Whisky, Kilts, and the Loch Ness Monster

by William W. Starr

  I had a conversation with the desk clerk, who appeared relieved to have someone to talk with at such a barren time of the season. Most visitors, he told me, were stopping here on their way elsewhere; few made Oban their destination. He was a native of Thurso, which I only vaguely recognized at the time as a city on Scotland’s northern coast, and had come south looking for work. “Don’t like Glasgow and Edinburgh. Been there, too many people, too crowded,” he said. He didn’t have a driver’s license and didn’t expect to need or get one. “I’ve got friends. It’s too expensive, you know?”

  In my room later I picked up a postcard on the table opposite my bed and saw a cartoon panel depicting a heavily fleeced sheep standing in a downpour. The panel carried the description “British Winter.” The next panel showed the very same sheep in the very same rain with the description “Scottish Summer.” Outside, it was still, officially at least, Scottish Winter. I went to sleep with the sound of cold rain beating against my window.

  5

  Mull

  The appearance of the sun in the morning convinced me of one thing: it would be raining soon. And before I finished my first cup of tea, it was. Hard. Followed by blue skies less than a half hour later. I was headed to the Inner Hebrides, to the island of Mull, a trip Boswell and Johnson made in reverse on a small storm-tossed ferry, sitting on tree branches in the craft. I wasn’t eager to see how closely I could duplicate their experience, and fortunately the weather seemed quite tolerable for a journey across the firth.

  Thanks to The Rough Guide to Scotland, I knew Scotland has more than sixty inhabited islands, and nearly fifty of them have scheduled ferry service. The ferries are critical links between the islanders and the mainland, and in some cases, the only link. They bring not only passengers but also vital goods for residents and visitors. Small planes make trips to the islands, but it is the ferries that are the lifeblood of this sea-set nation. So naturally it is the ferries that are the subject of most of the whining. The reason why is that the ferry companies are virtual monopolies; they set the rates, they pick the destinations, they determine the service. They seem to annoy almost everyone. Either they charge too much or they don’t go here or there often enough. Or their service stinks. Or they’re slow. Or they just don’t listen to what people want. For the trip from Oban to the islands of the Hebrides, the monopoly is Caledonian MacBrayne (known as CalMac to everyone).

  I should report that in fairness I didn’t have any serious problems with CalMac other than regretting the high cost of taking my car on board and struggling to understand the onboard announcements, given the combination of passenger din and a vaguely Glaswegian accent coming over the ship’s PA. But I heard and read a bundle about the unhappiness of others, particularly on the Isle of Lewis where there were great public quarrels over Sunday ferry service. It’s hard to keep everyone happy, I know, and I was grateful to CalMac for getting me where I needed to go and back without capsizing, even as I acknowledged that that seemed a rather minimal requirement for a ferry journey.

  If the Scots are a reticent people, the ones on this ferry were atypical. They could hardly drink and chat fast enough, and most were eager to talk to an American, particularly an out-of-season visitor. Just about everyone who recognized my accent knew I was American and was eager to ask where I was from and what it was like there. They knew Atlanta from the Olympics, but no one had been there. They thought New York was “dirty” and San Francisco “gorgeous.” They liked the South, and one elderly gentleman was so excited and admiring of Robert E. Lee that I thought it inappropriate to remind him that Lee had passed. One man told me he had an American car—a Jeep. “It’s broken,” he said. “Been broken. Terrible car. Bugger Chrysler.” He must be smiling now.

  It was a smooth forty-five-minute cruise to Mull, passing Duart Castle on a high promontory, a sight Boswell also noted, facing the Sound of Mull, I arrived at the very small ferry stop of Craignure on the southeast side of the island. Boswell and Johnson arrived and departed from a much higher point on the northeast, at the town of Tobermory, another thirty minutes away by ferry. They spent a rainy time here. Johnson called Mull “a most dolorous country.” And indeed it can seem distressingly dark. Barren. Bleak. Unwelcoming. In rainy weather the treeless moorlands are aggressively dank and black. Getting around on the island can be difficult, for almost all of it is negotiated by single-track road. In the eighteenth century it was much worse. John Keats lived a short life perhaps because he chose to come to Mull. The twenty-three-year-old English poet visited the island in the summer of 1818, writing, “We have had a most wretched walk of 37 miles across the island of Mull. I have a slight sore throat.” Arguably the sore throat would escalate into the consumption that would kill him in only three more years.

  Boswell and Johnson were relieved to arrive on Mull; they had spent thirteen nights on the island of Coll to the west, trapped there by high winds and stormy fall weather that made their passage impossible. They were out of sorts, particularly Johnson, but grateful to be closer to the mainland, and their arrival at Tobermory was bracing. For Boswell, with his voluminous papers recording details of Johnson on the journey, it served to cement his determination to prepare a biography of Johnson. “I shall lay up materials for THE LIFE OF SAMUEL JOHNSON, LL.D.,” he declared. “And if I survive him, I shall be the one who shall most faithfully do honour to his memory.” Several years later, after Johnson read this observation and learned of Boswell’s intent, Boswell reports that his friend “communicated to me at subsequent periods, many particulars of his life, which probably could not otherwise have been preserved.” Allowing for some exaggeration on Bozzy’s part, Johnson’s cooperation and support seemed evident and the seeds sown for what would become the finest biography in the English language.

  What remained immediately, however, was the negotiation of Mull, by horse and on foot, treacherous then, still almost unimaginable today. Johnson wrote in his Journey: “We travelled many hours through a tract, black and barren…. We found the country, for road there was none, very difficult to pass. We were always struggling with some obstruction or other, and our vexation was not balanced by any gratification of the eye or mind.”

  This portion of the trip produced some interesting entries. One recounts how the two had a moment of bad humor when they quarreled over whether Johnson’s wish to put his thoughts on paper at too great a length might delay their passage across the island. In another Johnson describes the daughter of his hostess to be “the most accomplished lady that I have found in the Highlands. She knows French, music, drawing, sews neatly, makes shellwork, and can milk a cow.”

  At a home where they spent several evenings Johnson proclaimed that his was “the prettiest room we have seen since we came to the Highlands,” while Boswell, who could be rather fastidious, found his bed sheets dirty and placed his overcoat between himself and the bedding. Earlier, during the long stay on Coll, he found himself forced to share a bed with a member of the same sex. He wrote, “I have a mortal aversion at sleeping in the same bed with a man; and a young Highlander was always somewhat suspicious as to scorbutic symptoms. I once thought of sleeping on chairs; but this would have been uncivil and unobliging to a young gentleman who was very civil and obliging to us. Upon inspection, as much as could be without his observing it, he seemed to be quite clean, and the bed was very broad. So I lay down peaceably, kept myself separated from him, and reposed tolerably.”

  When the trip resumed, Johnson was in low spirits because his small horse was unable to bear his weight and the good doctor was obliged to walk. And he had lost the favored oak walking stick that he had acquired in London in 1766 and used ever since. The travelers’ goal was the island of Ulva, which lies only some one hundred yards off the west coast of Mull. Ulva was populated by perhaps four hundred people in the eighteenth century; when Elizabeth Stucley visited there in the early 1950s, she reported only twenty-five residents, all in one family. Today the residents are said to number about two doz
en. The travelers spent just one night there; Johnson noted the practice of allowing the island’s laird to share the bed of every bride on her wedding night. Their host, the laird, advised them that the custom was not practiced, but that upon every wedding the newly married were expected to provide a sheep in lieu of cash. One hopes that the laird wasn’t supposed to sleep with the sheep.

  Which brings up a pair of hoary Scottish jokes. To wit: Scotland is a place where men are men and sheep are scared. And, know why Scottish men don’t marry sheep? Because sheep can’t cook. I apologize to all immediately; Scottish men seem manly enough to beat me to a pulp, and that’s not very funny. But you do hear these jokes around, probably circulated by the English.

  Boswell and Johnson proceeded by boat to the tiny nearby island of InchKenneth. There they encountered the only inhabitants: Sir Allan Maclean, chief of Clan Maclean, his two daughters, and their servants. Boswell enjoyed dancing a reel while one of the girls played a harpsichord. The visit provoked an outburst of piety when Boswell discovered that Sir Allan was not a big drinker (“riotous bottle companion,” in Boswell’s words). So he walked outside, knelt and prayed “that I may attain everlasting felicity.” Such a moment recalls again the character of Boswell, so often slandered by his critics for his frequent failings. He was weak, as we all are, but he possessed a deep faith, an unquenchable hopefulness and a longing for goodness. The twentieth-century Scottish writer Moray McLaren, after tracing Boswell’s path through the Highlands in the early 1950s, wrote: “It has been said of him that while other chroniclers, other writers of memoirs, have left portraits and sometimes even photographs of themselves to the world, James Boswell has given us an X-ray presentation of Boswell.”

  Before leaving InchKenneth Boswell expressed his delight at the island and indulged some serious if unlikely thoughts about buying it, as his brother David had always imagined purchasing an island. “Sir,” said Mr. Johnson, “so does every man, till he knows what it is.” Upon coming across a small barren black rock Johnson later mocked Boswell in this way: “This shall be your island, and it shall be called InchBoswell.” Johnson’s good humor could also be another man’s undoing.

  B&J and I took different paths across Mull. Theirs—beginning at Tobermory to the north of the island, proceeding via the west coast to the southwesterly tip and ultimately to the island of Iona—required the better part of two days. Mine, starting from Craignure, followed a gradual southwesterly road for about thirty-six miles to the small fishing port of Fionnphort. I saw only six vehicles driving toward me on that entire thirty-six-mile trip, and I can remember each one with the kind of clarity and focus normally reserved for imminent tornadoes or ghostly visions. Single-track roads can do that to Americans.

  About half a mile after leaving Craignure on the A849, the two-lane road shrank by half. Hills became steeper. Tree branches leaned closer to the road (where did trees come from on an island supposed to be devoid of them?). Vegetation appeared at road’s edge as if spawned by Miracle-Gro. And here came a truck. Not a car, but a large lorry. A Mercedes, I remember. With an old man behind the wheel, grimacing. I’m going to be killed by a Mercedes. Is that better than being finished off by a Volvo? Or a Vauxhall? I began looking for a way out. And there, suddenly, a small twentyfoot strip of pavement appeared to my left, allowing me space to pull my vehicle mostly off the road. I did so, hurriedly, breathing fast, and the lorry dashed by at top speed. I know I should have been getting used to this. It took a few seconds to recover and realize that I had finally done what I was supposed to do—pull into the lay-by to my left and let the oncoming traffic go by. Whoever gets to the lay-by first is the one who stops. I finally got it. I was stronger now. The road, single-track or not, was no more threat, no more terror. I was exultant. I got past five more lorries and even managed to pull over to the left to allow another hard-charging lorry to overtake me. No more would single tracks cause me upset.

  It was almost dinnertime when I pulled into the neat-looking B&B in the village of Fionnphort (pronounced finny-fort, by the way). My host John greeted me warmly, suggesting that he’d seen other Americans make it this far before. “Most of them get here pretty tense,” he said with a big smile. “You look like you did pretty good.” I was liking him already. The rain was beginning to fall and the winds were picking up. “It’ll be a rough day tomorrow,” John cautioned. His inn was made of granite, 120 years old, and it looked sturdy indeed. My room was quite comfortable. The B&B was a scant minute’s walk to the ferry for Iona and half that distance to a pub that promised a snug fire, some Guinness, and maybe a little conversation with the locals.

  6

  Iona

  Generally speaking, in Fionnphort the locals turned out to be as interested in Boswell and Johnson as just about everyone else I had encountered so far. The notable exception was the gentleman behind the counter at the local bookstore. He spoke brightly of the two, though he added a caution about some of the “not so nice” things Johnson had to say about the Scots.

  It was more than amazing to find a bookstore in Fionnphort, a community which might number two hundred people but probably had fewer. I didn’t notice it when I arrived the evening before, but there it was, about two houses away from my B&B, a can’t-miss stop on the walk to the ferry. It carried a terrific selection of Scottish books as well as some groceries and, most significantly, whisky. When will bookstores in the States begin to offer the same level of amenities? I resolved to buy several books when I returned from Iona in the evening, but for the moment I had to rush to the ferry for the early morning’s first trip, and the weather wasn’t going to make it easy.

  John, my host, a “recovering fisherman,” warned me that the winds were nearing gale force 5, moving toward twenty-five miles an hour, and the onemile crossing through the strong currents of the Sound of Iona was subject to cancellation when the wind-pushed waters made this brief trip too perilous. The wind was indeed very brisk and cold, waves were sloshing up, and the whitecaps were running hard as I looked out toward grayish, low-slung Iona in the distance. The ferry wasn’t very big and was positioned next to a jetty. The bow ramp pressed into a concrete ramp at the toe-deep edge of the water, and I walked rather daintily up it, my shoes getting damp, and climbed up into the small passenger lounge, which was really just a bench seat on the port side. After a minute or two the ramp was pulled up and the ferry departed, already beginning to sway as the captain turned into the wind. I was terribly excited about Iona and, frankly, getting a little edgy about the trip across the Sound.

  Boswell was especially excited by his arrival on Iona (then known as Icolmkill). For a change he and Johnson had had a rather smooth journey by boat, skirting the western coast of Mull (and missing completely what would be Fionnphort today). Their boat was unable to get close to the landing, so Johnson and Boswell were carried ashore, as Johnson wrote: “Our boat could not be forced very near the dry ground, and the Highlanders carried us over the water.” It would have been quite a chuckle to have observed several people struggling to negotiate the bulky Johnson over the water—but that’s apparently not what happened. Boswell later wrote that when the party landed, he and Sir Allan Maclean were carried on their crew’s shoulders to dry land, but Johnson “sprang into the sea and waded out.” Either story produces delightful images, but neither may give us the full account.

  The editor of the latest (2007) edition of Boswell’s and Johnson’s writings on the trip, Ronald Black, has a bit more information about Johnson’s actions, which were regarded as highly eccentric by everyone who heard about them. He includes remarks from a radio broadcast in 1936 or 1937 by the Rev. Dr. Coll MacDonald (it hardly gets more Scottish than that) which tell us that the incident was long remembered:

  Johnson was a massive, burly man, big-bellied and talkative. He was so short-sighted that he jumped out of Maclean of the Inch’s galley before her stem had ploughed a furrow in the sands of Port Ronan. He was wet up to the thighs, and poor Boswell paid for the c
alamity. The huge old man exploded in rage and started berating and bullying him. “I have been tormented like the Apostle Paul by the tumult of waves and placed in danger of my life amidst the dark vales and horrid peaks of this uncouth land. Should this wetting bring upon me a fatal disease, pray take care that my corpse rot in London’s soil, and by no means amongst the savage chiefs and plunderers of the Highland clans.”

  Yes sir, nothing like a little fear to get those real feelings out loud and clear. And yet, as we will see in a few pages, when Johnson was facing serious danger—not just thigh-deep wading, but the threat of his ship capsizing in a storm—he lay placidly below deck wondering what all the fuss was about.

  The small island of Iona occupies a unique place in the history of Scotland. Boswell knew its significance well, and that heightened his anticipation of exploring the island with his companion. Iona is an enduring symbol of Christianity, and it has been a sacred destination for pilgrims over hundreds of centuries. It was here that Columba—later to become Saint Columba—is said to have arrived from Ireland in a.d. 563 to found a monastery that would become the heart of the Scottish church during the next several centuries. Columba spent thirty-four years on Iona, meditating, copying manuscripts, and leading monks in prayer, before his death in 597, as recorded by his seventh-century biographer Adomnan in Life of Columba. The magnificent gospel book, the Book of Kells, is thought to have been created on Iona before being removed to Ireland in the ninth century for safety.