The previous account of the
Beast of Barrisdale may be supplemented by another version printed in The Oban Times, and reproduced in full
here, by Creagan an Fhithich in 1906.
The same eye-witnesses are mentioned and it is clear that the account was
written by Fr Andrew MacDonell using the pen-name Creagan an Fhithich for he
had strong connections with Glengarry:
Some
year ago I was staying at Inverie in Knoydart. I then heard for the first time
the story of the “Wild Beast” of Barrisdale. Barrisdale, on Loch Hourn
(popularly said to mean the Loch of Hell), is one of the wildest spots of the
Rough Bounds i.e., the west coast of Inverness-shire, from Lochsheil on the
south to Glenelg on the north.
My
first introduction to the story of the “Beast” was on a journey from
Inverguseran to Inverie. Whilst riding on the mountain path I was accompanied
by old Allan Mòr MacMaster as guide. According to my usual wont on such
occasions, I tried to get all the folklore and other history, if any, connected
with the locality. In a short time Allan brought out the story of the “Wild
Beast” and gave his own personal experiences. I was interested; and proceeded
to make all possible inquiry amongst gamekeepers and others who would be likely
to know about this animal, which was said to have been both seen and very much
heard in Barrisdale and its neighbourhood.
After
lengthened investigations, I arrived at the following facts. It may be as well
to give the matter in full detail. Allan MacDonald, a native of Arnisdale, who
live at Kyleakin, in the Isle of Skye, and followed the trade of shoemaker
there, told me a short time before his death that he remembered well the time
when the “Beast” first came into the country. As a lad of 15 he was helping a
party of men to launch a boat on Loch Hourn, when suddenly a most terrifying
howl was heard on the hill behind them. This was about the year 1845, and with
intervals of greater of less duration the animal has been heard up to the year
1900.
About
the year 1866 the country was very much disturbed by our animal. For a period
of some years at this time it seemed particularly active. People were afraid to
go out of their houses except in company, and the most dire necessity alone
would force men to go out at night.
On a
day in November Ronald MacMaster, keeper at Barrisdale, now retired at
Raoneval, set out for the top of Sgur a Choire Bheithe to shoot ptarmigan. He
left the house some two or three hours before daybreak that he might be at the
hill-top at dawn─the best time to get a safe shot at ptarmigan. When just
arriving at the top he heard the “snoring” of the birds at a short distance,
and cautiously pausing, he stepped aside to the shelter of an overhanging rock.
It had begun to snow. He knew that as soon as the snow stopped the dawn would
come, and he could have a shot at the ptarmigan.
In a
few minutes, however, up flew the birds with a terrified scream and made away.
Whilst bewailing his ill-luck, he wondered what would have frightened them. He
thought it must be a fox, but determined to wait for dawn and make sure by
observing the track left by the animal. The ground was covered by about half an
inch of snow.
In
about ten minutes the snowing ceased and day appeared. As there was now no need
for concealment, the keeper walked out from his sheltering rock, and made for
the place whence he had heard the birds. They had most surely been frightened,
but how? There were clear tracks in the snow, with freshly fallen flakes upon
them─they had fallen since the tracks were made─but they were not the tracks of
a fox or a dog or of any other animal known to the keeper. Of all men in
Scotland, keepers are the most acute observers of the tracks and other traces
of the animals and birds inhabiting the hills, and they seldom or never mistake
the tracks of one animal for those of another.
MacMaster
immediately surmised that the “béist mhor” (big beast), as it was known, had
just passed by. With his gun ready he followed the track, observing that like
the fox this animal placed the hind foot into the track of the fore-foot, so
that it might almost appear that it was only two-legged. The keeper followed up
the spoor until he came to a long rocky ledge rising up in front of him to a
height of from 12 to 14 feet, and there on the top were clearly imprinted the
mark of four large paws. Without any evident signs of hesitation the animal had
leaped clear to the top, and continued in its course. Ronald had had enough for
one day; he made his way homewards.
On
the lower slopes he came within hail of a shepherd who was engaged in sending
his sheep out of the hollows and corries in the hillside lest they should get
smothered in snow. On seeing Ronald, the shepherd called out to him that the
“béist mhor,” if he wished see or shoot it, had just disappeared into the birch
wood on the left. MacMaster, however, did not feel equal to hunting it in the
wood, so made straight for home.
The
description of the tracks given by the keeper is interesting. The marks left on
the snow were almost round, and about 4 inches in diameter, and gave the
impression of a very heavy animal. There were indications of four toes in the
circumference, but most remarkable of all there was no central pad─instead
there was left a somewhat flat cone of snow, much as is left when a bottle is put
down and lifted straight.
To
add to its mysterious nature, at a distance of about four inches behind the
impression of the paw there was the mark of a long powerful claw, which having
penetrated the snow pulled up pieces of peat moss and sprinkled the same on the
snow.
Having
given this account of his actual experience, MacMaster proceeded to explain the
roaring of the “Beast.”
“By
your leave, Sir, it was just like this,─you may have seen a tin pail put away
on the top of a stone wall, the wind strikes it half side-ways and whistles
through it, and the sound of the animal’s roar was like that, Sir, but as loud
as the steam whistle of the Claymore or the Clansman within a hundred yards of
you.”
This
description was corroborated in every particular by several others who have
heard the roar of this animal at widely different periods.
Allan
Mòr, already alluded to, gave a graphic description of how the “beast” put to
unwonted silence for a whole day─no light feat─the inveterate seannachies of a
smearing house. They were from twenty to thirty men smoking their pipes after
dinner, and standing and chatting on the green at the end of the smearing
house.
They
heard the “wild beast” as if at a distance, then almost on the instant quite
close, and every man bolted for the shelter of the shed. There was a final roar
so close that it shook the very building, and almost paralysed the men with
fear. To like effect was the tale of Mrs R. MacMaster. She was ill in bed.
There were several women in the house. Her husband had gone for the doctor and
had not yet returned. Whilst anxiously waiting for the doctor, the women were
much alarmed to hear the roar of the “beast” in the distance. It was evidently
far up Glen Barrisdale, but coming nearer and nearer until it seemed at the
very door; then it passed on its way up a shoulder of “Ladhar Bheinn.” I was
told the story twenty year ago; but even after the lapse of time her manner was
sufficient evidence of the alarm and terror of Mrs MacMaster and her companions
on the morning as they huddled for mutual protection into one little upstairs
room.
On
another occasion, when the inhabitants of the village of Airor were engaged in
the daily avocations, the animal paid them and unlooked for visit. It did not
actually appear; but it made its presence felt. Men were in boats fishing in
front of the village, others were engaged on their crofts, the women were about
their housework─the cattle on the hilly slopes above the crofts. Suddenly the
blood curdling roars were heard from a hillock behind the village─the whole
place was in a tumult─the cattle all gathered into one crowd─the larger and
horned ones forming a ring round the younger animals─all bellowing in terror.
The men hastened to their houses to give protection of their presence to their
women folk. Not for many years was that day forgotten in Airor, and one to whom
I have spoken was mentally deranged for a period of 10 years by the fright of
that day.
References:
Creagan-an-Fhithich [Fr Andrew MacDonell], ‘The Wild
Beast of Barrisdale’, The Oban Times (1906)
Andrew
MacDonell, ‘The Beast of Barrisdale’, Tocher,
vol. 56 (Summer, 2000), pp. 407–11
Image:
Barrisdale, Knoydart
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