He drew near. ‘What a wonderful day! It is good to be alive on such a day.’ A man after my own heart! We exchanged pleasantries and introduced ourselves. Father Peter MacAnally was from Southern Ireland, with a delightful accent to match. He was young, handsome and very tall, the soutane streamlining him even further. Looking at him, I could see how young women might fall for this forbidden fruit, and I wondered if he found this difficult.
Gesturing a request, he seated himself beside me and gazed out over the hills and the sea to the far mountains. A sigh escaped him.
‘This is wonderful! This is what I came for. I’m walking on several islands for charity. This is truly God’s country!’ He grinned rather sheepishly. ‘The charity bit is wearing this ridiculous outfit in order to be sponsored.’
‘What charity is that?’ I asked.
‘A local one for a small girl who was badly burned in a bomb attack on the border. She is going to need complete care for the rest of her life, and her parents have very little to offer being rather . . . um . . . mentally challenged, is the term, I believe.’ He sighed again. ‘I work in a very poor area of Dublin. All this is just fantastic.’ He made a wide sweep with his arm.
The distant black and purple mountains were so clear that the dark corries and jagged peaks seemed only a mile or two away. The crystal sea sparkled with moving golden light while the deep valleys below us drowsed in the blessed warmth of a crimson spring day.
I said, ‘It is all so clean and pure that it looks as though God finished making it all today and He has only just gone.’
Father Peter smiled and said, ‘Oh, no. He hasn’t gone. He is still here, all around us.’
I looked at my watch. The school car would soon be bringing Andy and another young scholar back from school to their homes in Dhubaig. Andrew would be ‘starving’ as usual. I invited Father Peter home for some refreshment, and we made our way towards my car on the distant brown ribbon of road. The peat hags were mercifully fairly dry or the anklehugging soutane would have become sodden with dark peaty mud. What a ridiculous requirement for sponsorship!
Father Peter and I climbed into my little car and set off across the high open moors that lean on the side of Ben Criel. This narrow lane beside the peat bogs was inclined to sink under the weight of moving vehicles and rise again after they had passed: it virtually floated on the boggy ground. We were used to it, but strangers to the island found it difficult to believe that the road would not sink altogether.
We had come to the point on the narrow road where it plunged downwards. Below us glittered the dark waters of Loch Annan, which contrived to look menacing even in brilliant sunshine. As we began the descent, I saw Father Peter clasp his hands tightly together, whether from dread or in prayer I could only guess.
‘Papavray!’ he said suddenly. ‘A strange name, is it not?’
‘Well, not really,’ I replied. ‘I think it means “priest isle”, so you should feel quite at home. “Papa” is an old Norse word for “priest”, I’m told. I don’t know how it strayed to the Hebrides; it is more suited to the Shetlands or even the Faeroes. But there is a legend about a hermit who came here in early Christian times and converted everyone.’
We reached Dhubaig and descended the track that led to our croft house. Father Peter paused in the ‘garden’ to admire the view of mountain and sea. ‘Garden’ was a polite term for our ‘small acre’ of grass, a few bushes, and some bedraggled potato plants. But the garden was still beautiful, with its burn bubbling through the wilderness and meandering its watery way to a tiny stony cascade before leaving our land to wander off towards the waiting sea.
A mackerel sky was developing, indicating the end of a beautiful afternoon. Before dark, the rain, borne on the wind, would fall with myriad sharp, painful, flint-like drops. We knew our capricious weather only too well.
Once inside, Father Peter tucked into clootie dumpling, which he appeared to enjoy enormously. Even George had been forced to admit that my dumpling now rivalled the expert baking of my more experienced neighbours.
Andrew came running across the croft from the school car, rushing to avoid the threatening storm. He exploded into the house, propelled by the bullying wind. His cheery greeting fizzled to a halt when he saw Father Peter sitting beside the fire. Even in the summer, we needed a fire in the evenings.
A little in awe of the black-robed figure, Andy recounted his day in a subdued tone and then startled me by saying, ‘There’s a new girl in my class.’
I had not heard of any recent arrivals on the island, and I already knew all the 14 or 15 island juniors as a result of my monthly health visits to the school.
‘Her name is Fiona. She’s English.’ The succinct information came in disjointed outbursts between mouthfuls of dumpling.
Andy continued, ‘Her mum and dad have taken Tin Cottage for a year.’
Another surprise, as Tin Cottage was usually only let to holidaymakers.
‘Her Dad’s a nature . . . um . . . nature . . . ist?’
Father Peter’s eyebrows nearly disappeared into his hair. Hastily I said, ‘Naturalist, perhaps?’
‘Well, flowers and bees and things. She’s a bit funny,’ Andy went on, munching happily.
‘How do you mean “funny”?’
‘Well, in the head, you know.’ And with that, we had to be content.
The storm was increasing: we could feel the buffeting of the wind on the stout walls and hear the thunderous sea crashing on the shore. The room was almost dark by 6 p.m., as restless Stygian clouds streamed across the sky.
George was away on one of the many east-coast fishing boats, testing the sonar equipment. This necessitated a short trip to sea.
Hesitantly, I asked Father Peter what his arrangements were for the night. To ask him to stay was out of the question with George away. I could just imagine the interest that would cause!
‘Oh,’ he said offhandedly, ‘I have a tent near Coiravaig. I was on my way back to it over the hills when I saw you.’
I stared in disbelief. ‘A tent! In this?’
‘Oh, it’s quite substantial. I’m not supposed to stay in inns or B&Bs. The sponsors would be most unhappy. I think they rather like the idea of their priest having to “slum it” in a tent. You see, I usually have a housekeeper to look after me.’
With a sigh, I settled for driving him the two miles to Coiravaig, taking a thermos of tea and some food. The tent was sturdy enough and had been pitched in a relatively sheltered spot, but . . . After inviting him for lunch the next day, I turned the car and drove home, thankful for the bright warm home with the crackling fire and pungent smell of peat smoke. It poured and blew all night, and in my wakeful moments I wondered how Father Peter was coping in that little tent.
Next morning dawned bright and brittle, pretending that it could do no wrong. But we knew that this sunny splendour would not last, for we could already see more rain clouds hiding behind the mountains. Although it was late spring, the pasture was still sparse, so one of my morning chores was to take hay to Sunshine, our Highland pony. We had bought her soon after our arrival on Papavray when we found how very inexpensive it was to rent a vast field near Dhubaig. Although no expert, I had always loved riding and I was keen for the boys to enjoy it too, but they seemed to prefer fishing. So Sunshine was not ridden as often as she should have been and frequently became naughty and difficult to control. But by this time, we all loved her and were resigned to her cantankerous ways. She was reluctant to embark on an outing and needed much encouragement to leave her field but always galloped back to it as soon as we turned for home. There was a bridge nearby made of wooden planks. Sunshine did not care for this bridge at all and preferred to avoid it altogether by plunging into the fast-flowing burn that ran beneath it, soaking the unfortunate rider. And yet she would ostentatiously avoid walking in puddles. I had decided some time ago that I had a lot to learn about ponies.
I approached the concrete shed near the house. Stored within it wa
s chicken feed, dog food, cat food, saddles, harnesses, multitudes of tools, and Sunshine’s hay. I opened the door.
There, curled up on the hay, wrapped in an old horse blanket, was Father Peter! The tent had blown away during the night.
TWENTY-ONE
Farewell to Chreileh
It was an exceptionally bright and calm day as I made my way to the surgery one morning in May. The grass was a vivid green as young shoots pushed their way through the cold soil; the thin bleating of new lambs could be heard and ewes gratefully gobbled their fill after the privations of winter.
Dr Mac was bustling about as I entered, which was most unusual. He was normally a man of measured step, serene countenance and calm speech.
‘Nurse, I have to get through surgery quickly this morning and you must do just the essentials with equal speed. We are to go to Chreileh.’
At the mention of that small remote island, my heart lurched and the terrible memory of Biddy and her plight came flooding back. Chrissie, who often came to Papavray to visit her sister, had kept me informed of all the preparations for the evacuation of the island, but, as with every venture involving the Hebridean seas, they had to wait for a calm day to get the old people, the remaining livestock, the furniture, and the crofting equipment off the exposed and inhospitable isle in a succession of small boats. It seemed that today was the day.
Dr Mac was telling me that we were needed to supervise the removal of the two infirm old ladies.
‘I’m told that Mrs Macintyre might need sedation; so far she has refused to be moved,’ he said.
‘Where are they all going?’ I asked.
‘Well, Angus and Chrissie and Donald and Dolleena will get cottages here on Papavray, near the castle, because the men are to work on the estate. The two old ladies will need care and assessment in the hospital and then they’ll go to the home on Rhuna. There is no one left to look after them now, as both families are abroad. The rest of the men are off to the mainland for work. It’s all very sad, but it has been inevitable ever since the whaling stopped and the fishing declined.’ He sighed. ‘The end of a way of life.’
The depopulation of the Hebridean islands began at the time of the notorious Highland Clearances, continued through two world wars and still went on today, as employment was easier to find on the mainland. When yet another family left, the crofters would say, ‘Ach, there’s one less light in the village.’
Here and there, however, there was a glimmer of hope as someone’s grandchildren took over a croft, or another family arrived to start a pottery or B&B or a shop. One of the ruined castles on Papavray was to be stabilised to house a rural-life museum. The building of the long-awaited airstrip and the resurgence of interest in the Gaelic language all helped to bring employment. We watched and hoped that the tentative regeneration would gain momentum. Looking back now, I realise that we were witnessing the beginning of a new and hopeful era, much of it based on tourism. Most of the Hebridean islands are now enjoying a degree of prosperity undreamed of when we first knew Papavray.
Dr Mac and I boarded one of the locally based fishing boats in Dalhavaig harbour for the long trip to Chreileh. Nearly 20 men and a large number of women were coming with us in a small flotilla of boats. It would take muscle and time to move all the paraphernalia of the lives of several families.
The pale sea sparkled in the sunshine and little white horses romped quietly in the gentle salty breeze. Contrasting with the turquoise sky, the grey and white wheeling seagulls were resting on the docile updraught. Oystercatchers, with their unique cry, were skimming the water, undeterred by all the activity. An Atlantic seal popped his head above the waves to see what all the commotion was about; with his bright, intelligent eyes and cheeky whiskers, he reminded me of a wet Labrador dog.
What a contrast this was to the conditions the last time we came to this rocky isle. I raised my face thankfully to the warm sun, but in spite of the beauty of the day and a certain thrill at being part of this drama I was sad, for I could imagine how the crofters would pine for this remote rock when it was left abandoned in the vastness of the North Atlantic.
At last we neared Chreileh. It contrived to look uninviting even in the sunshine, with its ruined croft houses and derelict sheds. The narrow channel to the old pier meant that the larger boats were forced to stand off until full tide, while the smaller clinker-built boats, manned mainly by crofters, came alongside.
I could see that the whole operation was going to be complicated and difficult, especially as I had spied two large Shire horses! What was the story behind the presence on the island of these two, I wondered? Croft work was invariably done by the sturdy Highland ponies, and it was the first time that I had seen Shires in the Hebrides.
A small knot of people was standing on the pier surrounded by boxes, bundles, crude crates of squawking chickens, and various pieces of furniture. Several collies were circling a small flock of sheep; two men were approaching, driving four cows and three very young calves. As the first boats approached the pier, there was a loud babble in both Gaelic and English as everyone voiced their own opinion as to how things should be done.
‘I’ll have half the sheeps in my boat, but Angus will need to take the rest,’ declared Johno, a bearded giant of a man.
The captain of one of the bigger boats was eyeing the Shires. ‘I’ll need to be taking those two, I’m thinkin. But how am I to get them onto the boat? Why did you not think to tell us about them, Douggy?’
‘Ach, I forgot.’
‘Forgot?’ The enraged captain blew his cheeks out. ‘How can anyone forget a coupla tons of horse?’
Things were not going well!
At the other end of the pier, the women were loading the smaller pieces of furniture and personal belongings onto Archie’s boat.
‘Enough, enough! ’Tis no the Queen Mary! I’ll be takin’ some of this lot out to Tammy’s boat. Then I’ll be back for more—if I don’t sink on the way.’ Laughing heartily at his own joke, Archie pulled on the rope and started his engine.
‘We’ll need to get Wally’s boat alongside. ’Tis the only hope for the horses.’ A worried-looking Douggy seemed, at last, to take in the difficulties. So long as a boat could get alongside the pier, some wide, sturdy planks (very sturdy planks) could be put in place (like a gangplank) and the calm, sure-footed beasts could be led onto the deck. But the larger vessels had deeper draughts and could not get in at the moment. The only hope was when the tide was full.
Dr Mac was watching the proceedings. ‘I think we’ll go and see our patients. I can’t imagine that things will move smoothly.’
Chrissie met us in the low doorway of an old so-called ‘black house’. ‘Mrs Macintyre is in here. She’s been hollering that bad I canna do anything with her, Doctor.’
We followed her into the dark, low-ceilinged room and had to wait for our eyes to accommodate to the gloom after the bright sunlight outside. In spite of the warm weather, and the imminent move, a peat fire burned in the crude fireplace and an incredibly old lady sat beside it. She was dressed in the style of some 60 years ago and, to my utter amazement, she was smoking a pipe!
‘Ciamar a tha!’ came the usual greeting.
‘Tha gu math!’ we replied, but as that was just about the extent of my Gaelic I left Dr Mac to do the talking while I persuaded the old lady to allow me to remove the pipe and peel off the many layers of clothing so that the doctor could examine her. All the time, she ranted loudly (presumably about the move) and Dr Mac answered quietly.
He straightened up. ‘She’s as sound as a bell. No problem at all. Just old age, I think.’
He turned to Chrissie. ‘How old is she?’
‘We were thinkin’ it must be a hundred and one or two. No one knows exactly, but we were tryin’ would we work it out the other day. She remembers things happening way back in 1872 and believes that she was about three or thereabouts. She had her son in 1886 at around fifteen, so . . .’
‘No birth certifica
te?’ I asked.
Chrissie shook her head. ‘Not many of the old folk have.’
As I dressed Mrs Macintyre, she became quiet. I think she was beginning to realise the futility of her objections in the face of the inevitable. She was frowning and then huge silent tears fell down the wrinkled cheeks. Suddenly, the ranting harridan turned into a frail old lady, grieving for her home and the way of life that she was about to leave forever. What had the poor soul to look forward to? Wrenched from her home, her neighbours, everything she had ever known, she was to be borne off to another island, which, to her, might as well have been another planet.
We moved on to the next croft house, accompanied by the compassionate Chrissie, who seemed to be the self-styled carer of both old ladies. Here, we met Mrs Cameron: a very different kind of person. She was quiet and frail, blind and completely bedridden. This lady spoke English, and I was surprised to hear an unmistakable English accent. She had come to Chreileh 60-odd years ago to marry a young seaman she had met in a mainland town. He had been killed before their only son had been born, but she had stayed on among the kindly folk of the island. Her son was now in Canada and she rarely saw him. Now this! And yet here we had a gentle, uncomplaining lady, prepared to cooperate with everything that was envisaged for her. I was deeply affected by her story and her courage.
She was talking to Dr Mac. ‘Well, you see, Doctor, it’s not so bad for me because I am not a native. The island does not mean as much to me: none of my ancestors lived or are buried here.’
‘But you have lived here for 60 years and raised your son here. I would say that you are just as much a Chreileh woman as any other.’
‘No, Doctor. It’s not the same. Everyone has been good to me, but I’m still an incomer, you see.’
An incomer still after 60 years? What hope was there for us, the MacLeod family, on Papavray?
Dr Mac pronounced both ladies fit to travel. Some of the men would carry them to the boat when it was time to leave, so we retraced our steps to the pier.
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