding of the sire, Willie?’ Angus asked.
‘Only that the family has had the same dogs for a long time. They say that Ross can do anything with sheep. I saw him work and I can well believe it.’
‘Will you let me see Meg work?’ Angus asked.
‘I’ve not put much command on her. I thought perhaps a litter would do her good. She’s a wee bit fast and lively, as I said.’
‘No matter. I’d like to see her work,’ Angus said.
Willie and Angus walked down to the burn from where he cast Meg up a hill where half-a-dozen Cheviot-cross sheep were grazing. She brought them down a little fast because they were inclined to run more than the black-faced sheep Willie had used for Glen. Sheep and dog splashed across the burn and Meg covered them well. When they turned to break back she threw out nicely and blocked them. Angus felt his pulse quicken. At the gate of the yard Meg’s holding ability was beautifully demonstrated. Angus thought of Clancy and his magic footwork. This bitch wasn’t Clancy and might never be as good as him, but she was the most natural-moving border collie bitch he had ever seen. Her footwork was kelpie-like and, in fact, she worked more like a kelpie than a border collie.
‘Can I see her pedigree, Willie?’ Angus asked when Meg was tied up.
They went back to the house where Willie dug out Meg’s pedigree and handed it to Angus. Many familiar names were featured on the dam’s side but the dogs on the sire’s line were unknown to him.
‘Will you sell me the bitch, Willie?’
Willie was temporarily taken aback. He had expected Angus to ask for Glen and had been trying to come up with a price for him.
‘Meg is not ready to trial. She’s too lively yet,’ Willie said.
‘I don’t want her for trial work. We’ve got trial dogs back home. Meg is the kind of bitch that would suit our conditions.’ Angus said. The dopey sheep here didn’t do the bitch justice. Angus could see what kind of bitch Meg would make in his range country. Moreover, he reckoned David would approve of this bitch.
‘Well now, I would like to have her going a wee bit better but if you think she’ll suit you, I’ll let you have her,’ Willie said.
‘Put a price on her, Willie,’ Angus said enthusiastically.
‘She’s not a finished dog, not much more than started really, so I couldn’t put a big price on her,’ Willie said.
‘Forget price for the moment. I see you’ve got a vehicle. Would you be prepared to run her down to London – or at least to somewhere on the outskirts? The exporting firm I’ve used previously operates from there. I’ll pay you well to do it.’
Willie looked at his wife who gave a slight nod. ‘I could do that, Mr Campbell.’
Angus nodded. ‘Thank you, I’ll give you ten thousand dollars for Meg, which will include expenses. I’m not sure what the sterling conversion is but it’s probably between four and five thousand pounds. Will that be satisfactory?’
Willie had been going to ask two thousand pounds for the bitch so he was rendered temporarily speechless. He had never thought to get anything like that price for a dog. He knew that Americans were paying prices of that order for class dogs but it was usually from well-established handlers.
‘That would be very satisfactory, Mr Campbell.’ He would have sold Glen for five thousand pounds but now he could keep Glen and have the cash into the bargain. The money for Meg would come in very handy.
Angus gave him all the details about the London exporters, drew a cheque on the Bank of Scotland and the two men shook hands on the deal. Willie assured him that Meg was fully vaccinated and he would worm her before he took her to London. They celebrated the deal with a lunch of roast mutton and potatoes, and shortly after Angus left for Loch Awe.
‘Well, I never,’ Willie said to Jean as they stood at the gate and watched the van drive up the road beside the burn.
‘What a bonny man, Willie. An old man but a bonny old man. He sure knew what he wanted,’ Jean Cameron observed.
‘He certainly saw something in Meg that he liked, Jean,’ Willie agreed.
Angus knew that he had paid more for Meg than she was probably worth right now. It was the most he had ever paid for a dog, but Meg would be the last and he reckoned Stuart would get a lot out of her. What did money matter now, anyway? This was a surprising admission for Angus because he had always been a canny man with a dollar. Stuart and Catriona wouldn’t miss that amount of money. He would dearly like to know David’s reaction when he saw Meg in action, but guessed it would be favourable.
The first pains of the day hit Angus about Loch Awe. He made a cup of tea and had a pill with it but there was a solid pain in his chest that he didn’t like. He was making for the castle on Loch Fyne, and there his relations would look after him and get him into hospital for the operation. He drove on to the A819 that took him directly southwards to Inveraray. Through Inveraray Angus drove on to the A83. He was very tired. He knew that not far in to the left was Rob Roy’s house, which he had never seen.
It was late in the evening when the big pain hit him. His chest felt as if it would explode. Calmly and methodically he ran the campervan off the road and with his last strength turned off the ignition and put on the brake. All around him was a white light, which illuminated the gathering darkness. Angus Hector Campbell’s spirit had returned to the land of his forefathers.
It was the sharp-eyed local vet, Alisdair Grant, on an early-morning round to look at a sick cow, who spotted the figure slumped over the steering wheel. Alisdair opened the van’s door and felt for a pulse. There was none. He called Inveraray police station on his mobile phone and then walked back to his car to await the law. The van and ambulance arrived inside the hour. The senior officer brought the diary across to Alisdair.
‘Did you go through this?’ he asked.
Alisdair shook his head. ‘I touched nothing except the man’s pulse. Then I called you.’
‘This address in the front of the diary, it’s a Mrs Catriona MacLeod, of High Peaks, Merriwa, New South Wales. There’s a phone number too. Do you ken the mon?’
‘No. That’s an Australian address. I’d say by the van that he’s an Australian tourist. An old tourist, but a tourist nevertheless,’
Alisdair said.
The officer nodded. ‘Very likely. But a tourist with a true Scottish name and travelling in Campbell country. A few phonecalls should sort this out. You can go to your sick cow now. We won’t need you any more.’
The vet walked across to his car and then stopped and turned to look at the van. ‘I think you’ll find that he had a massive heart attack. I’m wondering if the mon came home to die,’ he said.
The senior officer rubbed his jaw as he looked across to where the vet stood. ‘A Campbell dead in Campbell country. It’s a queer thing,’ he agreed.
David, Catriona and Moira were having dinner back at High Peaks when the phone rang. David got up to answer it. Phonecalls during dinner were not unusual. He received a lot of evening enquiries for rams and bulls and even now, for dogs and horses. People on the land were usually out all day and waited for the evening to make calls.
‘Is that the right number for a Mrs Catriona MacLeod?’ the Scottish voice enquired.
‘It is. I’m her husband. Can I help you?’ The sound of the Scottish accent had sent David’s alarm bells ringing.
He listened carefully as the officer in Inveraray gave him the news about Angus. ‘I’ll tell her. Thank you. Give me your number so we can get back to you.’
He made a note of the number and then put the phone down.
‘What is it, darling?’ Catriona asked.
There was no easy way to break the news to Catriona gently. ‘I’m sorry, Cat – it’s not good news. Angus was found dead in his van just off the road beside Loch Fyne. He was on his way back to the castle. It appears that he had a heart attack.’
He went to her but she was very brave. ‘I knew we would never see Daddy again.’
‘Would you like me to ring Stuart?’ he asked.
‘It’s my place to do that, darling,’ she said calmly.
David and Moira stood beside her while she rang her brother and gave him the news. This was the prelude to a great deal of activity associated with bringing Angus Campbell home. While it would not have been inappropriate to bury Angus in Scotland, his will gave instructions that if he should die overseas, he was to be brought back and buried beside Jane. This was one of the changes to his will that Angus had made before he left Australia.