Ian loved Glasgow: the trams and clattering traffic, bars on every corner, shops right on your doorstep with everything you could possibly want, street vendors selling the evening newspaper, the charm of the people, the smell wafting up from the subway entrance, the sheer exuberant life of the city. Some things he didn’t like so much. His father had changed a lot. He was drinking too much and was moody, swore a lot and left the flat in a constant mess which Ian, a lover of order and tidiness, had to clean up. Other times they had fun together especially at the Partick Thistle games. But this wasn’t the father he remembered from infancy, the rock of the family that everyone could lean on. Nowadays he was leaning on Ian and grumpy with it.
The next spring, 1930, Thistle were at a peak, pushing Rangers hard for the SFA Cup. The last time they had won the cup was in 1921 and tension was mounting as the quarter and semi finals played out. Then came the final itself against Rangers at Ibrox across the river. Impossible to resist, Ian invited his father to the game and he accepted. On the day, however, there seemed to be some liaison between his father and a woman so Ian went alone to the big match. What a game! Tension till the last whistle. But, when it blew, it was Rangers who walked away with the cup. Most of Glasgow seemed to be there and, as the crowd poured out, all the trams were filling up the moment they stopped. Ian went for the subway.
There were crowds in the subway too but each train took two or three hundred, crammed in, with standing room only. Normally from Ibrox to home was four stops, Govan on the south side then under the River Clyde to Partick, Kelvinhall and then Hillhead on Byres Road just a hundred yards or so from the flat. Today Ian decided to get off at Partick and walk the rest. A few people got off at Govan and then down they went under the river.
“Crack! Puff! “ All the lights went out and then a long whining clickety-click as the train came slowly to a halt. Everybody stayed still and quiet, and then slowly the chatter rose to a crescendo in the silent train. Nobody knew what to do. Some suggested jumping from the train but what if another train came along. Glasgow subway was and still is just one continuous circle of about six miles of double track, two parallel circles going opposite directions. It was built in 1896 and served the city well. The trains just went round and round forever. Power cuts like this didn’t happen very often.
A subway official arrived with a lantern. It seemed that Partick station was the nearest and the other trains were all stopped. Everybody got off the train and had to walk about half a mile along the damp, dark, narrow tunnel. Glasgow Herald and Evening News reporters were waiting on the Partick side to catch the drama of the event. Ian punted himself up out of the track and walked quickly out of the station into the fresh night air.
The next week Al Jolson’s “Mammy” came to Glasgow. This was fourth in his series of crowd pulling films. Just two years before his “Jazz Singer” was the first commercial talking movie and it had taken the world by storm. Now Ian had the chance to go and see his latest incredible music show on screen.
“I’d walk a million miles for one of your smiles, my Ma-a-am-m-y”
At twenty-four years of age Ian Black sat in the cinema with tears in his eyes. He too would walk quite a few miles for one of his Mammy’s smiles but it wasn’t just that. Al Jolson was the greatest singer he’d ever heard. He sat there in the cinema enthralled by the singing, the music, and the magic of all these people coming alive on screen.
“The sun shines east. The sun shines west.
But I know where the sun shines best.
Oh! Ma-a-a-a-m-m-y!”
He left the cinema singing.
He went back to see Partick Thistle the next week but it wasn’t the same as the thrill of the cup final. The football season ended in anti-climax and summer was spent enjoying the parks and the Botanic Gardens. One Sunday he took a tram up to the city centre and the Pier at the Broomielaw. Here MacBrayne’s Steam-shipping Company operated a number of ferry vessels that went down the Clyde and out to the Hebrides. The Saint Columba went down by the towns of the Clyde like Gourock, Greenock and Tignabruich and to the Islands of Bute and Arran. The ship took hours to chug down as far as Arran. It was a pleasant trip but by the time Ian got there it was time to catch the next boat back to Glasgow. On the return trip they had a band and singer on board and Ian learned a new favourite song, “Sweet Rothesay Bay”.
That winter the Great Depression brought chill winds across the Atlantic. The demand for military vessels was still in decline from the pacifist mood of the twenties and with the American economy in tatters there was no immediate need for transatlantic liners. The shipyards started to lay off workers, last in first out. Ian was out of a job. With no money in his pocket to go to the games, Thistle lost some of their glitter. The shops, that a year before had such magic appeal, just rubbed salt in raw wounds. Father’s answer was to drink more. He, for the moment, still had a tentative job. Before all his money was gone Ian bought a train ticket back home to Appin. He decided that deep down he didn’t really belong to Glasgow; best leave now and remember it with affection. He said his goodbyes to his father and to Donnie and Bessie who now had their first son then took the train back up west.
9. THE BARCALDINE LADS
Barcaldine, Argyll, 1931-36
Back in Argyll Ian felt he was home. He moved back in with his cousin and went in search of work. He took his bicycle out of storage, pumped up the tyres, and set off for Barcaldine to Letterwalton to see Aunt Sarah. Maybe she would know of a job that was going. She was pleased to see him and asked all about her brother Donald and nephew Bobby and how was Donnie and his new wife and son.
As to the job hunt she suggested he might try the Forestry Commission. This government commission had been set up with several objectives in mind. First they wanted to make Britain less dependent on other countries for timber, secondly they desperately wanted to reduce unemployment and most importantly right at the moment was the need to redevelop diminishing rural economies like the Scottish Highlands. Enormous tracts of land had been bought and whole mountainsides drained and planted mostly with coniferous trees. It seemed that nearly half of Argyllshire was ripe for forestation. More recently there was increasing demand for the exploitation of old standing forests to provide wooden sleepers for rail track and telegraph poles for the rapid expansion of the telephone network. Barcaldine forest had just been started and lots of local lads were now working in forestry.
Back on his bike Ian went in search of Willie Fairbairn, the young forester in charge of the local project.
“I’m afraid just about all the posts are filled,” he told Ian apologetically, “but I’ll tell you what. I need a handyman if you think you’d be any good at that. We have lots of tools to maintain, fences and huts to build and things like that and also a bit of trapping. Every time we plant a new section the rabbits think it’s breakfast time. What do you think?”
“That sounds just about perfect. When do I start?”
“Next week if you like. Where are you staying?”
“I’m in Appin but I’m sure my aunt in Letterwalton will take me in for a while.”
“Well,” thought the forester, “one of your first jobs will be helping build two houses at Achacha. You know? They’re made of corrugated iron, not very big and they can build two semi-detached in a couple of weeks. Duncan Ferguson and his sister are getting one but the other one is available if you want to rent your own place.”
Ian smiled. A few days ago he was in the thronging midst of Glasgow. Now he was being offered a quiet little cottage just for himself in the back of beyond. Yes. Maybe that was more like the real Ian Black; the quiet recluse. He’d loved his time as a shepherd and now here was a chance to be himself but near enough to the friends and places that he knew. Glasgow was just a train journey if he felt the need for some footballing excitement. Achacha was just a mile or so from his aunt’s house.
“Alright!” he decided, “I’ll take it.”
Barcaldine is a small, scattered village o
n the southern shores of Loch Creran where it joins the start of Loch Linnhe. Between the two lochs lies the village of Appin so that Barcaldine forest overlooks the loch and then Port Appin where Ian grew up. To the west lie the islands of Lismore, Mull and the peninsula of Morvern. The Mainland area from Loch Etive to Ballachulish at the top of Loch Linnhe has always been one big scattered community, historically disputed between Stewarts and Campbells. At the start of the 20 century the coastal villages were all linked by the formation of the Ballachulish Branch of the West Highland railway line. Starting at Connel Ferry it crossed the new bridge to North Connel then Benderloch, Barcaldine, Creagan, Appin, Duror, Kentallen, Ballachulish Ferry and ended at the small town of Ballachulish.
Fifty years before the Jacobite Rebellion of 1745 the Stewarts started exploiting a slate quarry at Ballachulish. Two hundred years later a rail link was decided upon and constructed to extract the slate for house building around Glasgow. All the smaller villages benefited from the new rail line and very quickly formed into one large rural community. Barcaldine merited a goods station mostly for timber extraction and there was a “halt” for passengers, just a wooden footbridge and platform. Ian’s new home was in the forest area about a mile from the train halt.
Ian Black was back in his natural habitat, old Argyll. Fish in the sea and fish in the mountain streams. Red deer in the mountain glens and roe deer in the lower woodlands. Golden eagles in the rocky crags and seals and otters playing in the rocky pools of the loch shores. Trees considered something worthy of respect and once cut to be moulded lovingly into something useful and replaced by two or three young saplings. He settled back in easily to the forest life. Glasgow’s city smells had character; Barcaldine’s forest smells had soul.
In the next few years the skills he had learned were put to good use. He made wooden huts, fences and wooden stiles to cross the fences, bridges to cross little streams, gates to keep the animals in check. He repaired tools, sharpened tools and often made tools. He fashioned snares to trap the rabbits and kept the neighbourhood fed with rabbit stew. Woodwork, metalwork, leatherwork, design, make and mend. Behind his house he hewed out a garden from the course land and produced flowers and vegetables that astounded his friends. And friends he had in good supply. He became well known and well liked despite his hermit lifestyle. He retained his love of music and sport although he never participated deeply in either.
In April 1933 he was “official guide” when a gang of the forest lads descended on Glasgow to see the Scotland-England football international. They persuaded Willie Fairbairn to give them Saturday morning off and all dressed up in their Sunday best they took the train to Glasgow Queen Street and then a tram to Hamden Park. Scotland won! McRory scored! Hamden roared! They got back to the station in time for the last train to Oban with some whisky and beer for a “dram” on the way home. A day that these Highland lads would never forget.
In the back end of the same year they decided that Barcaldine ought to have a shinty team and think about competing in the Camanachd Cup. Shinty is a hard man’s sport played in the Scottish Highlands. It is like hockey but instead of a puck there is a hard leather coated ball and the head of the stick is triangular and thicker so that the ball can be struck in both directions. In most games the opponent is struck more often than the ball and the players always need good leg protection. They also need a good stick and being a minority sport they are not easy to come by. The shinty stick is called a caman, which in Gaelic means simply curved stick. The Camanachd Association controls the game and its various leagues but the real prize each year is the Camanachd Cup. Ballachulish had a good team so why not Barcaldine.
They had a few sticks, borrowed a couple and Ian Black and his friend Hugh MacFarlane volunteered to make the rest. Hugh’s sticks broke in the first practice match but Ian had chosen his wood well and his sticks went on to enjoy many years of use. Good camans are made from hickory but Ian climbed the glens looking for young ash trees that curved out from between the rocks. The team never quite achieved Camanachd Cup level but they had some good fun.
The next year they settled on an easier sport. A tug-o-war team was assembled and in June they took part in the Oban Highland games. They took second last place but Oban had an adequate number of bars to commiserate their less than outstanding performance.
In the winter of 1935 someone suggested that dancing might be a more fruitful pastime. Lots of families had an accordion or fiddle in the house so they decided to hold a Friday night dance and take turns playing the music. It was a success and some thought was given to hiring more professional players. A number of Scottish country-dance bands were starting up and dances were becoming popular in all the villages. The Barcaldine lads took turns to be responsible for hiring a band and taking money at the door to pay the band.
Ian’s turn came but he didn’t know of any band that hadn’t played already. The dance was to be the following Friday and he still didn’t have a band booked. A new cinema had just opened in Oban and on the Saturday of the week before the dance Ian went to see the latest film offering. When he came out of the cinema there were two tramps playing for money on the street. They were playing a Highland Schottische and they were good. Just as he was about to throw a coin in their hat he had an idea.
“How would you two like to play at a dance in Barcaldine on Friday night?”
“Aw, naw, naw, naw, friend. We’re no’ good enough for that,” replied the fiddler.
“You sound good enough for me. I’ll tell you what. Why don’t you come and play a few dances and then you can put your hat round.”
“Well, ah don’t know, maybe. What d’you think Willie?”
Willie the accordionist seemed quite happy with the proposal.
“OK” said Ian, “Be in the hall in Barcaldine at seven o’clock on Friday.”
During the week, each time Ian was asked about the band, he just said it was booked and one of the best he’d heard. On Friday evening at seven a sizeable crowd had gathered ready to dance. The two tramps appeared with their instruments as promised.
“Gentlemen take your partners for a Highland Schottische,” bellowed the accordionist above the chatter of the crowd.
Several gentlemen took their partners and the “band” started to play. There were nods of approval and some of the boys complemented Ian on his choice of band. The dance finished and everybody waited expectantly for the next offering. The two instrumentalists seemed to have a minor disagreement and then the violinist stepped forward to announce the next dance.
“Gentlemen take your partners please…” he began hesitantly.
The men were warmed up ready for an Eightsome Reel while the ladies would have preferred a Scottish Waltz.
He cleared his throat and started again. “Gentlemen take your partners for a Highland Schottische.”
The music was good so the dancers of Barcaldine obliged with another round of the Schottische but when the third dance was called again the same they pounced on Ian Black.
“Where the hell did you get these two from, Ian?” asked Shonan MacDonald.
Ian didn’t answer. He went for his two players. “You’ll need to play something else, a waltz or something.”
“But we only do one set of tunes. We can’t do a waltz or anything. We practiced these for playing on the street and everybody’s happy with them.”
“Well, leave me your instruments and go round with your hat.”
By now some people realised what was happening and like good Highland folk they filled the tramps’ hats generously. A young dark haired man stepped forward. He shook hands with Ian.
“My name’s Calum,” he said, “you’ll be needing someone to take over the box,” referring to the accordion.
“Aye, can you play?”
“I can play a few tunes,” answered Calum.
“Well, come on. We’ll give it a try.” Ian turned to the expectant crowd. “Gentlemen take your partners for a Gay Gordons.”
With
Ian on the fiddle and Calum on the “box” they managed to get through the evening, greatly helped by a couple of “drams” from the half-bottle in Calum’s jacket pocket.
“So who are you, Calum?” asked Ian once they’d played the last waltz, “I’m sure I’ve seen you before but you’re not from Barcaldine.”
“Ach, well, more or less. I’m from Benderloch, Calum MacKenzie. You probably know my brother George MacKenzie. He’s with the forestry, in charge of cutting out the trees for telegraph poles. I’m with the telephone company putting in the lines.”
“George? Aye, everybody knows George. Last year he took out the trees for telephone poles and sent the tops up to Glasgow to sell for Christmas trees. His family had a nice Christmas.”
“Aye. That’s George. Listen, you’ll need to come home some time for a ceilidh. What’s your name, by the way?”
“Ian Black. I’m from Appin but I’m staying now at Achacha.”
“Oidche mhath, Ian. We’ll meet up again sometime.”
They met a few times in the next couple of years and George moved with his family to live just down the road from Ian but the ceilidh in Calum’s home at Baravullin, Benderloch didn’t take place for a couple of years.
Baravullin in Benderloch
10. I’LL DANCE AT YOUR WEDDING
Benderloch, June 1937
Benderloch is the last village in the Great Glen on the shores of Lorne just before it opens out towards the sea at Oban. Like most Highland villages it is difficult to say where it starts and where it ends. On some maps it shows as Ledaig and on others it is a wispy creature that lies between Barcaldine and Ardchattan. Where one village stops and the other begins, is known only to the locals. But everyone around knows Trallee Bay, a beautiful sandy cove in an otherwise rocky coastline. About two hundred yards from Trallee is an old stone cottage called Baravullin. For half a century this was the home of the MacKenzie family; Donald the father was a postman and his wife Jessie, the mother of eight young MacKenzies, helped Donald tend the small croft that was attached to the house.
Across the Bridge Page 6