Angus MacMillan’s Life Story – II [His Father]

A previous blog offered a summary of Angus MacMillan’s life story. It may be divided into eleven sections of varying lengths. Here is offered the second part (NFC 1180, pp. 307–13) where MacMillan described to Calum Maclean his father’s background and his amazing ability at storytelling. He was known as Calum Barrach MacMillan, indicating that he came from the Isle of Barra. The opportunity has been taken to modernise the Gaelic orthography and also to offer a translation. A summary of this section may be given as follows:

2.    His Father [Calum MacMillan]

Angus MacMillan described his father as being five feet ten inches tall. He was a crofter.  At the time of his death he was eighty-eight years of age and without any impairment to his memory or hearing. He had a good, strong voice and a prodigious memory for he only needed to hear a story twice before he had it committed to memory. He received no formal education and had never spent a day at school. He had three brothers, two of whom were in Kintyre and the other was over in Canada. None of them are living now [1948]. He left Barra when he was twelve years of age and he was the only one who came north. There was one in Bruarnish in Barra called Mòr an Tàilleir and she was his father’s sister.

Angus MacMillan then explains that his father got a great deal of his repertoire from an itinerant dance master who belonged to Morar named Ewen MacLachlan, styled An Dannsair Ciotach [due to a shrivelled hand], who stayed with his father when he over-wintered at his house. Angus tells that his father used to have a full house in which he would tell stories.  One such story was a translation from Jules Verne’s Six Weeks in a Baloon. The story was told in English by James MacDonald, a tailor from Gearradh Bheag.

M’ athair agus na Sgeulachdan

’S e ceist a th’ ann cà ’n d’fhuair e na sgeulachdan. Tha mi a’ smaointinn gur h-ann eadar Ormaicleit is Beinne na Faoghla a fhuair e na sgeulachdan. Bha maighstir-dannsa a seo a’ chiad fhear a thàinig a dh’ Uibhist a dh’ ionnsachadh dannsa. Bha sgoil dhannsa aige am Beinne na Faoghla. Bha e a’ fuireach an taigh m’ athar agus bha na sgeulachdan aige agus bhiodh e a’ gabhail sgeulachd a h-uile h-oidhche. Mun d’rugadh mise a bh’ ann. Bha Gàidhlig aige. ’S ann mu dheas a chuir m’ athair eòlas air. Nuair a thàinig m’ athair a Bheinne na Faoghla chaidh e dìreach gu taigh m’ athar nuair a thàinig e fhèin. Chuala mi gun robh làmh bheag air. Bha e geamhradh ann. Bha e cunntais bhliadhnaichean ann cuideachd. Thigeadh e an-dràsta is a-rithist. ’S ann a chionn 90 bliadhna a bha an dannsair seo mun cuairt. Fhuair e a’ Chrìosdachd sgeulachdan on mhaighistir-dannsa seo. Chan eil cuimhne agam an-dràsta dè ’n t-ainm a bha air.

Fhuair mi an t-eòlas seo a leanas o dhaoine eile:

(a) Iain Mac a’ Phearsain, an Coddaí, Bàgh a Tuath, Barraigh. Dh’innis an Coddaí dhomh gun cuala e mun mhaighistir-dannsa a bha sin. ’S e ’n Dannsair Ciotach an t-ainm a bh’ air. Bha làmh bheag no làmh ghoirid air. Bha e anns an Spàinn ag ionnsachadh a bhith na shagart a dhèanamh agus b’ fheudar dhà sgur an uair sin. An sin thàinig e dhachaigh agus thòisich e air a dhol timcheall ag ionnsachadh seann-dannsaidhean agus seann-sgeulachdan. Thàinig e a dh’ Uibhist. Chuala an Coddaí o dhuine a bha eòlach air Calum Barrach, athair Aonghais, gun robh Calum Barrach fhèin ag innseadh gun robh an Dannsair Ciotach air banais taighe an Ormaicleit. Bha an Dannsair Ciotach a’ dannsa ann agus bha crùisgean crochte air sìoman anns an taigh. Bha an Dannsair Ciotach cho math le chasan is gun do chuir e as na crùisgean ochd uirean an dèidh a chèile le bhith a’ togail a chasan. Thuirt an Coddaí gum biodh an Dannsair Ciotach a’ cruinneachadh sgeulachdan cuideachd.

(b) Niall Aonghais MacDhòmhnaill, Maighistir-sgoile, Bàgh a’ Chaisteil, Barraigh. Bha Niall Aonghais ag innseadh dhomh gur h-e Eòghain na Làimhe Bige an t-ainm a bh’ air an dannsair. Chuala Niall Aonghais a mhàthair fhèin a’ bruidhinn ma dhèidhinn an dannsair. Is ann a Beinne na Faoghla a tha màthair Niall Aonghais.

(c) Iain Ruadh MacLeòid, croitear agus maighistir-dannsa, Iochdar, Uibhist a’ Chinn á Deas. Bha Iain Ruadh MacLeòid ag innseadh dhomh gur h-e Eòghain MacLachlainn an t-ainm a bh’ air an dannsair. Bha esan ag ràdha gur h-ann san Fhraing a bha e ag ionnsachadh a bhith na shagart. Bha seann-duine anns an Ìochdar agus dh’ionnsaich e dannsa on Dannsair Chiotach. ’S e ’n seann-duine sin a dh’ionnsaich dannsa do dh’Iain Ruadh e fhèin. Gheibhear tuilleadh eòlais mun Dannsair san Ìochdar. C[alum] M[aclean]. 

Aonghas Barrach

Bhiodh làn an taighe a’ tighinn a-staigh a dh’èisteachd ri m’ athair a’ gabhail nan sgeulachd. Bhiodh iad a’ tighinn fad a’ gheamhraidh. Theannadh e am beul na h-oidhche agus bha e a’ dol gu deich uairean. Sin nuair a bhiodh e a’ stad. Mura biodh an sgeulachd uallamh an oidhche sin, bhiodh iad a’ tighinn glè mhoch an ath-oidhche gus an cluinneadh iad uile i. ’S e m’ athair a bhiodh ag innseadh nan sgeulachd an-còmhnuidh. Cha bhiodh bodaich eile ann aig am biodh stòireannan idir. Bhiodh m’ athair oidhcheannan a’ snìomh sìomain fraoich agus sìomain murrain agus bhiodh e ag innseadh nan sgeulachd mar a bha e ag obair. Bhiodh bundle aige de fhraoch fo chois agus e a’ tarraing às lìon bad is bad. Nan cluinneadh e sgeulachd aon uair bha i aige. Bha sgeulachd ga leughadh aig Seumas Dòmhnallach, an tàillear anns a’ Ghearradh Bheag. ’S ann ann am Beurla a bha i agus bha an tàillear ga tionnadh gu Gàidhlig [Six Weeks in a Balloon, an sgeulachd. Tha mi a’ smaointinn gur h-e Jules Verne an t-ughdair, ach chan eil mi cinnteach, C[alum] M[aclean]]. Thug an tàillear fad seachdain ga leughadh. Bha i agam nuair a bha an leabhar uallamh agus thàine mi dhachaigh tràth suas mu naoidh uairean agus bha mi air a’ fodradh a dhèanamh, am biadh a thoir’ dha na beothaichean is dha na h-eich agus dh’fhaighneachd m’ athair: an ann bochd a bha mi agus thuirt mi nach ann. Bha fhios aige taghta math gun robh mi ag èisteachd na sgeulachd a bha seo agus dh’iarr e orm pìos dhen sgeulachd a ghabhail gus am biodh àm dol a laighe ann agus thuirt mi ris gun gabhainn greim suipearach an toiseach mun teannainn. An rud a rinn sinn, ghabh sinn greim suipearach agus nuair a ghabh sinn an t-suipear theann mise air an sgeulachd. Cha robh a-staigh ach mi-fhìn agus m’ athair agus mo mhàthair agus dithis pheathraichean. Bha mi ag obair air an sgeulachd agus bhuail an cadal mo pheathraichean agus chaidh iad a chadal. Bhuail an cadal an seo mo mhàthair agus chaidh i fhèin a laighe. Ach aon phriobadh cha tànaig air m’ athair agus bha e gam shìor-chàineadh a h-uile h-oidhche cho fad is a bha mi gun tighinn dachaigh. Bha a’ ghrian ag èirigh mun do stad mi. Latha geamhraidh a bh’ ann. Thuirt mi ris gun dèanadh siud fhèin an gnothach an-diugh, gur h-e a bh’ ann is chan e a-nochd. Cha d’rinn mise ach tionndadh a-mach a dh’ fhodradh sa mhadainn gun dol a chadal idir. Chaidh m’ athair a chadal agus dh’èirich e am beul na h-oidhche an latha sin agus dh’iarr e orm teannadh air a’ chòrr dhen sgeulachd. Thuirt mi ris nach gabhainn a-nochd idir i, gum b’ fheàrr leam a dhol a leabaidh gun robh mi glè fheumach air a dhol a chadal agus mo dhùsgadh aig àm fodraidh, airson gun dèanainn a’ fodradh. Rinn iad sin. Dhùsgadh aig àm fodraidh mi agus an obair a bh’ aig m’ athair bha e ag innseadh na sgeulachd a chuala e a-raoir. Rinn mise a’ fodradh agus ghabh mi mo shuipear agus start mi air an sgeulachd far an do stad mi sa mhadainn agus chum mi orm gus an robh e còig uairean sa mhadainn an làr-na-mhàireach. Agus nuair a bha mi uallamh, thuirt mi ris: “Tha mi an dòchas nach bi sibh a-nist cho trom orm cho fada is a bha mi gun tighinn dhachaigh. Tha sibh fhèin a cheart cho fada rium a chionn dà oidhche.”
 

My Father and his Stories

The real question is where did he get his stories. I think he got these stories between Ormaclete and Benbecula. A dance master came to Uist to teach dancing. He had a dance school in Benbecula and stayed at my father’s house. He had many stories and told them every night. This was before my time. He spoke Gaelic. My father knew him from Barra and just when my father came to Benbecula he went straight to my father’s house when he arrived himself. I heard that he had a shrivelled hand. He stayed for a winter. He stayed many years there also. He would come now and again. It is ninety years since the dancer was around. He had a Christendom of stories from this dance master. I cannot now recall what his name was.

I got this from various informants:

(a) John MacPherson, the Coddy, Northbay, Barra. The Coddy told me that he had heard about this dance master. He was called the Shrivel-handed Dancer as he had a small or short hand. He had been in Spain in order to be ordained as a priest but he had to give this up. Then he returned home and began to go around learning old dances and stories. He came to Uist. The Coddy heard from other people who knew Calum Barrach, Angus’s father, that Calum Barrach himself told how the Shrivel-handed Dancer was at a wedding in a house in Ormaclete. The Shrivel-handed Dancer was dancing and the lamps were hanging by heather-ropes in the house. The Shrivel-handed Dancer was so skilled with his feet that he put out the crushie lamps eight times after another by raising his legs. The Coddy said that the Shrivel-handed Dancer would collect stories as well.

(b) Neil Angus MacDonald, school-master, Castlebay, Barra. Neil Angus told me that the dancer’s name was Ewen of the Little Hand. Neil Angus heard his own mother speaking about the dancer. Neil Angus’s mother belonged to Benbecula.

(c) Red-haired John MacLeod, crofter and dance-master, Eochar, South Uist. Red-haired John MacLeod told me that the dancer’s name was Ewen MacLachlann. He told me that he went to France to learn the priesthood. An old man from Eochar was taught dancing by the Shrivel-handed Dancer and this old man in turn taught Red-haired John dancing. More information about the Dancer can be got in Iochdar. C[alum] M[aclean].

Angus Barrach MacMillan

There would be a full house listening to my father telling stories. They used to come all winter-time. They’d arrive at nightfall and he would perform until ten o’ clock when they used to stop. If the story wasn’t finished on that particular night then they would arrive late the next night until they had heard it all. My father always used to tell the stories. No other old men who were present had these stories. My father would spend the nights weaving heather- and grass-ropes and he would tell the stories while he worked. He used to have a bundle of heather under his foot and he pulled out a net, clump after clump. If he heard a story once he would have it. A story was read by James MacDonald, the tailor in Gearradh Bheag. It was in English and the tailor translated it into Gaelic [Six Weeks in a Baloon, the story. I think the author is Jules Verne, but I’m not sure, C[alum] M[aclean]. The tailor took a whole week to read it. I had it by heart by the time the book was finished and I came home early about nine o’ clock after I had made the fodder, the food to give to the cattle and the horses and my father asked me if I had been poorly and I replied that I had not been. He knew very well that I had been listening to this story and he asked me to tell a bit of the story until he was ready to retire for the night and I said that I would at first take my supper beside the fire. The thing we did, we took our supper and after we had supper I started on the story. There was no one at home except for myself, my father, my mother and two sisters.  As I continued with the story my sisters grew sleepy and retired. Soon after, my mother became sleepy and went to bed, but my father didn’t even wink – he had been constantly berating me every night for being so late in coming home. The sun was rising before I stopped reciting – it was a winter’s day – and I told him that would have to do for today for it was now daytime and the night had passed. So I just went out and worked on the fodder without going to bed at all. My father went to sleep and he got up at nightfall and he asked me to tell the rest of the story. I told him that I’d not tell it tonight for I preferred to go to bed as I was in great need of sleep and to be wakened up at fodder-time. They did that. I was awakened at fodder-time and my father’s work was to tell the story that he heard the night before. I made the fodder and I took my supper and I continued the story where I had left off in the morning and I kept on until it was five o’ clock in the morning of the next day. And when I had finished, I said to him: “I hope that you won’t be so hard on me for being so late coming home. You yourself are just as late as I was two nights ago.”

Such, then, is Angus Barrach’s portrait of his father which may be supplemented by an account from the pen of Marjory Kennedy-Fraser where she describes meeting Calum Barrach MacMillan in her autobiography A Life of Song:

Driving across the ford early next morning, we had to tramp five miles (and a bittock) in drenching rain and driving wind to the cosy fireside of a crofter, Calum Barraich [sic], the last apparently of the race of Ossian singers, a type even then supposed to have long passed away.

            A pastoral people are the folk of Benbecula, the surrounding sea too shallow for fishing-craft. Calum had spent over seventy years herding cattle on the grassy flats of the Machair, which stretches its white sands westward to the Atlantic. I had been attracted to the Isle by the fame of Calum as a singer of sacred songs. I looked for incantations and hymns such as are the staple of Carmichael’s Carmina Gadelica. What was my astonishment to find that Calum’s repertoire consisted entirely of ancient, rhymed, heroic tales and songs of pagan origin, just such Ossianic fragments indeed as Macpherson found here in the eighteenth century when covering the selfsame ground in search of materials for his famous epic. When Macpherson’s English interconnected version of this fugitive, fragmentary, orally transmitted lore appeared, all Europe reverberated to his Ossian. Macpherson died in 1796, but long before his death his poems, founded on these fragmants, had become, according to William Sharp, one of the most vital influences in literature.

            To Calum therefore we went. At eighty-seven, still bright and active, he was to be seen daily out on the Machair herding his cattle. And in the clean white-sanded kitchen of his thatched cottage he sang, but not before he had set everything in perfect order for the ceremony—these old pagan tales were sacred to Islemen. In a corner of the kitchen stood the hand-loom on which was stretched a blanket in the course of weaving; by the fire sat the cailleach carding or combing out wool; and by the other side of the fire the old, keen, bright-eyed, white-haired keeper of the traditional lore himself.

            He chanted many lays, some on a monotone, the phrases defined by cadences, some on a gradually descending scale within the compass of a sixth, and among them a well-defined air to which he sang the Lay of Aillte...And as the old Benbecula singer chanted the last verses, that tell of the glories of the Gael, his body became tense with excitement and his eyes glowed with the fire of racial memory.

            A strange, remote island is Benbecula, more cut off by its fords perhaps than even Eriskay by its currents. Low-lying, watery, its atmospheric conditions are favourable to optical illusions. The farther away an object stands the larger it looms on the horizon. I remember my first day there starting gaily off to walk to a house that seemed near, and how I nearly cried with vexation when I found that the nearer I approached it the father it seemed to draw away. Indeed, a fellow-traveller related to me how she had seen there one day what she took at first to be a mirage. It was a grove of trees on the horizon. Now there are no trees on those wind-swept isles. So she made towards the vision and kept it in sight. The trees gradually diminished to the height of a hedgerow and in the end proved to a row of potato shaws!

            In the chapel that stood on the western strands, just beside Calum’s croft, we ‘assisted’ at an island wedding. After the ceremony the bridal party formed up, with a piper at their head, to cut slantwise across the Machair to the bridgegroom’s house, some fiver miles distant. At we returned, driving by the high road, we could follow the progress of the party in the gathering darkness not alone by the music of the bagpipes but also by the sound of gunshots fired from each lamp-lit thatched cottage, as the bridal party approached and passed. The moon hung like a lamp from the dome of heaven, and the heat of the long summer day was raising white bridal veils of mist from each of the thousand and one little tarns and lochans that dispute the land in Benbecula. The bride must have been very tired at the end of it all. After the five-mile walk to her new home they danced, so we were told, to the sound of the pipes and the laughter of the sea until the ‘sma’ ‘oors’ of the morning.

References:

Marjory Kennedy-Fraser, A Life of Song: The Autobiography of Marjory Kennedy-Fraser (Kershader, Isle of Lewis: The Islands Books Trust, 3rd revised edition, 2011)

NFC 1180, pp. 301–548

Image:
Angus MacMillan, Benbecula, 1930s.