Angus MacMillan’s Life Story – XI [Stories]

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 eleventh and concluding part (NFC 1180, pp. 540–48) where MacMillan relates to Maclean the situations in which he found himself telling stories. 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;

11.    Stories

MacMillan relates that on helping give birth to a cow he told to story, a very long one. MacMillan kept on telling the story until around six o’clock in the morning. On another occasion, MacMillan began relating a story to a group of women but by the time five o’clock in the morning had gone he was not finished. In a week’s time he asked them if they wished him to continue and they all said that they didn’t wish for him to keep going as they had been lambasted for being so late on the previous occasion. On yet another occasion, MacMillan began telling a story to group of folk; the story lasted all night and by the time the story was finished the sun had risen. MacMillan says that he told stories in many places and if he was in a hurry he would shorten them. On another storytelling occasion, MacMillan began telling a story by a wall to the local blacksmith who was very keen to hear tales and as he continued around fifty people had crowded around him to listen. By nightfall he had not finished telling the story. Then MacMillan tells of a lad [Calum Òg] that he and his wife adopted. He reckons it was the best thing that he had ever done. He later went on to marry a woman from Barra [Anne MacLean]. MacMillan ends his biography by saying that he is growing progressively weaker but also wishing to bless anyone who listens to his tale.

11.     Na Sgeulachdan

Bha mi a siud oidhche agus ’s ann a’ caithris mart a bha a’ dol a bhreith a bha mi agus bha mi air ais ’s air adhart a-mach is a-staigh. Agus rug an seo a bhò. Fhuair mi a’ bhò air dòigh co-dhiù agus bha dròbh de dhaoine a-staigh, dithis na triùir de ghillean òga, a bheil sibh a’ faicinn:

“Well, ’illean,” orsa mi fhìn, “tha mi coma ged a ghabhainn stòiridh bheag dhaibh ann a sheo,” ors’ mi fhìn, “agus bi sibh glè thoilichte,” orsa mi fhìn, “a’ dol dhachaigh a-nochd nuair a chluinneas sibh i.”

“O! glè mhath,” ors’ a h-uile duine riamh a bha sineach, “cluinneam i.”

Theann mi air sgeulachd agus theann mi orra agus gum b’ e an sgeulachd a ghabh mi, O! tè mhòr, mhòr, fhada. Theann mi air an sgeulachd co-dhiù is bha an sgeulachd a’ còrdadh ris na gillean anabarrach math.

“Chan eil guth,” ors’ à-san, “air coimhead air a’ bhòin an-dràsta.”

“O! chan eil,” orsa mi fhìn. “Tha mi a’ smaointinn gun tarraing e suas,” orsa mi fhìn, “gu co-dhiù eadar a dhà is a trì uairean sa mhadainn.”

“A bheil dùil agad,” ors’ à-san, “gu bheil sinne a’ dol a dh’fhantail còmh’ riut ’uige sin?”

“O! well,” orsa mi fhìn, “fana’ sibh treis co-dhiù gus am bi an sgeulachd ullamh.”

Ach mun do theirg an sgeulachd, bha e sia uairean sa mhadainn agus:

“Faoda’ sibh a-nist falbh dhachaigh,” orsa mi fhìn, “agus tha a’ bhò air glanadh,” orsa mi fhìn, “agus tha a’ bhò all right. Is fhada o rug i. Ach gheibh sibh biadh mu fhalbh sibh,” orsa mi fhìn, “nach bi agaibh ri ghabhail,” orsa mi fhìn, “nuair a thèid sibh dhachaigh.”

Agus fhuair mi na gillean còmhla rium fad na h-oidhche gus an robh a’ bhò all right againn. Chaidh iad dhachaigh as a’ mhadainn. Bha mi an siud oidhche eile a-staigh agus cha robh a-staigh ach mi fhìn is a’ bhean agus mo phiuthar, Màiri Anna. Thàinig dithis chailleachan dhan taigh againn, leth sheann-bhoireannaich. Bha iad a’ bruidhinn a-null is a-nall is theann iad orm fhìn airson gun gabhainn stòiridh bheag dhaibh.

“Leòra! o nach eil sinn ach boireannaich co-dhiù, ach mi fhìn,” orsa mi fhìn. “Tha mi coma ged a ghabhainn tèag bheag, laghach, sgiobalta.”

“Cuimhnich,” orsa tè dhiubh, “na biodh i fada.”

“Cha bhi gu dearbha,” orsa mise.

Theann mi air an sgeulachd agus bha mi ag obair air an sgeulachd is bha an sgeulachd a’ còrdadh ris na boireannaich anabarrach fhèin math. Bha mi ag obair air an sgeulachd is chaidh an seoach tì mun cuairt agus fhuair na boireannaich tì.

“Cha ghabh mise tì idir,” orsa mi fhin, “gus am bi an sgeulachd deiseil mum bi mi a’ cumail nam boireannach ro fhada.”

Thàinig aon uair deug is thàinig meadhan-oidhche is cha robh an sgeulachd ullamh. Thàinig uair sa mhadainn is cha robh an sgeulachd uallamh. Bha a’ sgeulachd a’ còradh riutha cho math agus cha b’ urrainn daibh falbh bhuaithe gus am faigheadh iad deireadh an t-seanchais uile. Ach, co-dhiù, bha mise ag obair air an sgeulachd. Thàinig còig uairean sa mhadainn is cha robh an sgeulachd ullamh. Ach bha a’ ghrian ag èirigh an làr-na-mhàireach nuair a bha an sgeulachd ullamh.

“An-dà, gu dearbha,” orsa tè dha na boireannaich, “’s ann innte a bha an stòiridh bheag, agus cho fada is gun robh i,” ors’ ise, “cha b’ urrainn duinne falbh,” ors’ ise, “gus am faigheamaid a-mach a’ chuid mu dheireadh dhìth. Agus faoda’ sinn a-nist a dhol dhachaigh,” ors’ ise, “agus cha ruig sinn a leas lainndear, na torch na rud eile ach Solas nan Cràst’,” ors’ ise. “Tha solas cho soillear ann,” ors’ ise, “agus ged a bhiodh e sa mheadhan-latha.”

Agus thàinig iad an ceann seachdain as a dheaghaidh sineach agus mi a-staigh.

“An gabh mi stòiridh bheag dhuibh a-nochd?”

“Gu dearbha fhèine, cha ghabh,” ors’ ise.

“Fhuair sinn an dalladh o na bha a-staigh,” ors’ ise, “nuair a ràine sinn an taigh an oidhche roimhe agus a-muigh na a-mach, cha ghabh thu stòiridh dhuinn tuilleadh ach na ghabh.”

Agus dhealaich mise rithe.

Tha cuimhne agam air trip a thàinig dròbh mòr a mhuinntir ceann shuas na dùthchadh à Creag Ghoiridh agus thàinig iad dhan taigh againn fhìn. Well, bha mi fhìn aig an fhodradh san àm an cuala mi an noise aca mar gum biodh deoch is gnothach orra. Bha deoch aca cuideachd. Rinn mi a’ fodradh co-dhiù, ’ille, ’ios fhuair mi a h-uile sìon air dòigh mun dàine mi a-staigh. Bha iad a’ rirachadh bhotail ann a shin agus fhuair mi fhin pleadhagan matha dhan bhotal a bh’ aca. Agus shuidh iad aig biadh.

“Leòra,” orsa mi fhìn, “ann an deireadh, nuair a bha iad gus bhith ullamh dhan bhiadh, tha mi cearta coma,” orsa mi fhin, “ged a ghabhainn stòiridh bheag dhuibh.”

Agus theann mi air an stòiridh agus bha an stòiridh ag obair fad na h-oidhcheadh is cha robh rathad aca air falbh. Cha robh rathad aca air falbh. Bha an stòiridh ag obair fad na h-oidhcheadh. Bha dramannan a’ dol mun cuairt agus bha a’ ghrian air èirigh pìos an làr-na-mhàireach mun do dh’fhalbh duine dheth na bh’ ann a shin.

Sin agad an obair a bhiodh agam-sa daonnan, daonnan ag innseadh sgeulachdan. Chan ann a-staigh idir ach ann an iomadach àite. Taigh sam bith as a rachainn dh’fheumainn stòiridh a ghabhail dhaibh. Ghearrainn goirid i, nam biodh cabhag orm fhìn. Ach mura biodh, bhiodh i cho fada is a ghabhadh i a bhith agus aon fhacal cha bhiodh air a thoir’ aiste. Bha mi glè mhath dheth fad na h-oidhcheadh a bha siud, nuair a thàinig na gillean à Creag Ghoiridh. Bha deoch gu leòr aig na gillean agus bha latha breàgha, soilleir aca a’ dol dhachaigh is a h-uile duine gam faicinn agus iad air èirigh mun cuairt uile gu lèir gus an d’ràinig iad na taighean. Dh’fhaighneachd iad nuair a ràinig iad na taighean cò às a thàinig iad na cà robh iad. Dh’innis iad facal air an fhacal mar a dh’èirich dhaibh agus mar a chaidh iad a thaigh Aonghais Bharraich agus gun do theann e air na sgeulachdan.

Bha mi trip eile shìos aig ceann shìos na dùthchadh agus bha gobha ann a shineach is bha e anabarrach titheach air sgeulachdan. Theann mi air innseadh stòiridh dha is sinn ri taobh gàrraidh ri taobh an rathaid mhòir. Bha mi ag innseadh na stòiridh dha is theann duine is duine air tighinn agus mu dheireadh, bha mi a’ creidsinn gun robh aon leth-cheud duine mun cuairt orm ag èisdeachd na sgeulachd. Chum mi iad sineach gu dubh bheul na h-oidhcheadh, feadhainn a bha a’ dol a dh’ iarraidh bheothaichean tràth air an fheasgar. Bha iad ann a shineach gus an robh seachd dubhar dhan oidhche ann ri taobh a’ ghàrraidh. Agus cha do chuir mi finish air an sgeulachd sin riamh. Sin agad sgeulachd bu mhotha a ghabh mi. Bha mi airson an cumail agus bha mòran de sheana daoine agus de chailleachan ann. Agus dhealaich mise rithe.

Well, tha aon rud math agam ri innseadh dhuibh mu dheidhinn gille a thug mi dhachaigh agus ’s ann o dheagh dhaoine a bha e ged a bha e glè chruaidh air a mhàthair a dhealachadh ris. Bha mòran cloinneadh aice. Cha robh fhios aice gu diamar a bheireadh i ron t-saoghal iad. Agus fhuair mo phiuthar a-mach gun robh i airson duine dhan chloinn a thoir’ seachad for good. Well, smaointich i orm-sa math gu leòr, gum bithinn glè thoilichte an gille a ghabhail. ’S e gille a bh’ ann. Cha robh e bliadhna idir a dh’aois an uair sin. Agus bha an duine aice as an arm is cha robh fhios aice on t-saoghal mhòr co-dhiù bha e beò na marbh. Cha robh i a’ faighinn guth air. Sin agaibh àm a’ Chogaidh Mhòir, nuair a bha an Cogadh Mòr ann ron fhear a bh’ ann an seo. Ach, co-dhiù, sgrìobh i ’ugam-sa dhachaigh am bithinn air a shon agus sgrìobh mi ’uice gu luath.

“Faigh an gille,” orsa mis’, “agus togaidh sinn e,” orsa mi fhìn, “cho math ’s is urrainn duinn a dhèanamh. ’S e sin,” orsa mi fhìn, “ma gheibh sinn dhuinn fhìn e.”

Dh’fhalbh ise far an robh am boireannach. Agus ’s e a bana-mhaighstir a dh’innis dhi mu dheidhinn a’ phàisde a bh’ ann an seo. Chaidh i fhèin le a casan far an robh am boireannach agus bha i dìreach làn-leagte a thoir’ seachad. Fhuair sinn an gille sin agus gu dearbha, gu dearbha, ’s e fìor ghille math a th’ ann. Tha e a-nist pòsda còmhla ruinn. Tè a mhuinntir Bharraigh a tha aige de fhìor nighean ghasda agus o dheagh dhaoine, nighean le Ruairidh MacGilleathain nach maireann à Eòiligearraidh agus ’s e fior fìor bhoireannach math a th’ innte. Chan eil iongnadh ged a bhiodh i math. Bu mhath a h-athair agus a màthair agus a cuideachd gu lèir. Chan eil i aon ghreim nas fheàrr na an gille. Tha an gille cho math ri gille a ghabhas a bhith. Agus bi mathair a’ ghille sin a’ tighinn a choimhead orm. Is suarach an ùine – chan eil ach seachdain o dh’fhalbh i às an taigh an dèidh a bhith air holidays.[1] Bha i colla-deug na fichead latha còmhla ruinn. Agus ’s e fìor dheagh bhoireannach a bh’ innte. Agus sin agaibh an aon rud a b’ fheàrr a rinn mise riamh, an gille sin fhaighinn. Esan a tha a’ dèanamh na h-obrach a niste. Chan eil mise ach a’ coiseachd an-dràsta is a-rithist a’ dol timcheall air caoraich is air gnothach dhen t-seòrsa sin air mo shocair. Tha mi air fàs lapach. ’S ann a sìor fhàs lapach a bhios mi. Agus Dia Mòr gar beannachadh, duine sam bith a tha gan èisdeachd.

[Chuir Aonghas crìoch air sgeul a bheatha fhèin an-diugh, 23/VIII/’50. Thachair mi air Aonghas sa Mhàrt, 1947. Riamh on uair sin tha mi a’ sgrìobhadh naidheachd is sgeulachd bhuaithe. Tha iomradh air anns na leabhraichean cinn lae agam ò Mhárt 1947 gu ruige seo. Bi mi ag obair leis greis mhath fhathast, tha mi an dòchas. C[alum]. M[aclean]].

11.     The Stories

I was once one night watching over a cow that was going to give birth and I was back and forth, in and out. And the cow gave birth. I prepared the cow in any case and there was a drove of men in, two or three young lads, you see:

“Well, lads,” I said, “I don’t mind if I relate a wee story to you all here and you’ll be very pleased going home tonight once you’ve heard it.”

“Oh, very good,” said all of them, “let me hear it.”

I began the story and I started on them and the story which I told, Oh, it was a big, big, long one. I started on the story in any case and the lads really enjoyed the story.

“There’s no word,” they said, “about looking after the cow now.”

“Oh! no,” I said. “I think it will buck up at any rate between two or three o’clock in the morning.”

“Do you expect,” they asked, “that we’ll be in your company until then?”

“Oh! well,” I said, “you’ll stay a while in any event until the story is finished.”

But before the story was finished it was six o’clock in the morning and:

“You may now go home,” I said, “and the cow was cleaned and it was all right. It’s a long time since she gave birth. But you’ll get food before you that you won’t have to eat when you go home.”

And I had the lads together with me all night until our cow was all right. They went home in the morning. I was another night in and it was only myself, my wife and my sister, Mary Anne. Two old women came to our house, fairly old women. They were talking hither and thither and they asked me to tell them a wee story.

“By the books! since every one here’s a woman but me,” I said, “I don’t mind if I tell a wee, neat, nice story.”

“Mind,” one of them said, “that it’s not too long.”

“It won’t be, indeed,” I said.

I began the story and I was telling the story and the women enjoyed the story terribly well. I was telling the story and then tea came round and the women got tea.

“I’ll not take tea at all,” I said, “until the story is finished so that I won’t keep the women too late.”

Eleven o’clock came and went and then midnight and the story was still not finished. One o’clock came and the story was still not complete. They enjoyed the story so much that they couldn’t keep away until they had got to the very end of the story. But in any case I was telling the story. Five o’clock in the morning came and the story was still not finished. And the sun was rising on the morrow when the story was finally finished.

“Well, indeed,” said one of the women, “that was a wee story, but as long as it was we couldn’t leave until we had found out what happened at the very end. And we may now go home and we don’t need a lamp or a torch or anything else but Solas nan Cràst [moonlight?]. The light is as bright as if it was midday.”

And they came in a week’s time after that and I was in:

“Will I tell you a wee story tonight?”

“Indeed, no,” she said.

“We were lambasted by those at home,” she said, “when we got back home the other night and whether in or out, you’ve not to tell us another story ever more.”

And I parted from it.

I remember one occasion when a big drove of people from the north of this country [i.e. island], from Creagorry that came to our own house. Well, I was at feeding fooder at the time and I heard their noise as if they had been drinking and they were on some business or another. They had drink as well. I made some fodder in any case, laddie, and I got everything ready before I came back in. They were sharing a bottle and I got a good drop of the bottle they had. And they sat down at their food.

“By the books,” I said, “at the end, when they were finished with their food, I don’t mind at all if I tell you a wee story.”

And I began telling the story and and the story lasted all night and they had no way of leaving. They had no way of leaving. The story lasted all night. There were drams going round and the sun was newly rising the next day when the last of the men left.

There you have the type of work I was always always at: telling stories. Not at all at home but in many places. Any house that I would enter I would have to tell a story to them. I would cut it short if I was in a hurry but if I wasn’t then I would make is as long as I could and not one word would be left out of it. I was in good form all night, when the lads came from Cregorry. The lads had plenty drink and they had a beautiful, bright day going home and everyone saw them reach their houses as they were getting up. They asked when they got home where they had come from or where they were. They told them word for word what had happened to them and how they had gone to Angus Barrach’s house and how he had began telling stories.

On another occasion I was down at the other end of the island and there was a smith who was especially keen on stories. I began telling stories to him and we were beside a wall by the side of the highway. I was telling the story to him and one after another they started to crowd around and, at last, I believe there was around fifty folk surrounding me who were listening to the story. I kept them there until it started to darken at nightfall, a few were going to fetch cattle early in the evening and they were there until it had turned completely dark by the wall. And I never even finished telling that story. That was the longest story that I ever told. I wanted to keep going and there were many old men and women present. And I parted from it:

Well, I have one good thing to tell you about a lad I took home and he came from good folk although he was very harsh on his mother who had been separated from him. She had many children. She didn’t know how she was going to see them through the world. And my sister found out that she wanted to give away one of her children for good. Well, she thought of me right enough and that I would be very pleased to take the lad. He was an infant boy and he wasn’t even a year old at that time. And her husband was in the army and she had no idea at all in this great world if he was alive or dead. She didn’t get any word about him. That was at the time of the Great War, when the Great War was on before the present one [WWII]. But in any case she wrote to me at home to ask if I would be up for it and I promptly wrote back.

“Get the lad,” I said, “and we’ll bring him up as best we can. That is if we get him for ourselves.”

She set off [Angus MacMillan’s sister] to see the woman. And it was the schoolmistress who told her about this infant. She walked all the way on her own two feet to see the woman and she was just ready and willing to give him away.

We got this lad and indeed, indeed, he was truly a good lad. He is now married and stays with us. He has a woman from Barra and she is a truly fine lassie and from good folk, a daughter of the late Roderick Maclean from Eoligarry and she is a truly, truly good woman. It’s not a surprise that she is so good. Her father and mother were good and all her relations. She is not one bit better than the lad. The lad is just as good as any lad could be. And the lad’s mother comes to see me. The time passes terribly – It’s only a week since she left the house after she had been on holiday. She was a fortnight or twenty days along with us. And she was a very good woman. And there you have the best thing that I had ever done, getting this land. He does the work now. I only walk now and again rounding up the sheep and things like that, just taking it easy. I’m weak now and getting progressively weaker. And Great God may He bless anyone who is listening.

[Angus finished telling his life story on this very day (23/8/1950). I first met Angus in March, 1947. Ever since then I have been transcribing anecdotes and stories from him. He is mentioned in my notebook diaries since March 1947. I will be working with him for a good while yet, I hope. C[alum] M[aclean]].

Reference:

NFC 1180, pp. 301–548

Image:

Angus MacMillan, Benbecula, 1930s.

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[1] The date was 23 July 1950.