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OH! I do wish that you could witness an early silvern
dawn at Applecross, when the wings of the wakeful whaups, that whistle in
the hill-encircled bay and speed swiftly over the water’s face, are
reflected in the mirrors of a shimmering sea. Little wonder that Mary
Coleridge was enchanted with the image of the ‘Blue Bird,’ whose wings of
palest blue were caught for a moment as it skimmed lightly across the
cold, still lake, that lay silently beneath the hill. And I can picture
the wonted ferryboat, as it sets out from the cool, gray shores of Wester
Ross to meet the Sheila on its way to Kyle of Lochalsh from
Stornoway.
Is it not wonderful to think that never once, since I
stayed in Applecross as a child more than twenty years ago, have Murchadh
MacRath and another Murdo, his life-long companion in oars, failed to meet
the mail-steamer? And during all those years what stormy seas they have
experienced together in that old, frail craft! It was on their ferryboat
that I received my earliest instructions in seamanship at the age of
three, when I used to accompany them in all weathers to meet the steamer
on its way to Lewis in the evenings.
I remember, too, that MacRath, who by profession is a
carpenter, made me a beautiful, little sailing-ship, which I tied to the
stern of the ferryboat each time we put out to sea. But, mo chreach !
one day a great gale having arisen among the Coolins swept over the
lonely Isle of Raasay, and over the Isle of the Seal, and drove a
tempestuous sea before it that well-nigh swamped our ferryboat, and
carried away my little sailing-ship, so that all my interest in the sea
was gone.
Many wild seas has this clumsy craft survived, when the
gray mists of Skye have fallen like a death-cold mantle over the kyles
from Torridon to Knoydart, and the winds of the Minch have made their
presence felt along the creeky, weather-beaten coast of Wester Ross.
I had ofttimes wished to break the journey on my way to
Lewis, and to disembark at Applecross, the only place at which the
mail-steamer calls between
Lochalsh and Stornoway, so that I might renew the acquaintances of my
childhood. And, so last autumn I sent a message by an earlier boat to say
that I would come to Applecross on an appointed day. Luckily, my arrival
fell due on what turned out to be a glorious afternoon. As we sailed past
the mouth of Loch Carron and the Crowlin Isles, old Cailein Cameron, our
venerable captain, sounded the steamer’s shrill whistle to warn the
ferrymen that the Sheila would soon be rounding the headland and
gliding into Applecross Bay. There, to be sure, the ferryboat awaited us;
and, as the steamer moved slowly by, the accustomed rope was thrown to
Murchadh, who lashed it to the seat below him with such agility and
dexterity that in an instant we were alongside. Just think of it! he has
been doing this, day in and day out, for more than thirty years; while his
comrade has manipulated the oars to keep the ferryboat erect, and its bow
in the proper direction. You really cannot imagine what skill and strength
are entailed in getting alongside, when on dark, winter evenings and
mornings the sea is rough, and the position of the ferryboat is indicated
only by an oil lantern that at the stern bobs up and down as the boat is
being rocked by heavy seas and howling winds. And I regret ever so much
that my limited capacity denies me the opportunity of describing this
incident more interestingly and graphically to you. At any rate, to
properly appreciate the scene one would actually require to witness it in
a storm.
My visit to Applecross last autumn
was as the realisation of something I had dreamt of doing for years:. it
was as a pilgrimage I had longed to make, and as a promise that, alas! had
too long remained unfulfilled. So, when I descried afar off the place of
my childhood, as it lay tucked away beneath the hills and in an almost
forgotten corner of the sea, I at once resolved that I would leave no
hamlet unvisited and no mountain-pass untravelled during my sojourn there.
I can assure you, therefore, that it was with bated breath and with
suppressed excitement that I stood aside until the mails were safely
lowered by an overhanging derrick, and until the little rope-ladder was
slung over the wale of the steamer, that I might descend into the
ferryboat on which, as I have already related, I received my earliest
sea-baptism.
At the dilapidated stone jetty there
awaited me my hostess. Gaelic is her language; and Gaelic it was that we
spoke all the way round the tree-fringed shore to her home about
half-a-mile away. And all the old scenes and stories recurred instantly to
my mind, for no sooner had I put my foot again on this Gaelic-land than I
remembered those wild, wintry nights and days of my infancy, when the sea
chafed and harassed our ferryboat, and dashed so angrily over the causeway
that I had to be wrapped in a big seaman’s oilskins, and borne in two
strong arms to my usual seat in the stern of the ferryboat. You see, I was
particularly headstrong when about four years of age, and often went to
meet the steamer at great personal risk; though I was far too young then
to understand the meaning of danger.
Oh! these were grand
experiences, now that I reflect upon them.
With Applecross I always associate
three strangely different things—nests and echoes and peace. It was here
that my old father drew my attention to a bird’s nest, the first I had
ever seen or heard of. I recall plainly now that it was the nest of a
missel-thrush, and that it lay neatly concealed in a thicket of briar and
hazel, to which we took our bearings from a rowan-tree by the roadside.
What wonderful creatures I thought birds were that day! How did they build
such beautiful nests, and how did they lay such pretty eggs? I kept on
inquiring as my father dragged me home along the shore in a state of
healthy exhaustion. I may add that this was the first of many happy
nesting ploys, and that, when we arrived home after our exciting
discovery, I was made to sit up on a chair where I might listen
attentively to a well-meant lecture on the cruelty of stealing little
birds’ eggs, and otherwise molesting them at nesting-time.
Then, echoes! It was in Applecross Bay that I first
heard MacTalla, the Son of the Hall, for I used to shout daily
across the sea to Skye; and a wonderful echo was sent back from the
mountain track that led over high hills and above the sea to Lonban and
Cuaig. I can assure you that at three and a half years of age I was
sufficiently precocious to marvel at MacTalla!
And, lastly, peace! It was in this quiet, unobtrusive
place that I first became conscious of something which I afterwards learnt
to call peace. I can remember as plainly as though it were yesterday how
one sunny, spring forenoon, while I sat alone on the bosky margin of the
bay among periwinkles and wild hyacinths and delicate wood - anemones and
primroses, which grew in such large clusters that I easily could have made
a complete couch of them, it dawned upon me that between the lapping of
the tiny wavelets which, as it were, frittered away their time on the
pebbly, dulse-covered shore, and the intermittent music of the woods,
where mavises. and blackbirds sang their melodies of spring, there was a
something which had never been explained to me. And that something I
afterwards realised to be peace and quietude.
Often have I thought since how much men’s hearts cry
out for peace and quietude, and for a return to simpler and less
irritating conditions of life. There is so little peace in our lives: and
so few of us would be content to live in an environment which lacks the
rush and bustle, that are so essentially indispensable to a materialistic
age.
But we must return for a moment to the scene of our
ferryboat, so that I may give you my latest impression of Applecross. One
early, autumn morning, as the Sheila sailed quietly into the
inky-black bay, I was awakened from my sea-sleep to find that the Minch
had been crossed during the night. The trailing mists were retreating in
close formation before the rising sun that gleamed on Raasay, and
rekindled the old memories of bygone days at Dun Caan and Brochel, those
ancient fortresses that once were the scene of feasting and revelry and
Highland hospitality to whomsoever might chance to approach them.
And away in the honey-scented Bealach nam Bo,
the Pass of the Cattle, where the newly-wakened wagtail hopped about the
stony edges of the bickering brook in search of his morning-meal, and
where the yellow-hammer piped for his ‘little bit of bread and no cheese,’
the flickering rays of dawning light had put darkness on every star. And I
thought of the days of eld, when the fierce and bellicose caterans dashed
down the Pass on their cattle-lifting raids, and banqueted in the
nighttime by a faggot-fire, that scared away the evil spirits, and cast a
warm and inviting glow upon their heathery tablecloth.
Time was when the Pass of the Cattle was notorious for
the clashing of claymores and the spreagh of sheep and oxen: but on
this particular morning there was no sound of any life in the bealach
except for the cry of the peewit, and the anxious bark of a collie
that was collecting sheep on a shadowy hill-side, whither, as yet, the
dawn had scarcely penetrated.
Oh! there is nothing in the world like a vivid
imagination: and few things are finer and more sacred than the longing in
a man’s heart to be wandering along the leaf and timber shaded byways and
the wild, open highways of the land that he loves, where the wind blows
fresh and free through his hair, where the raindrops that trickle down his
cheeks and over his lips are stronger and sweeter than red wine, and where
the song of ilka bird is a music that cheers his wayfarings and gladdens
his days. |
