Piper and Singer: Calum Johnston of Barra

On the 4th of December 1972, the eighty-two year Calum Johnston was waiting at the airport at Tràigh Mhòr in Barra in order to pipe the remains of Sir Compton Mackenzie to his last resting place. Even the driving cold rain and howling wind did not put him off as he played a lament as the coffin was carried from the plane. A large group of mourners wended their way to the cemetery at Eoligarry. After a brief funeral service, the piper began to swoon, and then he suddenly dropped dead on the wet turf.

 

Born in 1891, in Glen, near Castlebay, Barra, Calum Johnson, styled Calum Aonghais Chaluim, came of a family (Clann Aonghais Chaluim) of three brothers and five sisters, one of whom, Annie Johnston, was also a renowned tradition bearer.

 

Having left Barra at around the age of fourteen, Calum Johnston found himself in Manchester where he trained to become a draughtsman. Although he later became a secretary of the Manchester Pipers’ Association, the city was unable to offer a satisfactory outlet for his love of piping. Later, moving to Edinburgh, Johnston followed his career in engineering and held a position with Bruce Peebles Industries Ltd., and where he also had the opportunity to keep up his piping and became secretary and treasurer of the Highland Pipers’ Society. Johnston was ‘discovered’ as a singer by the folklorist Hamish Henderson who asked him to appear at the Workers’ Festival ceilidh in 1951 where he sang a song, Òran Eile don Phrionnsa (‘Another Song to the Prince’), composed by one of the predominant Jacobite bards Alasdair mac Mhaighstir Alasdair (‘Alexander MacDonald’). The next year he was again invited and where he performed songs and played the pipes.

 

Over the next couple of decades, Johnston would record many, many items that are now preserved in the School of Scottish Studies Archives at the University of Edinburgh and now available through Tobar an Dualchais / Kisto Riches website. Shortly after his death, a whole issue of Tocher was devoted to the memory of Calum and Annie Johnston and such was the wealth of material that only a representative sample could be given.

 

John Lorne Campbell clearly held Calum and Annie Johnston in great esteem when he wrote that:

 

They represented what today is a very rare type — the cultured and educated Gaelic-speaking Highlander who could move in any society, but who had never forgotten or despised the Gaelic oral tradition which had been the ambience of their childhood. From this point of view, Anna and Calum were a remarkable brother and sister pair.

 

Much of the material which Calum and Annie came by way of their MacNeil mother, styled Catrìona Aonghais ’ic Dhòmhnaill Mhòir (‘Catherine daughter of Angus son of Big Donald’), and two neighbouring MacKinnon sisters, Ealasaid and Peigi Eachainn ’Illeasbuig.

 

Although Calum Johnston excelled in piping, especially in ceòl mòr, the classical music of the Great Highland Bagpipe and also singing òrain mhòra, or the great songs, his repertoire was quite varied and he made many contributions to the three-volume Hebridean Folksongs, co-edited by John Lorne Campbell and Francis Collinson. Conversing with the Danish musicologist, Thorkild Knudsen in 1967, Johnston expresses his way of singing songs: 

 

I always try to place myself in the position of the person who composed the song and just try to express it as he felt it…I feel that the songs…the words of the songs are really the most important thing and the notes beautify them…

 

The Johnston went onto explain the manner in which he made the songs his own: 

 

What I would call putting a blas on it, putting a taste on it, you know, it was just like eating something that has no taste and then you put something on it to put a taste on it…The old fellows, well, some of them, you see, some of them had the art of putting a taste on a tune and others hadn’t…some would sing an air straight through…the bare notes as you might say and the others would put in little grace-notes and that would make all the difference…that gave a taste of that air instead of having it bare they clothed them in beautiful garments as you might say.

 

On his retirement around 1956, Calum Johnston and his wife, Peggy (also from Barra), returned to live in Eoligarry.

 

John Lorne Campbell paid a fitting tribute to Annie and Calum with these words:

 

Those who had the privilege of knowing Annie and Calum will treasure the recollection of highland hospitality, warmth of personality, generosity of spirit, and love for and knowledge of the oral Gaelic tradition, all at their very best and all expressed with completely natural spontaneity.

 

Over the years many collectors including Calum Maclean, Donald Archie MacDonald, Thorkild Knudsen, James Ross and John MacInnes came to visit Annie and Calum Johnston and they never left without recording some gems. Their generosity of spirit and their willingness to share in their love of Gaelic tradition is an inspiration and they undoubtedly left a rich legacy for future generations.

 

References:

Scottish Tradition Series, vol. 13, Songs, Stories and Piping from Barra, Calum and Annie Johnston (Greentrax Recordings, CDTRAX9013, 2010)

Tocher, vol. 13 (1974) (a volume dedicated to Calum and Annie Johnston)

 

Image:

Calum Johnston with Tràigh Mhòr,  Eoligarry, in the background, photographed by Peter Cooke in 1972. Courtesy of the School of Scottish Studies Archives

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

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.

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

SSS NB 16, pp. 1397–1408

Image:

Loch Hourn / Loch Shubhairne, Knoydart / Cnòideart

General MacDonald: A Fairy Tune

In Gaelic cosmological tradition music and fairies have had a very long association. There a hundreds of anecdotes and stories of how fairies are said to have bestowed musical gifts and/or taken them away. Calum Maclean himself took an interest in fairy tradition and wrote an article upon the subject about fairy traditions that he collected from the redoubtable John MacDonald of Highbridge, Brae Lochaber. Fairy lore and traditions were once a common feature among storytellers and Calum Maclean found a great deal when collecting in the Southern Hebrides. Here, for instance, is one such tradition about a fairy tune and its origin recorded from Peter MacCormick (1891–c. 1966), styled Pàdruig mac Alasdair or Pàdruig Beag, who belonged to Hacklett, Benbecula. During the First World War he served as a piper and after demobilisation returned to Benbecula to become a crofter/postman. In addition to his musical skills, MacCormick was also a very talented storyteller and raconteur. He was married to Kate MacCormick née MacPhee styled Catrìona styled Catriona nighean ’illeasbuig Ghriomasaigh who had an extensive repertoire of Gaelic song. The following entitled Port Sìdhe (‘A Fairy Tune’) was recorded on the 4th of April 1950:

 

Bha dithis thall às an Àird Fhada agus bha iad a’ falbh a Mhuileann na Buaile Glaiseadh thall faisg air an eaglais sin ann an Cnoc Fraochaig. Agus bha iad a’ falbh e bleith air oidhche. Agus thall air a’ mhuileann ann a shineach, bha e air a chantail gun robh sìdhean ann, Sìthean na Buaile Glaise. Dh’fhalbh iad co-dhiù dhan mhuileann agus nuair a bha iad a’ tilleadh, chuala iad an Sìdhean ag obair agus fear a’ gabhail phort ann. Agus ’s e am port a bha e a’ gabhail, tha e coltach – ’s ann mar seo a bha e a’ dol:

 

Ithinn deila othinn deila,

Ithinn deila is gorra-ghrithich,

Ithinn deila othinn deila,

Mac a’ bhodachain marbh.

Ithinn deila othinn deila,

Ithinn deila is gorra-ghrithich,

Ithinn deila othinn deila,

Mac a’ bhodachain marbh.

Ithinn deila, othinn deila,

Ithinn deila is gorra-ghrithich,

Ithinn deila, othinn deila,

Mac a’ bhodachain marbh.

Iod

Iod

Id odaran o ro,

Iu bhil sodaran,

Id odaran o ro,

Is dithis a chur leis air falbh

Mac a’ bhodachain marbh.

Id odaran o ro,

Iu bhil sodaran,

Id odaran o ro,

Is dithis a chur leis air falbh.

 

Nuair a chuala à-san seo tharrainn iad cho luath is a rinn iad riamh is chuir iad a-staigh na dorsan rompa agus chan fhacas duine a’ tighinn as an deaghaidh. Agus sin mar a bh’ air fhàgail a chuala iad am port a bha as an t-sìdhean. Is dhealaich mise rithe sin.

 

[Tha am port seo air a sheinn aig Lachlann Bàn MacCarmaig agus e air a chur sìos air fhitean Eidifiòn. General Macdonald an t-ainm a th’ air’ phort. Calum MacGilleathain.]  

 

There were two men over in Àird Fhada and they were leaving to go over to Muileann na Buaile Glaiseadh near the church in Cnoc Fraochaig. They were leaving to get grain at night. And over by the mill they say there is a fairy mound, Sìthean na Buaile Glaise (‘The Fairy Mound of the Green Cattle Fold’). They set off in any event to the mill and when returning they heard something from the Fairy Mound and one of them was singing a tune. And the tune that he was singing, it appears, went like this:

 

Ithinn deila othinn deila,

Ithinn deila and a heron,

Ithinn deila othinn deila,

Son of the little old man is dead.

Ithinn deila othinn deila,

Ithinn deila and a heron,

Ithinn deila othinn deila,

Son of the little old man is dead.

Ithinn deila, othinn deila,

Ithinn deila and a heron,

Ithinn deila, othinn deila,

Son of the little old man is dead.

Iod

Iod

Id odaran o ro,

Iu bhil sodaran,

Id odaran o ro,

And two men have put him away,

Son of the little old man is dead.

Id odaran o ro,

Iu bhil sodaran,

Id odaran o ro,

And two men have put him away.

 

When they heard this they fled as quickly was they had ever done and they shut the doors behind him and they didn’t see anybody coming after them. And that his how they learned the tune they heard in the fairy mound. And I parted from it.

 

[This tune was played by Lachlan Ban MacCormick and he recorded it on an Ediphone wax cylinder. General Macdonald is the name of the tune. Calum Maclean.]

 

Another version of this anecdote was recorded in 1953 by Calum’s brother, Dr Alasdair Maclean, from the same reciter. It’s not quite as detailed as the earlier version but it does show how important it is to record variations of the same material from the same reciter over a period of time, even years as in this case. Here’s the transcription and translation of this interesting anecdote:

 

Uill, bha e air a ràdh gun deachaidh triùir o chionn fada am Beinne na Faoghla gu muilleach, bha iad a’ dèanamh bleith. Agus bha iad air a ràdh seo gun robh sìthean ann aig a…am muillean ghlas. Agus air a bha dithist a bha sin a’ dol seachad chuala iad port às an t-sìthein. Agus ’s e am port a bha iad a’ gabhail…tha e air a ràdh gur h-ann mar sin a bha e a’ dol:

 

Ithinn deila othinn deila,

Ithinn deila is gorra-ghrithich,

Ithinn deila othinn deila,

Mac a’ bhodachain marbh.

Id odaran o ro,

Iu bhil sodaran,

Id odaran o ro,

Is dithist a chur leis air falbh.

 

Agus bha an dithist às a sineach agus thill iad cho luath is bha iad riamh dhachaigh agus iad air an clisgeadh agus smaoinich iad gur h-e iad fhèin a bha a’ cur air falbh leis a’ bhodachain agus sin mar a chuala mise an stòraidh agus chan eil ann ach stòraidh bhig.

 

Well, it is said that three men a long time ago in Benbecula went to a mill, they were getting the grain ground. And they say here that there is a fairy-hill at Muilean Glas. And when two of them were going by they heard a tune from the fairy-hill. And the tune that they were playing…it’s said that it went something like this:

 

Ithinn deila othinn deila,

Ithinn deila and a heron,

Ithinn deila othinn deila,

Son of the little old man is dead,

Id odaran o ro,

Iu bhil sodaran,

Id odaran o ro,

And two men have put him away.

 

And the two men got out of there and they returned home as quickly as they could as they were shaken with fright for they thought it was they who were going to be put away by the little old man and that is how I heard the story but it’s just a wee story.

 

It’s intriguing to note that the tune was recorded by Lachlan Bàn MacCormick and it’s very much hoped that the wax cylinder recording made by Calum Maclean remains extant and will be discovered at some future point. Why the reel became known as General MacDonald appears not to be known but Peter MacCormick gave a good version of it in canntaireachd which is available to hear on the Tobar an Dualchais / Kist o Riches website. Some sources attribute the reel’s composition to Neil Gow (1727–1807), the famous Perthshire fiddler and composer.

 

References:

Anecdote:  http://www.tobarandualchais.co.uk/fullrecord/13383/1

Canntaireachd: http://www.tobarandualchais.co.uk/fullrecord/32007/1

NFC 1181: 114–115. Courtesy of Cnuasach Bhéaloideas Éireann, Coláiste Ollscoile Baile Átha Cliath / National Folklore Collection, University College Dublin

 

Image:

Peter MacCormick, 1960s. Courtesy of the School of Scottish Studies Archives

Kate MacDonald: Bean Eairdsidh Raghnaill

Kate MacDonald (née Campbell) (1897–1977), styled Bean Eairdsidh Raghnaill (the wife of Archie, son of Ronald) as well as Ceit Nìll, was born and raised at Garryheillie (Gearraidh Sheilidh) in South Uist, the first child of a family of three to Neil Campbell (c. 1856–1951) and his wife Mòr (Marion) MacLellan (1868–1971), styled Mòr nighean Aonghais ’ic Eachainn. She was fortunate to have been born into a family where the rich seams of music, song, and storytelling were still strong and from whom she was to gain an extensive knowledge.

Her mother, Mòr Campbell was one of the most remarkable sources of traditional Gaelic song ever to have been recorded by the School of Scottish Studies. She was highly intelligent and had a wide-ranging knowledge in her traditional culture. Despite, or perhaps because of this, she only had a smattering of English and she is perhaps one of the last monoglot speakers of Gaelic from South Uist. Kate’s mother was the main source of her songs and, indeed, became known in the family as “The Dictionary” for she was the ultimate authority to be consulted on points of Gaelic words where there was matters of doubt or misunderstanding.

Kate’s maternal uncle was none other than Angus MacLellan (1869–1966), styled Aonghas Beag mac Aonghais ’ic Eachainn ’ic Dhòmhnaill ’ic Chaluim ’ic Dhòmhnaill, from Poll Torain, Loch Eynort. His autobiographical reminiscences entitled The Furrow Behind Me, translated from recordings made by Dr John Lorne Campbell of Canna, were published in 1962, and the original Gaelic text appeared under the title Saoghal an Treobhaiche in 1972. Selections of his vast repertoire of tales and stories, also recorded, transcribed, translated and edited by Campbell, were published in 1961 as Stories From South Uist. MacLellan had the distinction of being awarded the MBE in the 1965 New Year’s Honours List for his contribution to the preservation of Gaelic oral tradition. This feat has yet to be equalled.

Kate’s father, Neil Campbell, was well known throughout Uist as a piper. He passed away in 1951 in his mid-nineties. Pipe music was, indeed, an ever present factor in Kate’s upbringing and her younger brother Angus Campbell also became a fine exponent of both ceòl mòr and ceòl beag, having been for some time a pupil of the eminent Pipe-Major John MacDonald of Inverness.

On leaving school at the age of fourteen, Kate found employment in the household of Ronald MacKinnon, the piermaster at Castlebay in the neighbouring island of Barra. She stayed there for the next two years before finding a post at Askernish House in South Uist, the residence of John MacDonald, the resident factor to the South Uist Estates at that time. She worked there for two to three years before taking up her new job at the Lochboisdale Hotel where she worked for the next eight to nine years.

At the age of twenty-nine, Kate married Archibald MacDonald, styled Eairdsidh Raghnaill ’ic Ruairidh ’ic Raghnaill (Archie son of Ronald son of Roderick son of Ronald) in Garryheillie, who claimed descent from the MacDonald aristocracy of Clanranald. The couple settled down to the usual run of life on the croft in Garryheillie. Kate’s husband supplemented their income by working as a ghillie at the Lochboisdale Hotel. Archie MacDonald was a fine piper. He joined the pipe band of the Lovat Scouts before the first World War, in which he served throughout from 1914 to 1918 – and he was again involved from 1939 to 1945 though this time in a non-combatant capacity.

Kate and Archie had seven children – four boys and three girls. There were two sons Ronald who died – one while still a schoolboy and the other, tragically, in a car accident as a comparatively young man. The rest of the family were Morag, John Angus, Mary Flora, Neil and Rona. Rona Lightfoot, especially, has inherited the family talent for piping and is probably one of the finest female player that Scotland has ever produced. Her brother Neil was also a gifted player.

The first member of staff of the School of Scottish Studies to make contact with Kate MacDonald was Hamish Henderson – and this, in fact, happened several years before the School was founded in 1951. After his discharge from the army at the end of the Second World War, Henderson’s wanderings took him, among many other places, to the Hebrides in 1946, to follow up his already well-established interest in traditional song and to write poetry. Coincidentally, this was also the same year in which Calum Maclean first visited the Hebrides when he came to Barra in September of that year. Whilst staying at the Lochboisdale Hotel as the guest of the then owner Finlay MacKenzie (a piping aficionada if ever there was one), Henderson first met Archie MacDonald who was then working there at the time. Henderson was invited over to Garryheillie to meet his family and Kate sang a number of songs for him – though she did not yet have a reputation as a singer.

It was five years later in 1951 that Kate was first recorded. Dr Alasdair Maclean who arrived, along with his wife Rena, in South Uist to practice medicine as a GP. One night there was a gathering in their house in Daliburgh and Archie came along with Kate. Even though she was not known for her singing, Archie confided that Kate knew one song. Archie managed to persuade her to sing it which she did and she made quite an impact. Over the next few years, songs would stream for her and such was the quality of her texts that her repertoire of song compared favourably to those found in Òrain Luaidh Màiri Nighean Alasdair, published in 1949 by K. C. Craig from the singing of Mary MacCuish. Indeed, Kate knew virtually everything in Craig as well as much else besides. Her memory for Gaelic song was phenomenal. Dr Alasdair Maclean and his brother, Calum, began to record as much as they could of Kate’s singing. Nearly two hundred songs of all kinds, a good many which were extremely rare, were recorded from Kate’s recitation alone. She is perhaps best known for her knowledge of waulking songs of which she knew a considerable number.

Reference:

Donald Archie MacDonald, ‘Kate MacDonald (Bean Eairdsidh Raghaill), Tocher, vol. 27 (Winter, 1977/78), pp. 129–35

Image:

Mrs Kate MacDonald, styled Bean Eairdsidh Raghnaill. The photograph was taken by Calum Maclean in April 1958. Courtesy of the School of Scottish Studies Archives.

Dr Alasdair Maclean

As resident GP in South Uist for thirty-two years, Dr Alasdair Maclean (1918–1999) became a kenspeckled figure on the island and like his elder brother Calum was a prolific collector in his own right.

 

Like the rest of his family, Dr Alasdair received his early education in the local primary school in Raasay, and later at Portree High School. For there he proceeded to St Andrews University where he studied medicine and graduated in 1941 MB ChB. His brother Norman also graduated in medicine and the both saw active military service in India and Burma with the Royal Army Medical Core.

 

After an engagement lasting a year, Dr Alasdair married Rena MacAskill of Drynoch in 1947 and had a family of five sons. After demobilisation he took up his chosen career, and worked for a time in Dingwall, Dundee, Laggan, Broadford, and Perth, before taking up medical practice in South Uist in 1950. He remained a GP there for the next thirty-two years and was also a medical superintendent of the Sacred Heart Hospital in Daliburgh.

 

Calum had been collecting in the Southern Hebrides some three years before Dr Alasdair came out to South Uist. Here, for example, is a dairy entry from the summer of 1950:

 

Dimàirt, 15 Lùnasdal 1950

Dh’fhuirich mi a-raoir ann an taigh Alasdair an Dalabrog. Bha seann-duine a-muigh air taobh a deas Loch Baghasdail agus bha Alasdair ag ràdha gun robh naidheachdan aige. Bha e airson gu rachainn a-mach ga choimhead. Bha Alasdair fhèin a’ dol a-mach ann agus chaidh mi a-mach còmhla ris. ’S ann air taobh a deas Loch Baghasdail a tha an duine seo. ’S e Iain MacDhòmhnaill a chanar ris, no Iagan Theàrlaich. Tha an duine bochd dall a-niste. Chaill e aon t-sùil le sgiorrag e chionn fhada agus as t-samhradh seo a chaidh, chaill e fradharc na sùla eile. Tha an duine bochd gu math truagh dheth an-diugh agus chan iongnadh ged a dh’fhairicheadh e an ùine fada. Chan eil e ach mu thrì fichead bliadhna a dh’ aois agus tha e gu math làidir fhathast. Bha taigh-tughaidh beag laghach aige agus tha e glè ghlan eireachdail na bhroinn. Tha a bhean beò còmhla ris agus nighean leis agus i pòsda a-staigh. Tha aon leanbh aca. Bha naidheachdan beaga laghacha aig Iain MacDhòmhnaill, ach chan e sgeulaiche mòr a th’ ann idir. Bha stòiridhean beaga èibhinn aige agus an-diugh agus mi gun an Eidifión agam, ghabh mi beachd air grunn dhiubh. Bha mi còmhla ris mu uair an uaireadair agus sgrìobh mi sìos ainmean nan naidheachd a bh’ aige. Gheall mi dhà gun tiginn air ais a-rithist leis an Eidifión agus gun toirinn sìos iad. Mu chòig uairean as t-oidhche thill sinn air ais gu Dalabrog. Bha dùil againn a dhol suas gu Beinne na Faoghla a-nochd ach dh’fhuirich mi a-bhos còmhla ri Alasdair.
 

Tuesday, 15 August 1950

I stayed last night at Alasdair’s house in Daliburgh. There was on old man out in South Lochboisdale and Alasdair said he had stories. He wanted me to go out to see him. Alasdair was going out and I went with him. This man stays out in South Lochboisdale. He’s called John MacDonald, or John Charles. The poor man is blind now. He lost one eye by accident a long time ago and last summer he lost the sight in his other eye. The poor man isn’t well off today and it’s little wonder that he should feel the time slowly going by. He’s only sixty years of age and he’s still quite strong. He had a neat little thatched house and it’s very clean and tidy inside. His wife is still with him and a married daughter who stays with them. They’ve one child. John MacDonald has nice little anecdotes, but he’s not a great storyteller at all. He had funny, little stories today but I didn’t have the Ediphone so I took a note of a number of them. I was in his company for an hour and I wrote down the titles of his anecdotes. I promised him that I’d be back again with the Ediphone and that I’d take them down. Around five o’clock at night we returned to Daliburgh. We had expected that I’d go up to Benbecula tonight but I stayed here with Alasdair.

 

With so many exponents of history, folklore, Gaelic song, culture, genealogy surrounding him, and no doubt with the encouragement of Calum, Dr Alasdair was inspired to research and write on many of these subjects. In 1982 he wrote his first book, A MacDonald for a Prince, the fascinating story of Neil MacEachen of Howbeg, who shielded Bonnie Prince Charlie and whose son was later to become Napoleon’s Marshall MacDonald and Duke of Tarentum. Jacobite history fascinated him and after his retirement, in 1992, his second book appeared under the title Summer Hunting A Prince.

 

Another book followed in 1994 when Dr Alasdair, edited meticulously, prepared a new edition of History of Skye, the extremely detailed study of the social history of that island written by his uncle, Alexander Nicolson. In addition to these works, he edited and consolidated William MacKenzie’s books Iochdar Trotternish and Old Skye Tales. He also made a contribution to a book about the Nicolsons of Scorrybreac. Genealogy, particularly that of South Uist families, held a particular fascination for him and he contributed a very interesting paper on this very subject to the Gaelic Society of Inverness.

 

He made many other contributions to journals and periodicals, and often contributed to radio and TV programmes. He was also in much demand as a guest speaker.

 

Many of his recordings made by him, mainly Gaelic songs for which he had a great love, are available on the Tobar an Dualchais / Kist o Riches website. Like his brother Norman, Dr Alasdair also had a great love of bagpipe music, and was a regular attender at the Silver Chanter, the Northern Meeting and Blair Castle competitions.

 

Dr Alasdair Maclean made a great contribution to collecting Gaelic folklore, especially songs, and if it had not been for his dedication in doing so then we would have a far poorer picture of the strength of Gaelic oral tradition in South Uist at that time.

 

References:

NFC 1301: 524–26

William MacKenzie; Alasdair Maclean (ed.), Old Skye Tales: Traditions, Reflections and Memories: With A Selection from Skye: Iochdar–Trotternish and District (Aird Bhearnasdail, Maclean Press, 1995)

Alasdair Maclean, A MacDonald for a Prince: The Story of Neil MacEachen (Stornoway: Acair, 1982)

–––––, ‘Notes on South Uist Families’, Transactions of the Gaelic Society of Inverness, vol. LIII (1984), pp. 491ff.

Alasdair Maclean; John S. Gibson, Summer Hunting A Prince: The Escape of Charles Edward Stuart (Stornoway: Acair, 1992)

W. David H. Sellar & Alasdair Maclean; C. B. Harman Nicholson (ed.), The Highland Clan MacNeacail (MacNicol): A History of the Nicolsons of Scorrybreac (Waternish: Maclean Press, 1999)

 

Image:

Mrs Kate MacDonald, styled Bean Eairdsidh Raghnaill, with Dr Alasdair Maclean. December 1975. The photograph belongs to Ishbel MacDonald. Courtesy of the School of Scottish Studies Archives.