The Calum Maclean Project: Inverie

Showing posts with label Inverie. Show all posts

Saturday, 10 August 2013

The Beast of Barrisdale II

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

Friday, 9 August 2013

The Beast of Barrisdale I

The following is a rather lengthy supernatural anecdote taken down by Calum Maclean on the 20th of May 1952 from the recitation of Fr Andrew MacDonell (1870–1960) about the Beast of Barrisdale:

This is the story of the Beast of Barrisdale that I got some years ago, when I was in Inverie, and I was taking the place of the priest for a time, for a week or two or a month. And I got a sick call to Inverguseran. I was riding on horseback and Alan MacMaster was walking beside me. And, of course, it was not a very swift journey, as you can understand. But Alan began to tell me of an extraordinary thing that happened away up at a smearing burn at the end of Loch Hourn. Something wild began roaring there, in that part of the world, and frightened the people, the whole of the people, I believe that lived along the north side of Loch Hourn, were in terror for many weeks and months. But the story of the smearing house was this.

The men were in at their dinner one day and then came out and began telling stories on the stone dykes round the barn. And they are as a rule, you know, when the men are gathered together at a smearing place, there are many good stories and songs, and in fact when they are gathering them in for the work they generally get one a two who are good at that, telling stories or singing songs and so forth, And they were listening to their jokes and so on, when suddenly this terrific roaring commenced.

And every man was immediately silent and there was no trying who would be first. Right they went into the barn and every man on his own seat. And now the extraordinary thing about it was this: all the dogs were more frightened than the men and got under the seats hiding for all they were worth. Well that’s one side of it.

Now I must tell you: this wild roaring, whatever it was, commenced, in the year 1845 and Macdonald – I think he was Alasdair Macdonald – told me that he was there at Arnisdale; near Arnisdale, on the north side of Loch Hourn and a number of them had got together to push a boat out to go fishing. And they had just got the boat on its keel and were ready to shove, when the wild roaring was heard. The boat was dropped and every one of the men went away into the house frightened, terribly frightened. Now that, I said, was in 1845. The thing went on, heard frequently all along the south side of Loch Hourn mostly and sometimes over to Loch Nevis but not so commonly.

Now I had service at Barrisdale one day and after service we had breakfast together quite a number of us. Among other there was MacMaster – Ronald MacMaster particularly. He was the gamekeeper at Barrisdale. And he told me his experience.

He had to go up to the moor above Barrisdale to get some blackcock or grouse or some bird of that kind to send to the people who had the shooting there, to send it down to London. He got up very early in the morning so as to be at the moor just as day was breaking. There was a little snow in the ground, about half an inch, and when he got close, got up towards the top of the moor, the level of the moor, he heard the crooning of some birds, the very birds that he was after. So he backed a little to get the shelter of a rock because he knew that there was some snow coming – what you might call a shower of snow, translating the Gaelic. And he waited there with his gun ready.

And then suddenly without any warning off the birds go with a shriek of fright. He had some few words to say then, but he sat down on the rock. He took out of his pipe and had a smoke because “My shot is lost today.” He sat there for a time. And then when daylight came after the snow was over he walked out to where the birds had been. And there he saw the tracks of the birds all round and showing on the snow. And right through the middle of the snow. He thought it was a fox that had frightened them, but it wasn’t the tracks of a fox at all. The tracks are very interesting as described by him and described by another later on, us I shall tell you.

The tracks left were about four inches each way, across each way. And there were four blunt toes towards the front and then in the centre where there would be the ball of the lost there was left a cone of snow - showing that there was no ball there. And then – most extraordinary – four inches behind that was the mark of a great claw that went in through the snow and when coming up picked up little specks of peat “Huh!” he said, “this is the wild beast – Biast Mhór Bhàrasdail. It spoilt my shot today and I’m going to give him something before I finish with him.”

So he got his gun ready, followed in for several hundred yards. The thing was going one step after the other. The hind foot mark was going into the fore foot and it looked almost as if it was something with only two legs. But then he got to a fault in the hillside. It was a rock going right away down and facing him as he come to it. It was a fault. Part of the mountain was lower, the other part higher. He said, "That rock there was at least fourteen feet high.” Well now I often say “Leave it at twelve.” And when he followed on the track there was no halt or pause or looking at it but four marks of four paws at the top of the rock cleared the leap.

“Huh! I don’t like this. I think I’ll go home.” And he put, his gun away and made straight down the hill. He was away down some hundreds of yards when a shepherd whistled to him. “Raghnaill, come here The wild beast has gone into the wood just below.”

“Huh, tha gu leòr agam-sa ri dhèanamh ris a’ Bhiast Mhòr an-diugh.” [I’ve had enough to do with the Wild Beast today]

And marched home. The shepherd had been there taking sheep out of the corrie, afraid that the snow was going to come heavy and perhaps get his sheep buried. But Ronald didn’t pay any attention – went home. Now he told me the story and there was a John MacMaster there too, a gamekeeper, a nice fellow too. And Ronald said something: he thought it was something preternatural, not of this world at all because the marks of the paws were only seen on the beautiful heavenly snow that had come down. “Oh!” John MacMaster says, “No, I saw it in the peat.”

Then he described how he was one day going up a hill in the usual way of the men with his stick across his back under his arms or something, and he passed a place where the peat was bare of heather. And there was a mark of a paw and he went on and: “Huh! That’s bigger than a dog’s paw.” And came back and measured it and found the same measurements as Ronald had given in the snow. “Oh, well,” he says, “this is rather out of the ordinary.” But nothing happened.

Now on that same day after the men stopped speaking Mrs. MacMaster began talking. And she and someone else there began recounting the tale of a day on which the Wild Beast had come from the mountain top to the east and had come right down the valley past the house and away up on the other side. That was about two o' clock in the morning when her husband was away towards Mallaig for a doctor, because she was very sick upstairs and some other women with her. And they were mortally terrified. The house seemed to shake with the roaring of this animal. And then another thing. They said to me that when a girl who was working in the house, an oldish maid, she went out, and they said to me: “That girl was sixteen years in the Inverness Mental Hospital with the fright she took when this creature was heard at the village of Airor on the west coast.

The people were around. It was about mid-day. The people were about their houses and some working and women gossiping over their fences and so on. And the cows were around the different crofts and so on, when suddenly about mid-day this creature, whatever it was, began roaring on a small hill just above the houses. Then everybody was into the house terrified. And this is the extraordinary thing: all the cows gathered together and the bigger the older cows put the young cattle into the middle of a ring. And there they were with their heads out bellowing for all they were worth in mortal terror. And that girl was one of those who was terrified and, as I said, she was in the Mental Hospital in Inverness for sixteen years after.

Now it was one of the things that was very noticeable, the terror of dogs, yet the deer were not afraid.

Now I’ll tell you one part of the story that’s not first hand. What I am saying to you I heard from the people who heard the creature, but this is only second hand. Murdoch Maclennan. I am told, saw a certain creature that he was rather alarmed at. And a friend of his was there with him. They were both fox-hunters, brocairean. And the friend had a gun and said: “I’m going to fire at this creature.”

Murdoch tried to prevent him, but it was no good. The man fired and apparently missed, because the wild beast went off with the deer. He was with deer at the time and he ran away roaring for all he was worth and the deer went with him as companions.

Now another instance that is only second hand was that a man was walking along a road going towards the west along the north side of Loch Hourn, Arnisdale way. And he came almost to a point where the road was turning round and there coming up the other way was the Wild Beast. They both gazed at one another and then began to back each of them. As soon as the man got out of sight he ran for all he was worth, went to bed and was in bed for a week with the fright. Now those are the two points – that I have got – of second hand sight.

But the end of the whole thing comes like this. As I said, it began in 1845. The last time it was heard was in 1903, when John MacMaster and John MacGillvary were away up on a mountain towards the east end of Loch Hourn. I can’t now remember the name of the mountain. I knew it some time ago. And they were well up-over – two thousand feet. And below them there was a mountain barn and green pasturage beside the loch, this little loch. And in that there were a number of deer feeding. They were sufficiently far away to have their spy-glasses out. And they were looking at the deer. Some of the deer were lying down, others were standing up and feeding and so on: And then a thing that happens any time at all; if a raven crosses from one mountain top to another and goes over a bunch of deer, the deer, each ear will go up and try to place the raven, find out. Now, at that time the two men were lying on the ground with their spying-glasses watching the deer.

There were about six little dogs that they had. They were sitting on the grass beside them. And this wild creature began its roaring in a corrie about three miles across the valley. That’s what they thought. And the deer didn’t notice it at all. There was not a movement in the ear of any deer. But the dogs, the dogs tried to get under the legs of the two gamekeepers, hiding with their hair standing on end, frightened out of their wits. And then after a time it stopped. And that’s the last time it was heard. Both these gamekeepers promised to send me a telegram, if it was ever again heard, and we were going out after it.

The description that was given to me by many of the people. As I said before I did not meet the two who actually saw it, but it was well known among the people what it looked like. The description given to me was this. It was about the size of a donkey but with a mane and a tail like a horse. The head was broad at the top like that of a wild boar but there was no snout. It was a heavy over-hanging jaw and terribly, terribly ugly. The Beast did not attack anyone and nobody knows what it fed on.

MacMaster and MacGillvary would not tell me a lie. That I knew. None of those would. I knew them well and as God is my witness, what I tell you is true. That was the usual thing.

Father MacDonell died in a Glasgow nursing home in 1958. Three years earlier – aged eighty-five – he had received an MBE in recognition of a lifetime’s involvement in the recruitment of emigrants to Canada. He had connections with Aird and Invergarry and his pen-name when contributing to newspapers such as The Oban Times was Creagan-an-Fhithich.