An Dubh-Ghleannach: The Dark Lady of the Glen

Of all the boats, vessels or ships that sailed the high seas around the coasts of the Highlands and Islands perhaps none are quite so famous as An Dubh-Ghleannach. Not a few traditions were preserved about her and about the poet, Alasdair MacKinnon, who composed a song in praise of her. The following is an anecdote recorded by Calum Maclean on 21st of January 1951 from the recitation of John MacDonald of Highbridge, Brae Lochaber, and transcribed shortly thereafter:

AN DUBH-GHLEANNACH

Chaidh bàta a thogail leis na Dòmhnallaich shìos ann an Gleann Aladail. Agus ’s iad a thog an tùr thar a bheil am Prionnsa Teàrlach an sin. Agus ’s e An Dubh-Ghleannach a b’ainm dhan bhàta a bha seo. Agus cò rinn òran mu dheidhinn ach Alasdair MacFhionghuin, an corpalair MacFhionghuin, a chaidh a leòn glè dhona san Èiphit, dar a bha e anns an arm. Agus cha d’fhuair e riamh seachad air an dochann a bha sin. Agus bha e a’ dol ga thìodhlacadh comh ri càch. Ach thug a chompach an aire dhà gun robh e beò agus ghiùlan e dhachaigh e. Rugadh an duine seo, MacFhionghuin shìos ann an Bun na Caime an Àrasaig. Agus chaidh a thìodhlacadh anns a’ Chreagan sa Ghearasdan ann an 1814. Agus bha am bàta a bha seo ainmeil na latha, An Dubh-Ghleannach, an t-òran:

Ach bheartaich iad gach ball neo-chearbach

Ullamh, allamh, deas gu fairge.

Tharraing i le gaoth bhon eara-dheis,

Thog i an caol is, a Rìgh, bu doirbh.

’S ann sìos mar sin a chuir e am briathran e agus Gàidhlig mhath air An Dubh-Ghleannach. Bha i aca airson bhliadhnaichean An Dubh-Ghleannach aig Cloinn Ghlinn Aladail airson bhliadhnaichean. Chreic iad i ri fear shìos ann Sròn an t-Sìthein a bha a’ gabhail an aiseadh a-nunn an sin Loch Suaineart, portair. Agus bha e ochd bliadhna fichead a’ gabhail an aisidh a bha sin. Agus bha e air a chunntas na sheòladair cho math agus a bha shìos as na h-àiteachan sin. Ach dè thachair an latha a bha seo ach seann-daoine agus gille òg ag iarraidh an aiseadh. Is dè bh’ annta ach daoine a-mach às na taighean-cusbainn a bha a’ coimhead feuch am biodh feadhainn ris a’ bhriuthas mu na bruachan. Cha robh fhios aig an duine a bha seo cò bh’ annta. Agus dh’fhaighnichd iad am faigheadh iad an t-aiseadh:

“Gheibh.”

Chaidh iad a-nunn leis as a’ bhàta ach cha deach iad fada dar a thoisich i air toirt a-staigh an uisge.Thuirt an gille òg a bha seo:

“Cum tioram i, a laochain,” thuirt e. “Agus tha do mhac tuillidh is lag airson a bhith a’ coimhead as deaghaidh an aodaich.”

“Tha mi a’ dol ochd bliadhna fichead a-nunn an seo,” thuirt e.

“Cha do thill mi riamh. Ach tha an t-eagal orm gun iomair mi tilleadh an-diugh.”

“Is cunnart dhut tilleadh,” thuirt e, “ach thoir dhomhsa am bàta air no bidh sinn fodha.”

Cha robh e toileach seo a dhèanamh, is thug an gille òg bhuaithe am bàta mu dheireadh:

“Coimhead as deaghaidh an aodaich,” thuirt e, “agus oibrichidh mise an ailm.”

Dh’iarr e air pàirt den bhallaiste a chur a-mach is rinn e sin, mar a bha e ag iarraidh air. Ghabh e fhèin an t-eagal gum biodh iad caillte:

“Cuir am ballaiste mar siud is cuir mar seo e is cuir a-mach clach eile is clach eile.”

Is dar a fhuair e ceart i:

“Nì sin an gnothach,” thuirt e. “Dèan suidhe a-nis an sin agus thoir dhomhs’ a-nise am bàta ri làimhseachadh agus chì mise sàbhailte thall sibh.”

’S ann mar seo a bha.

Ghabh am balach òg a bha seo an ailm. Agus thug e nunn i. Agus cha tàinig aon deur a-staigh ’us an d’fhuair e thall. Agus chaidh e a-mach às a’ bhàta agus thuirt e ris mar seo. Chuir e tàmailt glè mhòr air.

“Tha bàta math agad nam b’aithne dhut a h-oibreachadh.”

Agus chan eil fhios aige gus an latha an-diugh cò bha sa bhalach òg ach gun robh e a’ falbh a-measg nan taighean-cusbainn. Agus chreic e i bliadhnaichean an deaghaidh dhith a bhith aige. Agus am forfhais mu dheireadh a chaidh fhaotainn air a’ bhàta sin aig cho ainmeil is gun robh i air an cunntas aig MacFhionghuin, bha bha i air a cuir air beul-fodha air bruaich agus air cladhach foipe. Agus bha i na taigh-chearc. ’S i a bha na mullach air an taigh-chearc.

And the translation may be rendered as follows:

THE DARK LADY OF THE GLEN

A boat was built by the MacDonalds of Glenaladale. It was they who built the tower where Bonnie Prince Charlie is. And they named the boat An Dubh-Ghleannach [The Dark Lady of the Glen]. And who composed a song about her but Alexander MacKinnon, Corporal MacKinnon, who was severely injured in Egypt when he was serving in the army. He never fully recovered from his injuries. And they were about to bury him with the rest when a companion noticed that he still alive and he carried him home. MacKinnon was born down in Bunacaimbe in Arisaig. He was buried in the Craigs cemetery in Fort William in 1814. This boat was famous in her day and here is the song about An Dubh-Ghleannach:

But they rigged every new rope

Quikly, smartly, ready to go to sea.

She drew the southeasterly wind,

Through the narrows, oh Lord, it wasn’t easy.

That’s how the words went and An Dubh-Ghleannach contains excellent Gaelic. The MacDonalds of Glenaladale owned An Dubh-Ghleannach for many years. They sold her to a man over in Strontian who used her as a ferry in Loch Sunart; he was porter. For twenty-eight years he used her as a ferry-boat. He was reckoned to be one of the best mariners they had over there. But what happened one day was that this old man and a young lad wanted to get over in the ferry and they were from the excise who were trying to find out if there were any illegal stills along the banks [of the loch]. This man didn’t know who they were. And the asked if they could take the ferry across:

“Yes.”

They went over in the boat but they hadn’t gone far when it started to take in water. The young lad said:

“Try to keep it dry, my little hero,” he said. “For your son is too weak to look after the sail.”

“I’ve been going across for twenty-eight years,” he replied.

“I’ve never had to return before. But I’m afraid that I’ll have to return today.”

“It’s dangerous for you to return,” he said, “but give me control of the vessel or else we’ll sink.”

He wasn’t too pleased to do this but eventually the young lad took control of the vessel:

“Take care of the sail,” he said, “and I’ll steer with the rudder.”

He asked that some of the ballast be thrown overboard and he did this as was requested.

He took fright that they were going to drown:

“Arrange the ballast like that and place like that with a stone and yet another stone.”

And by the time he correctly arranged it thus:

“That’ll it do,” he said. “Take a seat now and give me back control of the vessel and I’ll see you safely across.”

That’s how things turned out.

The young lad took hold of the rudder and took her across. And not another drop came in until they got her over. And when he got out of the vessel he said something that greatly embarrassed the other man.

“You’ve got a good boat if only you knew how to work her.”

And he wouldn’t have known to this very day who the young lad was other than he travelled around the custom houses. He eventually sold her many years afterwards. And the last thing known about that vessel which was so famous in her day as celebrated by MacKinnon, was that she turned upside down on a shore bank. She was turned into a hen-house and she was its roof.

Perhaps not all of the above it totally accurate as it seems that An Dubh-Ghleannach was not recovered at that time and it seems highly unlikely that she met the ignoble end of becoming the roof of a hen-house. The man who commissioned the boat was Alexander MacDonald, styled Alasdair an Òir (Alexander of the Gold). As a young man Alexander MacDonald had gone to Jamaica where he made a vast fortune and thus acquired his sobriquet. On returning to Scotland, around 1771, with his new found wealth he purchased two estates, namely Glenaladale and Glenfinnan, from a debt-ridden cousin.

His son and successor was called Alasdair Òg (Young Alexander) who financed the building of the magnificent tower, commemorating the failed ’Forty-five Jacobite Rebellion, that stands at the head of Loch Shiel. He died in Edinburgh on 4 January 1825 at the untimely age of twenty-eight.

A Gaelic bard and soldier, Corporal Alasdair MacKinnon (1770–1814), born at Bunacaimbe in Arisaig, composed a eulogy to Alexander MacDonald of Glenaladale’s Loch Shiel pleasure-boat and is a well-wrought sea poem considered to be one of the best nautical songs to have been composed in the language. Joining the army in 1794, he served in the 92nd Gordon Highlanders and also in the company raised by Captain Simon MacDonald of Morar. MacKinnon would later compose a lament for his military patron.

After being raised to the rank of corporal, MacKinnon saw action at the Battle of Egmont-op-Zee or Bergen in 1799. Two years later MacKinnon was serving in Egypt when he suffered severe wounds that were nearly fatal during the Battle of Alexandria in 1801. His seemingly lifeless corpse was found on the battlefield and if it were not for the intervention of his good friend, Sergeant MacLean, then being buried alive—however barely—would have been his fate.

MacKinnon was immediately conveyed to a hospital ship and recovered, though not fully, and on arrival back in Britain was discharged from the army with a pension. On eventually recovering from the effects of his wounds, MacKinnon joined the Royal Veteran Battalion some time afterwards at Fort William where he died in 1814 and was buried in “The Craigs” with full military honours.

Although MacKinnon only composed very few Gaelic songs they are nonetheless remarkable for their quality. He composed at least one other great Gaelic song, namely Blàr na h-Òlaind (The Battle of Holland). It seems that battles were the very thing that stirred his poetic imagination.

John MacGillivray mentioned in the opening of An Dubh-Ghleannach was a piper as well as a fellow-poet who famously penned the still popular song Thug Mi ’n Oidhche Raoir san Àirigh (I Spent Yestreen at the Shieling):

Latha dhomh ’s mi an cois na tràghad

Chuala mi caismeachd nan Gàidheal.

Dh’aithnich mi meòir grinn a’ Bhràthaich

Air sionnsair ùr bu lùthmhor gàirich,

’S thuig mi gun do ghluais an t-àrmann,

Fear thogail nan tùr uasal, stàtail.

One day as I walked by the shore

I heard the warlike music of the Gaels.

I knew the nimble fingering of MacGillivray

On a new chanter of vigorous note,

And I knew that the hero had put to sea

The builder of the noble, stately towers.

The opening musical prelude sets the scence as she is launched on her voyage but then a storm is raised against her as she makes hear way along Loch Linnhe, through the treacherous Corran Ferry and up the Sound of Mull:

Nuair ghabhadh i ’m fuaradh na sliasaid,

’S guala ’n fhasgaidh chasadh dian ris,

Ghearradh i ’n linn’ air a fiaradh,

’N aghaidh gaoithe, sìd’ is lìonaidh —

Dh’èignich i Corran an dìorrais,

’S leum i air iteig mar ian as.

When the windward took her sternside,

Her bow bend turned keenly,

As she cleaved apart the waves,

Against wind, weather or tide—

She wrested through obstinate Corran Narrows

And jumped by as a bird on the wing.

The poet rather effecively then uses a poetical affectation that the very Gods (from the classical Pantheon) are so taken aback by the sight of such a beautiful ship under sail that they are determined to see her destroyed by the elements which they then unleash just as she was about to sail by Ardnamurchan Point:

Mhionnaich Neiptiun agus Aeòlus,

Bhon chaidh gaoth is cuan fon òrdugh,

Nach do mhaslaicheadh cho mòr iad,

Bho linn na h-Àirce a bha aig Nòah,

Gun robh an Rìgh as àirde còmhnadh,

A’ dìon ’s a’ sàbhaladh Chloinn Dòmhnaill.

Neptune and Æolus swore

As they’d control of wind and wave,

That they’d never been so scorned,

Since the time of Noah’s Arc,

As by the King of highest succour,

Protecting and saving Clan Donald.

Given the fate which she was later to meet, there is something rather prophetic when MacKinnon describes the maelstrom that surrounds the faltering ship with only her young captain—Alasdair Òg—managing to keep a cool head and being able to steer her to safety despite the best efforts of divine retribution:

Bha Neiptiun agus Aeòlus eudmhor —

Dh’iarr iad builg nan stoirm a shèideadh,

Dh’òrdaich iad gach bòrd dhith reubadh

’S na siùil a shracadh nam brèidean,

Le borb-sgread is fead na reub-ghaoith,

’Cur siaban thonn na steòil sna speuran.

Neptune and Æolus were jealous —

They ordered the storm-bellows blown,

Commanded each plank of her torn

And the sails to be ripped into shreds,

By the wild howl of whistle of the tearing wind

Sending spindrift of waves in a spout to the heavens.

It is likely that the she took shelter at Kilchoan as it would have been rather foolhardy to have attempted passing by Ardnamurchan Point. MacDonald of Glenaladale was so pleased with the poem that he gave MacKinnon a reward of £5. It is said that a neighbour of MacKinnon’s, on hearing of such a large sum, was so taken aback at such a prize that he said: “It is a bonny song, to be sure, but faith, neighbour, you have been as well paid for it!” “I tell you, sir,” replied the poet, “that every stanza of every timber in An Dubh-Ghleannach’s side is worth a five-pound note!” No doubt this witty retort silenced the other man.

Encountering a sudden squall as she rounded Kildonan point, the ship foundered off the coast of the Isle of Eigg at Bogha nam Partan very near to Sgeir an Taigh’ in 1817. She was on her way back from an autumn cattle sale in nearby Arisaig, drowning her new owner Dr Donald MacAskill of Kildonan as well as the minister of the Small Isles. All hands were lost apart from Angus Òg, the great-grandfather of Hugh MacKinnon, a famous Eigg tradition bearer, and a tailor from Arisaig who managed to escape drowning by catching hold of a cow’s tale and clinging on for dear life until they both made it safely ashore. Ever after the tailor was known as Tàillear a’ Mhairt (The Tailor of the Cow). Hugh MacKinnon, recorded in 1964, describes graphically the exact moment when the ship sank:

And, you know, the ship was coming in Pollnampartan and they were tacking and…darkness had fallen on them and she was taken aback…Here’s the mast. The sail goes from the mast like this – on the side like this. But as she came round she was taken aback and the sail went and struck the mast and turned her over. She was taken aback. And she went down.

After this tragedy, what remained of the ship was allegedly towed to Galmisdale Bay where glimpses of it have been recorded ever since when the tide is exceptionally low. A plank was taken out and revealed to be hard wood, probably oak, with square nail holes and one wooden dowel, also showing evidence of adze work. If the wreck is effectively that of An Dubh-Ghleannach, then what may have been found are the remains of a classic eighteenth-century Hebridean galley or bìrlinn.

References:

Alasdair MacFhionghuin, Dain agus Orain le Alasdair MacFhionghuin, ed. by Alexander Maclean Sinclair (Prince Edward Island: Charlottetown, 1902).

Hugh MacKinnon, ‘An Dubh Ghleannach’, Tocher, no. 15 (Autumn, 1974), pp.  250–57; http://www.tobarandualchais.co.uk/en/fullrecord/44636/1.

Fionn (Henry Whyte), ‘An Dubh-Ghleannach’, The Celtic Monthly, vol. XII, no 10 (July, 1904), p. 189.

SSS NB 2, pp. 148–51

Images:

Portrait of John MacGillivray, MacDonald of Glenaladale’s Piper.

Galmisdale Bay, Isle of Eigg.

Playing Shinty on Eigg

On a fieldwork trip to the Isle of Eigg in January of 1946, Calum Maclean recorded an interesting historical reminiscence from a renowned Eigg seanchaidh called Hugh MacKinnon (1894–1972). MacKinnon remarks during his narrative that shinty playing was dying out even before the time he was being recorded; however, the game had been far more in vogue during previous generations. The period in which the narrator is recollecting his own as well as others’ memories (from whom he had heard about shinty) may be placed to a couple of generations before. According to MacKinnon, the last time a shinty-ball was struck in anger was way back in 1925:

’S e ’n iomain cluich a tha air a dhol buileach bàs as an àite seo a-nis. Nuair a bha mi-fhìn a' fàs suas nam bhalach òg, bha iad daonnan ga cumail suas. Bhite a’ cluich air tràigh Làthaig a h-uile bliadhna ann am chuimhne fhèin trì latha, sin Latha Nodhlaig, Làtha na Bliadhn’ Ùire agus Latha nan Trì Rìghrean, ach ro’ mo chuimhne-sa ri linn a bha romham bha cuimhne aca glè mhath air an iomain a bhith a’ tòiseachadh air Latha Samhna. Chuala mi iad ag ràdhainn – bha sin ann an linn mo sheanar, nuair a bha Dòmhnallach na thuathanach sa Chill agus crodh dubh aige air a’ mhonadh 's ann Latha Samhna a bhite a’ tearbadh nan laogh fon a’ chrodh agus am buachaill a bh’ aige air a’ chrodh ann an Sròdha, ’s e MacRaghnaill ’ic Lachainn a bheireadh iad ris; agus nuair a gheibheadh iad na laoigh is an crodh air an tearbadh fo chèile ann an Sròdha, bha e a’ dìreadh a-mach ro bhealach an sin is a’ tighinn tarsaing na Beinne Buidhe a-staigh Bealach nan Deomhain is a’ siaradh sìos gu Tràigh Lathaig agus a chaman na achlais gus pàirt a ghabhail as a’ chluich air Latha Samhna.

’S e ’n dòigh a bh’ aca air an iomain a chuir air n-adhart ann an seo, co-dhiù, fon a thàinig cuimhne dhomh-sa. Bha na daoine uile a’ cruinneachadh air an tràigh. Bhiodh iad uile ann, co-dhiù, ri meadhan latha agus nuair a bha iad a’ smaointinn gun robh a h-uile duine cruinn, bha iad a’ cruinneachadh cómhla ann an teis-meadhain na tràghad, agus bha dithis ghillean òga an uair sin air an cuir a-mach gus a dhol nan ceann-stùic, mar a bheireadh iad riutha. ’S e ’n dòigh a bha iad a’ gabhail air roinn nan daoine, bha an darna fear, nuair a bha iad nan  seasamh mu choinneamh a chèile agus bha an darna fear a’ tilgeil a chamain fhèin agus bha am fear eile ga ghlacadh na làimh. Bha iad an sin ag obrachadh suas air luirge a’ chamain dòrn às dèidh dòrn agus am fear aig am biodh an dòrn mu dheireadh, de luirge a’ chamain, sin am fear a bha a’ faighinn a’ chiad ghlaodh, agus a bha ag èigheach a-mach a’ chiad dhuine a bha ri bhith air a thaobh. Bha iad an uair sin a’ taghadh duine mu seach gus a ritheadh iad air na daoine air fad, is a h-uile duine, mar a bha iad a’ taghadh, bha iad a' tighinn a-nall is a’ seasamh air làmh-dheas an fhir a bha gan taghadh. Nuair a bha sin na daoine air an taghadh, bha a h-aon dhe na gillean seo a’ tilgeil a chamain dha na speuran, agus ’s ann a réir is mar a thuiteadh an caman air an tràigh sin an rathad a bhiodh a’ bhuidheann aige-san a’ cur agus bha iad daonnan, bu mhath leotha a’ bhuidheann a bheireadh a-mach a bhith a’ cluich is a’ ghrian air an cùl. Bha iad daonnan dhen bheachd gum bu choltach gum biodh buaidh leotha-san as a' chiad earrann dhen iomain, chionn bha càch a’ smaointinn fad na h-ùine a’ cluich is a’ ghrian nan aodann gun robh e gan dalladh is bhiodh e a’ milleadh na cluiche orra.

And the translation goes something like the following:

The playing of shinty has nearly died in this island now. When I was growing up as a young lad, they would always keep it up. They used to play on Laig beach every year and if I remember correctly there were three special days: Christmas Day, New Year’s Day and on the Epiphany [Day of the Three Kings], but recollecting the generation before they remember very well that shinty began on All Saints’ Day. I heard them say – this was around my grandfather’s time, when a MacDonald was a farmer in Kill and who had black cattle on the hills and on All Saints’ Day they used to separate the calves from the cows and the herdsman he employed to look after the cattle in Sròdha was called MacRaghnaill ’ic Lachainn, and by the time they had separated the calves from the cows at Sròdha, he was climbing out before the pass there and walking over Benbuie into Bealach nan Deomhain and going down westwards towards Laig and he was carrying a shinty-stick under his oxter to take part in the game on All Saints’ Day.

The way in which they organised the shinty here since I can recall was that all the men gathered on the beach. They were all gathered together there about midday and when they thought that everyone had arrived they gathered altogether in the middle of the beach and two young lads were sent to tend the goals as they were called. And they way in which they chose the sides, there was another man, and they stood opposite one another and the other man threw his shinty-stick and the other one caught it in his hand. They then worked up the shaft of the shinty stick fist after fist until they came to the last fist of the shinty-stick’s shaft and that man got the first choice and he then shouted out the first one to be on his side. They then chose players one after the other until they were all chosen, and everyone, as they were chosen, would come over to stand on the right-hand side of the man doing the choosing. When all the players had been chosen, one of the lads threw the shinty-stick in the air and depending upon how it fell on the beach was the direction in which that team would play, and it was always preferred by a team to play with the sun at their backs. They always expected it to be more likely that they would win the first half of the game because the rest always thought that to play with the sun in their faces would blind them and so that would spoil their play.

The above account may be supplemented by an interview conducted by Calum Maclean’s colleague, the late Donald Archie MacDonald, who took the opportunity to record in detail Hugh MacKinnon talking about shinty when visiting the Isle of Eigg in the mid-1960s.

An Iomain an Eige

H[ugh] M[acKinnon]: Ó, bhiodh iad ag iomain an seo, tha fhios agad, riamh suas go, tha mi cinnteach, cha chreid mise nach e nineteen twenty-five no six a chunna mise an iomain mu dheireadh air an tràigh.

D[onald] A[rchie] M[acDonald]: Is bha sibh fhèin ag iomain?

HM: Bha mi shìos an latha sin gun teagamh ach cha deach mòran ionanach a dhèanamh. Chuir iad na camain an dàrna taobh agus fhuair iad ball coise. ’S e raghainnich an fheadhainn òga.

DAM: Seadh. Ach ’s ann ann air an tràigh – an Làthaig?

HM: Tràigh Làthaig shìos an sin, ’s ann. Ach nuair bha mi nam bhalach a’ dol dhan sgoil ’s sinn…ó, suas a h-uile car, agus even dhà no trì bhliadhnaichean an dèidh a’ chiad chogaidh, bhiodh iomain glè mhath ann. Bhiodh a h-uile duine san eilean a’ cruinneachach a dh’ionnsaigh na tràghad. Agus gheibheadh tu, tha mi cinnteach, cruinn air fad iad suas mu mheadhan latha, mun dà uair dheug.

            Bha an uair sin dithist de ghillean òga, dh’fhaodte suas mu fhichead bliadhna no sin, air an cur a-mach gus na daoine roinn. Agus mar a bha roinn air a dhèanadh, bha ’n dà ghille bha seo a’ seasamh mu choinneamh a chèile is bha an còrr dhen t-sluagh mun cuairt daibh, no cruinn, is an dà ghille seo seasamh mu choinneamh a chèile. Is thilgeadh an dàrna fear an caman a dh’ionnsaigh an fhir eile ’s bha e ga ghlacadh mu mheadhan na luirge, dh’fhaodte, agus bha iad an sin ag obrachadh suas air…lurg a’ chamain suas gus am mullach. Is ge be cò aige bha ’n dòrn mu dheireadh ’s ann aige-san bha ’chiad thaghadh. Agus bha ’fear sin gun teagamh a’ taghadh an t-iomanaich na b’ fheàrr a bha e smaointinn a bha cruinn agus bha ’n duine bha seo dol a-null ’s a sheasamh ri thaobh. Bha sin an ath fhear a’ taghadh an ath duine. Bha iad a’ taghadh nan daoine mar a b’ fheàrr a bha iad a’ smaointinn a bha iad air an iomain gus an robh a h-uile duine bha cruinn air an roinn a-mach leth mar leth air gach taobh.

            ’S ann uair sin an dithist ghillean seo, a rinn an roinn, bha iad an sin a’ tilgeil nan caman os an cionn ’s bha na camain a’ tuiteam air an tràigh agus mar a chanamaide anns an iomain, “a’ bheulag” agus “a’ chùlag.” A’ bheulag nuair a bha thu ’bualadh leis an làimh-dheis gu h-ìseal air a’ chaman, agus a’ chùlag nuair a bha thu ’bualadh leis an làimh-cheàrr gu h-ìseal air a’ chaman. Ach ’s e ’bheulag a bha cunntas agus ma….laigh an caman agadsa air an tràigh sa bheulag a’ cur gu tuath, sin an taobh air am biodh tu. Agus ma laigh caman an fhir eile as a ’bheulag a’ cur gu deas….sin an taobh a bhiodh esan ’s a chuid dhaoine ’cur a chionn ’s ann car a tuath agus a deas a bha ’n tràigh a’ ruith. (Dh’fhaodte gun robh i rud beag ris an ear-thuath no ris an iar-dheas ach ’s e glè bheag co-dhiù). Ach dh’fhaodadh e air uairean tachairt gun tuiteadh an dà chaman an aon rathad. Dh’fheumadh iad an uair sin a bhith air an tilgeil a-rithist aca is dh’fhaodte gu feumte an tilgeil a dhà no trì a dh’uairean mus faighte an dà chaman a’ cur an agaidh a chèile. Agus an uair sin ma bha an caman agadsa leis a’ bheulag a’ cur gu tuath, bha thu dol an taobh a deas. Bha ’n fheadhainn eile dol an taobh a tuath. Agus bha an uair sin na coilleagan air an cur suas: ’s e “choilleag” a canamaide ris. Mar a chanas iad as a’ Bheurla, goal.

DAM: Ó, seadh, ach bha aon rud a bha sibh a’ ràdha: dè bha iad a’ ràdha nuair a bha iad…?

HM: Ó, nuair a bha a’ roinn nan daoine…Am fear a fhuair an dòrn mu dheireadh, ’s ann aige bha ’chiad taghadh ’s bha e…Chanadh e, “Buail am port.” “Leigidh mi leat,” chanadh am fear eile. Agus am fear aig an robh ’n dòrn mu dheireadh, mar a thuirt mi, bha e ’taghadh a’ chiad duine.

            Ach, co-dhiù, bha na coilleagan air an cur a-mach, tè air an taobh a deas is tè air an taobh a tuath agus ’s e mu dhusan troigh a leud a chuireadh iad annta. Agus gheibheadh iad spidegan de chlachan, an fheadhainn a bhiodh air an taobh a deas, thall ann am bun Abhainn na Caime, agus an fheadhainn a bh’ air a’ cheann a tuath, gheibheadh iad a-bhos an Ceann Daoibhinn, gheibheadh iad clachan ann an sin.

DAM: Agus dè ’n t-astar a bha eadar an dà cheann?

HM: Cha robh tomhas sònraichte air a chur a-mach idir, a Dhòmhnaill Eairdsidh. Cha robh.

DAM: Ach dè ’n t-astar a bhiodh…?

HM: Ó lochain, bhiodh, tha mi cinnteach, suas dh’fhaodte ri dà cheud slat. Ó tha mi cinn…tha mi a’ smaointinn gum biodh…Agus co-dhiù, mar a thuirt mi cheana, thòiseachadh an iomain suas, dh’fhaodte, mu mheadhan latha agus, och, chumadh iad orra suas gum biodh e trì uairean feasgar, nas lugha na chuireadh an làn car de mhoill orra no stad. Ach chunna mi iad a’ cluich agus gun mòran is leud trì no ceithir a shlatan aca dhen tràigh: am muir-làn, tha fhios agad, nuair a bhiodh e suas mun mhuir-làn.

DAM: Is cha robh cus riaghaitlean a’ dol, tha mi cinnteach?

HM: Ó cha robh riaghailtean ann, ó cha robh riaghailtean ceart aca, gun teagamh sam bith. Cha robh.

            Agus, co-dhiù, ri mo chuimhne-sa, ’s e Latha Nollaig, ’s Latha na Bliadhn’ Ùire is Latha nan Trì Rìghrean, ’s e sin na trì latha tha cuimhn’ agam-s’ air am biodh daoine dol a dh’iomas sìos. Ach an ginealach a bha romham, agus ginealaich eile roimhe sin, bha àsan a’ tòiseachadh Latha Samhna. Bhiodh Latha Samhna aca, Latha Fhèill Amharast agus Latha Nollaig ’s Latha na Bliadhn’ Ùire is Latha nan Trì Rìgh. Bhiodh na còig latha aca agus bhon a ’s e Latha nan Trì Rìgh an latha fo dheireadh a bhiodh aca dhen iomain, nan leigeadh an làn leotha e, bhiodh iad shìos gum am biodh an oidhche air tuiteam ’s an rionnagan air an adhar mun tigeadh iad dhachaigh, agus bhiodh iad cho sgìth is nach toireadh iad am bainne à spàin nuair a thigeadh iad dhachaigh.

DAM: Ach bhiodh iad uaireannan ag òl mus d’rachadh iad ann?

HM: Bhiodh iad ag òl mu rachadh iad ann gun teagamh agus cha b’ ann gu math a bhiodh sin air uairean cuideachd.

DAM: Agus ‘s ann timcheall nan taighean a bhiodh iad, an ann?

HM: Ó ’s ann: ó bhiodh iad a’ dol mun cuairt chun nan taighean, ’s ann, mu rachadh iad a dh’ionnsaigh na tràghad. Gun teagamh, gun teagamh sam bith ’s dh’fhaodadh nach biodh sin a’ cuideachadh ghnothaichean air uaireannan. Bhiodh feadhainn, a rèir an nàduir a bh’ aca, bhiodh iad na bu chaise is na…b’ fhasa leotha, dh’fhaodte, aimhreit a dhèanamh air thàillibh gun robh iad a’ gabhail dhramachan is sin. Chan e gum faca mise mòran aimhreit riamh ann, ach chan e nach biodh a leithid ann gun teagamh rom latha-sa. Ó bhiodh.

DAM: Agus co-mheud a dh’fhaoadh a bhith air gach taobh?

HM: Ó h-uile….Bhathas a’ dèanamh dà leth orr’…Ó laochain, tha mi cinnteach, tha mi cinnteach gu faca mi suas, dh’fhaodte, còig duine fichead no suas gu deich duine fichead air gach taobh.

DAM: Nis bha sibh a’ ràdha rium gu faca sibh aon bhodach ann turas. Dè ’n aois a bha e?

HM: Ó bha e suas ri…mu cheithir fichead agus bha egun ròine air ach a bhriogais ’s a lèine. Tha cuimhn’ agam glè mhath air. Bha latha brèagha grianach ann gun teagamh. Ó, bha, Gilleaba’ mac Iain ’ic Aonghais. Bhà e ceithir fichead bliadhna, tha mi cinnteach. Agus an latha bha seo – Latha na Bliadhn’ Ùire, tha cuimhn’ agam glè mhath air an tràigh:…cha robh ròin air ach a bhriogais ’s a lèine. Agus tha cuimhn’ agam fhathast, ’s ann a’ cur a-nunn gu deas a bha e, a-nunn a dh’ionnsaigh na Caimeadh a bha e. Agus bhuail cuideigineach am ball thall on taobh thall agus chuannaic e e ‘tighinn agus sheòl am ball on a’…a’ falbh ro àrd, mu àirde uchd agus sheas e agus chuir e mach uchd agus ’s ann mar sin a stad e ’m ball…À, ’n duine bochd, agus tha mi a’ smaointinn gun do chaochail e ’n ath-shamhradh a-rithist.

DAM: Agus rachadh aige air beagan ruith a dhèanamh?

HM: Ó rachadh. Dhèanadh e beagan ruith agus bha e cheart cho togarrach deònach às an iomain ri duin’ òga, ri gill’ òg…Bha. Agus rom, well, rom latha-sa co-dhiù, bhiodh iad a’ cur dhiubh am brogan. Bhiodh iad cas-rùisgte agus an sneachda ’s an reothadh air an tràigh. Bhiodh...

DAM: Agus rud eile bha sibh ag innse dhomh mun choilleig a bha seo. Niste…nuair a thigeadh am ball eadar na clachan…?

HM: Ó bha e an uair sin a-staigh.

DAM: Is dè theireadh iad ris an sin...?

HM: Ó ’s e leth-chluich, cha chreid mi, a chanadh iad ris an sin. Nuair a rachadh e staigh dà uair ’s e cluich. Bha cluich air an dàrna raobh ma chuir an taobh a bha thall, ma chuir iad dà uair thromh ’n choilleig air an taobh eile, bha cluich orra. Mas e aon uair a chuir iad thromh ’n choilleig i, ’s e leth-chluich a bh’ ann. Agus nuair a rachadh e seachad air taobh…taobh a deas no ceàrr na coilleig ’s ann tuathal a bha i: chaidh e tuathal, chaidh am ball tuathal. Agus tha fhios agad…

DAM: Ged a rachadh e taobh seach taobh?

HM: Taobh seach taobh, taobh seach taobh: bha e an uair sin, bha e tuathal agus an fheadhainn a bha a’ cur a dh’ionnsaigh na coilleig sin chan fhaodadh iad a dhol na b’ fhaide, gun teagamh sam bith, chan fhaodadh iad a dhol na b’ fhaide na ’choilleig fhèin. Nuair a chaidh am ball seachad ’s e ’fear a bha ’glèidheadh na coilleig a bha falbh an uair sin a dh’fhaighinn a’ bhuill, ach chan fhaodadh e thoirt air adhart na b’ fhaide na ’choilleig, gun teagamh sam bith.

DAM: Air neo dh’fhaoadh iad a bhith na…?

HM: Ó, dh’fhaodadh iad a bhith, dh’fhaodadh iad a bhith na charaibh an uair sin, agus cha toireadh e uair sam bith air n-adhart air a’ choilleig i – am ball. Agus glè thric ’s e fear a bhiodh math air buille, a bhuaileadh buille mhath sgoinneil, a bhiodh aca a’ glèidheadh na coilleig.

DAM: Is dh’fheuchadh esan an uair sin a’ bhuille?

HM: Dh’fheuchadh esan a’ bhuille ’n uair sin ’s chuireadh e ’m ball a-null pìos math an taobh eile…Agus bha iad an uair sin, bha iad às a dhèidh a-rithist an dà thaobh.

DAM: Agus dè seòrsa buill a bh’ aca?

HM: Bha cnuachd de fhreumhach challtuinn…

DAM: Is ciamar a bha iad a’ toir’ cumadh air?

HM: Ó bhiodh iad ga shnaidheadh le sgithinn an toiseachd agus an uair sin bhiodh iad ag obair air ga shuathadh ’s ga dhèanadh mìn le rusp no eighe. Agus chluinninn…rud eile chuala mi iad ag ràdhainn, gus a dhèanadh na bu ruighe is nach sgoiteadh e as a chèile leis na buillean….ga ghoil ann am poit de dh’uisge air an teine….Bha. Is thèid mise ’n urras dhe na buill ud fairicheadh tu i.

DAM: ’S cha robh còmhdach sam bith timcheall air?

HM: Cha robh còmhdach ach a’ chnag chruaidh fhiodha, cha robh.

DAM: Agus na camain a-niste?

HM: Ó na camain: gam buain as a’ choillidh. Bhiodh calltuinn is leamhan is darach is seileach is beithe ’s a h-uile seòrsa dhèanadh caman…Bha ’m beithe na chaman grinn aotrom ach bhe e uamhasach furasda bhristeadh. Agus bha leamhan, dhèanadh e caman grinn (?cuideachd a bhiodh glè?) aotrom. Agus gun teagamh an darach, tha fhios gur h-e caman bu chruaidhe is bu treasa is a b’ fhaide sheasadh dhiubh air fad, ach glè thric bhiodh dèireach ann. Bhiodh dèireach a’ dol suas thromh lurg a’ chamain, dol thromh d’ làmhan, leis a’ bhall fhiodha, tha fhios agad. Bha ‘bhuille cho cruaidh eadar am ball fiodha agus an caman daraich. Agus sin agad rud a chuala mi iad ag ràdhainn ach cha do dh’fhiosraich mi fhìn riamh e: nan cuireadh tu toll no dhà le gimleid chaol thromh lurg a’ chamain nach ruigeadh an dèireach thu idir.

DAM: Agus am faca sibh fhèin camain air an tolladh?

HM: Chunnaic uair no dhà.

DAM: Agus an robh iad…a’ slisneadh a’ chamain no toir cumadh sam bith air…?

HM: Ó gun teagamh, bha, an caman air a shliseadh. Agus, tha fhios agad, bha roinn mhòr dhiubh ’s ann air an lùbadh a bha iad – air an cur ann an laghainn. ’S ann, ’s ann.

DAM: Seadh. Ciamar a bha iad a’ dèanamh seo?

HM: Bha, laochain, ga chur as an teine – an teine mhònadh. Chuireadh tu mu, suas mu throigh….Dh’fhaodte gur h-e slat dhìreach a bh’ agad, dh’fhaodte mu cheithir troighean no sin de leamhan no de dharach. Gun teagamh gheibheadh tu an leamhan uaireannan, dh’fhaodte, ’s an cromadh nàdurra ann cuideachd. Ach, mar bu trice, chan fhaigheadh tu ach lorg – mar a chanadh iad – lorg dhìreach – dh’fhaodte mu cheithir troighean a dh’fhad is sin. Agus bha thu ga chur, an ceann trom dhi gun teagamh, an ceann ìseal, as an teine…mu throigh no sin suas bhon cheann ìseal dhi agus a’ ghriosach ’s na h-èibhleagan mòna mun cuairt da. Ach dh’fheumadh tu ’n aire ’thoirt nach loisgeadh tu ’fiodh…Bha ’rùsg gun teagamh sam bith a’ losgadh air falbh gu math, ach dh’fheumadh tu ’n aire ’thoirt: bha e glè bhuailteach gun tachradh e gu loisgeadh gus a’ lùbadh, ma loisg thu ’fiodh, sgàineadh am fiodh, tha fhios agad. Ach an fheadhainn a bha math air na camain a dhèanadh is sin…bhiodh iad na faireachadh daonnan ’s cha leigeadh iad leis a’ mhaide losgadh. Agus nuair a chuireadh iad as an laghainn mar seo e, lùbadh iad cho bòidheach ’s a chunna tu riamh. Agus ma bha, nise, ’n teasachadh ceart aige a rinn san losgadh, dh’fhàgadh tu, ó dh’fhaodte, trì latha sin as an laghainn e ’s bheireadh tu às e agus dh’fhuiricheadh a’ chumadh sin air.

DAM: ’Robh thu ga cheangal nuair a bha….?

HM: Ó, bha, bha. Ó…dh’fheumadh tu ’cheangal. Cha robh àite no inneal sònraichte aca mar sin mar laghainn ann. Dh’fhaodte nam biodh fàradh agad no rud dhen t-seòrsa sin agus gun teagamh, tha fhios agad….tha (?rungaichean) an fhàraidh, tha iad tuilleadh is farsaing bho chèile. Co-dhiù, nan cuireadh tu pìos de bhòrd eile tarsaing agus gun dèanadh tu chumhang e, dhèanadh tu ’n t-àite cumhang, dh’fhaodte mu thrì òirlich no sin, agus a chur a-staigh ann an sin agus a lùbhadh agus a cheangal le ròpan, an ceann…an leth eile dheth…suas mu mheadhan, an lorg a bha seo ’s I air an lùbadh agad, dh’fhàgadh tu ann an sin i airson dh’fhaodte trì latha ’s bheireadh tu às i, ’s bha cumadh cho bòidheach ’s a chunna tu riamh air. Bha e sin, fhios agad, air a shliseadh…air a dhèanadh trì-oiseineach.

DAM: Seadh…an ceann ìseal?

HM: An ceann ìseal, an ceann a bh’ air an lùbhadh.

DAM: Seadh agus dè…robh ainm sam bith ac’ air a’ cheann a bha sin dhen chaman?

HM: Bha, bois a’ chamain…a’ bhois.

DAM: Agus dè bh’ aca air a’…?

HM: Lurg. ’S e. An lurga ’s a’ bhois…’s e. An caman calltuinn, ó, mura faigheadh tu gum bidh a’ chumadh nàdurra air ga bhuain, cha robh e uamhasach furasda lùbadh idir. Cha lùbadh e idir cho bòidheach ris an darach ’s ris an leamhan. Nuair a bhiodh darach is leamhan, fhios agad, air an lùbadh, dhèanadh tu cearcall dhiubh is cha bhrist e.

DAM: Rud eile bha mi ’dol a dh’fhoighneachd dhuibh: dè cho àrd ’s a dh’fhaodadh am ball ’tighinn mus biodh e…? Dè cho àrd ’s a thigeadh e nuair a bhiodh e cunntais airson….leth-chluichd?

HM: Ó tha, a Dhòmhnaill Eairdsidh, chan eil mise ’smaointinn gun robh e cunntas mura an robh e ruith air an làr…

DAM: Dh’fheumadh e bhith ruith air…chan fhaodadh e bhith an àirde, chan fhaodadh e bhith troigh os cionn….?

HM: À, well, dh’fhaodte ged a bhiodh e òirlich no troigh no rud dhen t-sèorsa sin, ach tha fhios agad, fear a bhiodh cho àrd ri d’ chruach no ri d’ ghualainn, cha chuala mi riamh iad ga chunntas mar goals.

DAM: Ó, bha rud eile bha sibh a’ ràdha: cha robh na gillean òga faighinn…a-measg nan daoin’ eile idir?

HM: Ó, cha robh, na fir mhòra. Cha robh, cha robh: clann sgoileadh, gus am biodh tu suas ceithir deug, gus am biodh tu seachad air aois sgoileadh. Chan fhaigheadh tu ’measg nam fear idir, chan fhaigheadh.

DAM: Agus an robh an uair sin iomain aca-sa dhaibh fhèin?

HM: Iomain aca dhaibh fhèin, aig a’ chloinn. Bha…bhiodh iad thall eadar dà abhainn Làthaig eadar a’ Chaim agus an abhainn thall glè thric, no dh’fhaodte bhos ann an Ceann Daoibhinn…shìos aig uamha Cheann Daoibhinn, tràigh bheag ann an sin. ’S bhiodh iad ann an sin leotha fhèin…a chionn chan fhaigheadh iad buille co-dhiù ged a….nam biodh iad a-measg an fheadhainn mhòra. Agus a-rithist, leis a’ bhall fhiodha, gun robh e cunnartach gu faodadh iad a bhith air an dochann. Ó, bhiodh feadhainn a’ faighinn droch bhuillean, a Dhòmhnaill Eairdsidh…Bhiodh, bhiodh, bhiodh: leis a’ bhall agus leis na camain cuideachd. Och, bhiodh, agus aimhreitean mu dheidhinn…

DAM: ’S cha robh duin’ aca bha riaghladh na cluichd mar gum biodh?

HM: Ó, cha robh. Cha robh duine a’ riaghladh na cluichd, a Dhòmhnaill Eairsidh. Cha robh. Cha robh.

DAM: Is chan fhaca sibh iomain an deaghaidh, dè thuirt sibh, nineteen…?
HM: Ó, tha mi ’smaointinn gur h-e twenty-five….nineteen twenty-five no twenty-six. Tha cuimhn’ a’m a bhith shìos. Tha mi ’creidsinn gur h-e nineteen twenty-five fhèin a bh’ ann…

DAM: ’S cha robh na gillean fhèin ag obair as a dheaghaidh sin?

HM: Ó, bha feadhainn òga, ó bha suas gu fichead bliadhna, bha roinn…beagan ann dhiubh sin ach à chan eil fhios a’m, cha robh ’n togairt no ’n deònaich aca ga h-ionnsaigh idir. Bha iad car a’ tionndadh a-null ri ball-coiseadh, ’s ball-coiseadh shìos san latha a bh’ ann, co-dhiù, ’s cha deachaidh mòran iomanach a dhèanamh – glè bheag. Chaidh am ball-coise a thoirt air lom ’s ’s ann air an sin a chuir iad seachad an latha. Cha robh mise riamh tuilleadh air tràigh as a dheaghaidh sin ’s chan eil mi ’smaointinn gun robh no duin’ eile…

            Ó, chan fhaca mi dithist dhiubh bualadh a chèile riamh rim chuimhne-sa air an tràigh – chan fhaca, Ach thachair e uair is uair rom latha-sa. Ach tha mi cinnteach gun robh na dramachan, math dh’fhaodte, a’ dèanamh roinn dhe sin gun teagamh. Is a bharrachd air an sin tha daoin’ ann, a Dhòmhnaill Eairsidh, co-dhiù, tha, chan urrainn daibh cluich: chan urrainn, chan fhuiling iad sìon….mòran a dhol nan aghaidh…Agus chan e fear-cluich ceart a tha sin idir…Duine nach fuiling rud a dhol na aghaidh, cho math ri rud a dhol leis, cha bu choir dha bhith cluich ann.

DAM: Cha bu choir. Ach bha h-uile duine a’ cluich, co-dhiù?

HM: A h-uile duine ’cluich an siud, bha, h-uile duine cluich an siud.

And the translation of the above piece goes something like the following:

Shinty in Eigg

H[ugh] M[acKinnon]: Oh, they were playing shinty here, you know, right up to, I suppose…I think it was in nineteen twenty-five or six that I saw the last shinty match on the beach.

D[onald] A[rchie] M[acDonald]: And you were playing yourself?

HM: I was down there that day, right enough, but not much shinty was played. They laid the camans [shinty-sticks] aside and got out a football. That was what they young ones wanted.

DAM: Yes, but it was on the beach – at Laig?

HM: Laig beach down yonder, yes. But when I was a boy going to school and we were…oh, all the time, and even for two or three years after the First War, there used to be pretty good games of shinty. Everybody in the island used to gather at the beach. And you’d get all of them, perhaps, gathered together getting on for midday, about twelve o’clock.

            Then two young lads, perhaps about twenty years old or so, were chosen to pick the sides. And this is how the picking was done: these two lads would stand facing each other and the rest of the players would be round about them, or in a bunch, with these two lads standing facing each other. And one of them would throw his caman to the other and he would catch it about the middle of the shaft, perhaps, and then they would work up [hand over hand] on the shaft of the caman to the top. And whoever had the last hand-hold on it, he was the one who had first pick. And this one, of course, would pick the man he thought was the best player of the lot and that man had to go over and stand beside him. Then the other one would pick the next man. They went on picking the men they thought were the best players until everyone there was divided, half on one side and half on the other.

            And then these two lads who had picked the sides would throw their camans in the air and the camans would land on the beach, as we used to call it in shinty a’ bheulag (forehand) or a’ chùlag (backhand). The beulag was when you were playing holding the caman with the right hand below and the cùlag when you were playing holding the caman with the left hand below. But it was the beulag that counted and if your caman fell on the beach with the beulag facing north, that would be the direction you would be playing. And if the other fellow’s caman fell with the beulag facing south, that would be the direction he and his team would be playing in, for it was more or less north and south that the beach ran. (Perhaps it was a little to the north-east or the south-west but it was very little anyway). But it could sometimes happen that both camans would fall facing the same direction. Then they would have to throw them up again and it could be that they might have to throw them two or three times before the camans could be got pointing in different directions. And then if your caman fell with the beulag facing north, you went to the south side. The other lot went to the north side. Then the coilleagan were set up: it’s the coilleag we used to call it. As they say in English, a goal.

DAM: Oh, yes, but there was something you were saying: what was it they said when...?

HM: Oh, when they were picking sides…The one who got the last hand-hold, he had the first pick and he…would say Buail am port (?”Strike up the tune”). [some sources have “Buaileam ort” (Have at you!) which is probably better]. Leigidh mi leat (“I’ll allow you”), the other would say. And the one who had the last hand-hold, as I said, he picked the first man…

            By, anyway, the goals were set up, one on the south side and one on the north side, and it would be about twelve feet wide they made them. And they would get bits of stones, those who were on the south side, over at the mouth of Abhainn na Caime and those who were at the north end up here at Ceann Daoibhinn, they would get stones there.

DAM: And what distance would the two ends be apart?

HM: Oh, there was no fixed distance laid down at all, Donald Archie. No.

DAM: But what was the [usual] distance…?

HM: Oh, my lad, it would be I suppose up to, perhaps, two hundred yards…Oh, I’m sure….I think so […] And, anyway, as I’ve said already, the game would start, perhaps about midday and, och, they’d keep going till it was coming on for three o’clock in the afternoon, unless the tide got a bit in the way or stopped them. But I’ve seen them playing when they hadn’t much more width left than three or four yards of the beach; the high tide, you know: when it was getting on for high tide.

DAM: And I don’t suppose there would be much in the way of rules…?

HM: Oh, there were no rules at all, oh no, not…proper rules, I’m quite certain. No.

            And, anyway, when I remember it, it was Christmas Day and New Year’s Day and the Day of the Three Kings [Epiphany], these were the three days I remember when people used to go down to play. But the generation before me, and other generations before that, they started on All Saints’ Day. They would have All Saints’ Day, St Andrew’s Day, and Christmas Day and New Year’s Day and Epiphany. They had the five days and since Epiphany was the last day they had of the shinty, if the tide allowed them, they would stay there till night had fallen and the stars were in the sky before they came home and they would be so tired that they couldn’t sup milk from a spoon by the time they came home.

DAM: But they would sometimes be drinking before they went down?

HM: They would be drinking before they went down, indeed, and there were times that wasn’t for the best either.

DAM: And they’d be going the rounds of the houses, would they?

HM: Oh, yes, oh, they’d be going the rounds of the houses, yes, before they went to the beach. Certainly, sure enough, and it could be that that didn’t help matters sometimes. Some of them, depending on their temperament, they’d be quicker tempered and, perhaps, find it easier to pick a fight because they were having drams and that. Not that I saw much in the way of fighting there, but that’s not to say that that sort of thing didn’t’ happen for sure before my time. Oh yes.

DAM: And how many players could be on either side?

HM: Oh everyone…They divided them in two…Oh, my lad, I’m sure, I’m sure I’ve seen up to, maybe, twenty-five or even up to thirty on each side…

DAM: Now you were telling me you had once seen and old man there. What age would he be?

HM: Oh, he was up to…about eighty, and he didn’t have a stitch on but his trousers and shirt. I remember it fine. It was a warm, sunny day right enough. Oh, yes, Gilleasbuig son of John son of Angus. Yes, he was eighty years old, I’m sure. And this day, New Years’ Day, I remember fine on the beach…he didn’t have a stitch on but his trousers and his shirt. And I can still remember, he was playing towards the south, over towards the Caim. And someone hit the ball from the other side and he saw it coming and the ball rose…going too high, about chest high and he stopped and stuck out his chest and that was how stopped the ball….Ah, the poor man, and I think he died the next summer again.

DAM: And he could run a little?

HM: Oh, yes. He could run a little and he was quite as keen and as eager in the game as a young man, as a young lad. Yes.

            And before, well, before my time at least, they used to take off their shoes. They’d go barefoot with snow and frost on the beach. Yes…

DAM: And something else you were telling me about this goal. Now…when the ball went between the stones…?

HM: Oh, it was in then.

DAM: And what did they call that?

HM: Oh, it was a leth-chluich (half-play), I think, you called that. When it went in twice it was a cluich (play). There was a cluich against one side if the other side, if they put it twice through the goal on the other side, there was a cluich against them. If it was once they got it through the goal it was a leth-chluich. And when it went past…the right or the left side of the goal it was tuathal (widdershins): it went tuathal, the ball went tuathal and you know…

DAM: Whichever side it went?

HM: Either side, either side: it was tuathal then, and the ones who were playing towards that goal then, they could go no further, for sure, they could go no further than the goal itself. When the ball went past it was the goalkeeper who went then to fetch the ball, but he couldn’t bring it further than the goal for sure.

DAM: Or they could be at…?

HM: Oh, they could be, they could be in at him them, and he would never bring it forward beyond the goal, the ball. And very often it was a hard hitter, who could hit a good powerful stroke, they would have for a goalkeeper.

DAM: And he would hit it then?

HM: He would hit it then and he’d send it a good distance in the other direction…And then they were off after it again, both sides.

DAM: And what sort of ball did they have?

HM: It was a lump of hazel root…

DAM: And how did they shape it?

HM: Oh, they’d whittle at it was a knife first of all and they they’d rub at it and make it smooth with a rasp or a file. And I used to hear…something else I’ve heard them saying, to make it tougher so that it wouldn’t split apart with the blows…they would boil it in a pot of water over the fire…Yes. And I can assure you, if you were hit by those balls, you would feel it.

DAM: And was there any sort of cover around it?

HM: No cover, just the hard wooden ball. No.

DAM: And now the camans?

HM: Oh, the camans: they used to cut them in the woods. They could be hazel or elm or oak or willow or birch, or any kind of wood that would make a caman. Birch made a fine light caman but it was very easily broken. And elm, it would make a fine caman (?too that was quite) light. And undoubtedly, oak, certainly it was the hardest and strongest and most durable caman of them all, but very often it had a sting in it. There was a sting that came through the shaft of the caman and through your hands with the wooden ball, you know. The impact was so hard between the wooden ball and the oak caman. And that was something I heard them saying, though I never tried it for myself: if you bored a hole or two with a thin gimlet through the shaft of the caman, the sting would not get to you at all.

DAM: And did you see camans with holes in them yourself?

HM: Yes, I did, once or twice.

DAM: And were they…whittling the caman or making it into any special shape?

HM: Oh, yes, certainly, the caman was whittled. And, you know, a lot of them were [artificially] bent: they were put into a clamp. Yes, yes.

DAM: Yes. How did they do this?

HM: Well, my lad, you put it in the fire – in the peat fire. You would put in about – up to a foot or so…Suppose it was a straight stick you had, perhaps about four feet or so of elm or of oak. Certainly you could sometimes find elm, maybe, with a natural bend in it too. But, for the most part, you would just get a lorg, as they called it, a straight lorg, maybe four feet long or so. And you put it, the heavy end of it that is, the lower end, in the fire…about a foot or so up from the lower end of it with the embers and little bits of  burning peat around it. But you had to be careful not to burn the wood. They bark would obviously be pretty well burnt away, but you had to be careful: it was very liable to happen that you burnt the wood itself. And when you put it in a clamp to bend it, if you had burnt the wood, the wood would split you know. But the ones who were good at making camans and that, they were always careful and they wouldn’t let the wood burn. And when they put it in the clamp like this, they would bend it as nicely as ever you saw. And now if you had got the heat right in the burning….you left it, oh, perhaps three days or so in the clamp and you took it out and it would keep that shape.

DAM: Did you tie it when…?

HM: Oh yes, yes. Oh…you had to tie it. They didn’t have a special place or piece of equipment for a clamp at all. Maybe if you had a ladder or something like that and, certainly, you know…the rungs of the ladder, they’re too far apart. However, if you fixed another bit of timber across and made it closer, you could make the space narrow, perhaps three inches or so, and you put it in there and bent it and tied it with ropes, the end….the other half of it…up about the middle of it, the stick you had bent; you would leave it there for perhaps three days and you would take it out then and it would have a shape as nice as ever you saw. Then, you know, it was cut…to make it triangular.

DAM: Yes…the lower end?

HM: The lower end. The end that had been bent.

DAM: Yes. And what…Did you have any name for that end of the caman?

HM: Yes. The bois [palm] of the caman…the bois.

DAM: And what did they call…?

HM: Lurga…Yes, the lurga [shaft] and the bois…yes. The hazel stick, oh, unless you found it with a natural bend on it when you cut it, it wasn’t very easy to bend at all. It wouldn’t bend as nicely as oak and elm at all. When oak and elm bend, you know, you could make them into a hoop, and that won’t break….

DAM: Something else I was going to ask you, how high could the ball travel before…how high could it travel if it was to count for…a goal?

HM: Oh, indeed. Donald Archie, I don’t think it counted unless it was running along the ground….

DAM: It had to run…it couldn’t be high, it couldn’t be a foot above…?

HM: Ah, well, maybe if it was only inches or a foot, or something like that, you know, one that was as high as your hip or your shoulder, I never heard of them counting it as a goal…

DAM: Oh, there was something else you were saying: the young lads were not allowed…among the other men at all?

HM: Oh no, not [among] the grown men. No, no: not school-children, till you were fourteen, till you were past school age. You couldn’t get in with the men at all. No.

DAM: And did they have a shinty match of their own, then?

HM: A game of their own, the boys. Yes…they used to play over yonder between the two burns of Laig, between the Caim and the further burn very often, or perhaps at this end in Ceann Daoibhinn….down at the cave in Ceann Daoibhinn, a little beach there. And they would be there on their own…for they wouldn’t get a shot at the ball anyway fi they were among the grown men. And, again, with the wooden ball, there was a risk that they might get hurt. Oh, some people used to get bad knocks. Donald Archie….Yes, yes, yes: with the ball and the camans too. Och, yes, and fights over it too…

DAM: And they had no-one to referee the play, as it were?

HM: Oh, no. There was no-one refereeing the play, Donald Archie. No, no.

DAM: And you never saw a shinty match after, what did you say, nineteen…?

HM: Oh I think it was twenty-five…nineteen twenty-five or six. I believe it was nineteen twenty-five itself…

DAM: And not even the boys were playing after that?

HM: Oh, there were young ones, oh yes, up to twenty years old or so, there were some…a few of these but, ah, I don’t know. They didn’t have the same keenness or interest in it at all. They were rather turning over to football, and there was football down there that day anyway, and not much shinty was played – very little. The football was brought out and it was at that they spent the day. I was never on the beach again after that and I don’t think anyone else was either…

[Accounts of some fights and quarrels omitted here.]

…Oh, I never saw two of them striking each other on the beach as far as my memory goes. No. But it happened often enough before my time. But I’m sure the drams were maybe responsible for some of that, most likely. And besides that, anyway, Donald Archie, there are some people who can’t play: they can’t, they can’t bear anything…much going against them…and someone like that is not a proper sportsman at all…Anyone who can’t take something going against him just as well as something going for him, he oughtn’t to be playing at all.

DAM: No. But everyone played anyway?

HM: Everyone played there, yes, everyone played there.

For those who wish to know more about shinty then a highly recommended book is Not an Orchard (1995) by Hugh Dan MacLennan, and also Camanachd! The Story of Shinty (1989) by Roger Hutchinson. There are also a number of books that examine quite a few club histories of various shinty teams.

References:

NFC 1028, 140–44

Hugh MacKinnon, ‘An Iomain an Eige’, Tocher, vols. 36/37 (1981–82), pp. 364–78 [In a conversation with Donald Archie MacDonald, recorded in 1965, Hugh describes shinty as it was played in Eigg before football ousted it in popularity. Transcription from School of Scottish Studies recording SA 1965/126/7-127/1, available on Tobar an Dualchais / Kist o Riches: http://www.tobarandualchais.co.uk/en/fullrecord/45738/5]

Image:

‘Singing Sands’, Laig, Isle of Eigg, with a view over to the Isle of Rum