Two Storytellers: Angus MacMillan and Duncan MacDonald

It could have only come as a shock when Calum Maclean heard the news that within three weeks of one another two of the greatest storytellers that he had meet had died. Angus MacMillan, styled Aonghas Barrach, from Griminish, Benbecula, and Duncan MacDonald, styled Donnchadh mac Dhòmhnaill ’ic Dhonnchaidh, from Snishival, South Uist, were considered by Maclean to have been superb exponents of the fine art of storytelling. Maclean wrote the following moving tribute to both men in an article that he wrote for the Gaelic periodical Gairm:

 

Aonghas agus Donnchadh

 

An samhradh seo chaidh thriall an dà sgeulaiche a b’ainmeile a bh’ againn an Albainn agus, math dh’fhaodte cuideachd, an taobh an iar na Roinn Eòrpa. Anns an àm chaidh facal no dhà a ràdh mun deidhinn anns na pàipeirean naidheachd. Dh’fhaodte sa Ghàidhealtachd gun cualas iomradh orra, ach cha d’rinneadh dhaibh an tuaiream a dhèante do chinn-cinnidhean mòra Gallda na Gàidhealtachd, no fiù is do sheinneadairean air bheagan Gàidhlig a bhuadhaich bonn òir a’ Chomuinn Ghàidhealaich. Chaidh Aonghas agus Donnchadh a chur fon ùir gun san làthaireachd ach dòrnan beag d’ an coimhearsnaich is an dlùth-chàirdean fhèin, a dh’iarr sìth d’ an anam agus a thill an uair sin dachaigh a bhuain na mòna, a chur an cliabh ghiomach, air neo a shaodachadh chruidh. Ach an dithis a thriall air slighe nam marbh, chuir iad barrachd ri litreachas nan Gàidheal Albannach na chuir aon dithis eile bho chionn còrr is ceud bliadhna. Cha robh ach trì seachdainean dìreach eatorra. Tha an cuirp nan tàmh sìorraidh an cladh Bhaile nan Cailleach am Beinn na Faoghla agus an Àird Mhìcheil an Uibhist a Deas. Bu mhòr an call an dithis sin a bhith a dhìth oirnn an-diugh. Dh’eug Aonghas MacGilleMhaoil air an t-seachdamh latha deug den Bhealltainn seo seachad agus Donnchadh MacDhòmhnaill air an t-seachdamh latha den Òg-mhìos. Bha Aonghas air leabaidh a bhàis còrr is ochd mìosan. Thàinig an t-àm gu h-allamh air Donnchadh: cha do mhair a thinneas deireannach ach trì latha. A-nis, tha e mar fhiachaibh orm clach a chur air an càrn. Bha iad coltach ri chèile air aon dòigh, ach air a h-uile dòigh eile bha iad eadar-dhealaichte gu tur. Ach nach iomchaidh gun cuimhnicheadh Clann nan Gàidheal orra a chionn is nach bi leithidean eile ann a-rithist.

’S ann an Snaoiseabhal an Uibhist a Deas a rugadh Donnchadh mac Dhòmhnaill ’ic Dhonnchadh. B’ e duine de chòignear teaghlaich. Na dhuine òg chaidh e ris a’ chlachaireachd mar chèird, agus thug e bliadhna na dhà a’ dol don mhailisidh as t-samhradh. Bha athair, Dòmhnall mac Dhonnchaidh na sgeulaiche ainmeil agus na dhuine làidir, foghainteach. Fhuair Donnchadh a chuid sgoile an t-Hogh Mòr, agus an dèidh bàs athar, b’ ann air a thuit am fearann am Peighinn nan Aoireann, fearann a dh’obraich e fad a bheatha còmhla ris a’ chlachaireachd. Phòs e Mairead, nighean Aonghais Ruaidh Mhic an t-Saoir. B’ ann bho dhaoine a bha sònraichte math air seann-eachdraidh, òrain is ceòl a thàinig ise, agus cha b’ iongnadh idir ged a chuirte ùidh air leth anns na nithean sin an taigh Dhonnchaidh am Peighinn nan Aoireann. B’ ann bho shliochd sgeulaiche is bhàrd a thàinig Donnchadh e fhèin. A shinn-seanair, Iain MacDhòmhnaill ’ic Thormaid, thàinig e a-nall as Uibhist a Tuath na thàillear agus phòs e nighean Fir a’ Ghearraidh Fhlich an Gèirinnis. B’ ann às an Eilean Sgitheanach a bha an dream bho thùs, oir b’ iad-san Clann ’ic Rùiridh a bha nam bàird aig Dòmhnallaich Dhùin Tuilm.

Dithis ghillean agus dithis nighean a bh’ aig Donnchadh is aig a mhnaoi. Chaill iad am mac bu shine anns a’ bhliadhna 1934, agus dh’eug cèile Dhonnchaidh i fhèin bho chionn dà bhliadhna. Chaidh Donnchadh a-mach gu ruige Glaschu air cuairt anns a’ bhliadhna 1909. Dà fhichead bliadhna an dèidh sin chaidh e a-mach a-rithist a chur cuid de na sgeulachdan aige air clàr don Third Programme. B’ esan an sgeulaiche a thagh David Thomson agus mi fhèin airson a’ chlàir Black House into White. B’ e cuideachd a’ chiad sgeulaiche ceart as Albainn a chualas riamh air an Third. Thug Oilthigh Ghlaschu e don Chòmhdhail Beul-aithris ann an Steòrnabhagh an uiridh, agus as a dhèidh sin don Mhòd san Òban agus cuireadh aige cho math bhon Chomann Ghàidhealach. B’ e a’ chiad Mhòd agus am Mòd mu dheireadh dhà-san e. An sealladh mu dheireadh a fhuair mi air, bha Alasdair, mo bhràthair, agus mise a’ dealachadh ris air machaire Pheighinn an Aoireann mu cheithir uairean sa mhadainn goirid an dèidh na Nollaig agus e air oidhche mhòr a thoirt air sgeulachdan. Thachair mi air a a-rithist agus mi air aonan den t-sianar fon chistidh ga ghiùlain air a’ mhachaire bho Hogh Beag gu Àird Mhìcheil air an deicheamh latha den Òg-mhìos seo chaidh.

Tha mi a’ smaointinn gur h-e Dòmhnall MacDhòmhnaill as Èirisgeidh a’ chiad fhear a sgrìobh sgeulachdan sìos bho Dhonnchadh. Feumar bàrr an urraim a thoirt do Mhgr. K. C. Craig a chionn is gur h-e a chuir am follais don t-saoghal Ghàidhealach cho barraichte, fileanta is a bha Donnchadh na fhear-sgeòil. Cha mhòr guth a bh’ air beul-aithris na a leithid an Albainn an latha earraich ud anns a’ bhliadhna 1947, nuair a thachair mi air Donnchadh an toiseach. Greis roimhe sin bha Mgr. Craig air na seachd sgeulachdan a b’ fheàrr agus a b’ fhaide a bh’ aig Donnchadh a sgrìobhadh sìos. Cha tàinig an leabhar a-mach as a’ chlò gu foghar 1950. Cha bu bheag saothair an duine a’ sgrìobhadh nan sgeulachdan mòr, fada sin facal air an fhacal. Bha e furasda gu leòir do dhaoine eile tighinn dìreach air a shàilean le innealan-deachdaidh agus cuilbheartan eile. Bha gach seòrsa sgeòil is naidheachd aig Donnchadh eadar eachdraidh na Fèinne, duain, naidheachdan mu Chloinn Raghnaill ’ic Ailein, Clann ’ic Mhuirich, mu chreideamh, mu shìthichean agus iomadach rud eile. Cha b’ fhiosrach e am b’ fhiach an aithris. A rèir is mar a bha an ùine a’ ruith bha nithean ùra a’ tighinn air ais thuige, nithean nach robh guth aige orra bho chionn fhada. Cuid dhiubh sin chuimhnich e orra is sinn a’ siubhal air a’ mhachaire Uibhisteach no air sràidean loma Ghlaschu is sinn ann còmhla seachdain. Cha b’ ann tric a chithinn Donnchadh. Bha gu leòir a bharrachd air m’ aire shuas am Beinne na Faoghla. Eadar an t-Samhain 1947 agus an t-Samhain 1949, chaidh agam air còrr is ceud naidheachd a thoirt bhuaithe, nithean nach do sgrìobh Mgr. Craig. An toiseach na bliadhna 1950 thòisich Fear Chanaigh agus Comann Beul-aithris na h-Albann air sgeulachdan agus òrain a thoirt bho Dhonnchadh. Mun àm seo bha an t-Uas. K. C. Craig air sia fichead òran a thoirt sìos bho Mhàiri Nighean Alasdair, piuthar màthar Dhonnchaidh cuideachd. Dh’fhalbh trì bliadhna eile mun do thachair mi air Donnchadh a-rithist. Chomhairlich mi do Dhòmhnall Iain, mac Dhonnachaidh fhèin, gach nì a chluinneadh e aig athair a chur air “tape” agus a sgrìobhadh. Cha d’ fhuair Dòmhnall Iain ach bliadhna ghoirid, ach sgrìobh e còrr is mìle gu leth duilleag de sheanchas bhon t-seann duine uasal. Gun aon teagamh, ’s e Dòmhnall Iain, mac Dhonnchaidh fhèin, am fear is fheàrr air cruinneachadh beul-aithris a thàinig nar measg an Albainn san linn seo. Bu mhòr an call nach do thòisich e air a chuid obrach bho chionn bhliadhnaichean: ach is beag a shaoileadh nach biodh dàil air Donnchadh na b’ fhaide na ’n samhradh seo seachad.

B’ ionnan Donnchadh mar sgeulaiche agus Pàdraig Òg MacCruimein mar phìobaire. Bha snas, dreach agus loinn air gach rud a thigeadh bhuapa. B’ ann aig Donnchadh a bha a’ Ghàidhlig a b’ fheàrr agus a’ b’ fhileanta, siùbhlach d’ an cuala mi fhathast. Chuireadh e dreach air gach rud a theireadh e.

’S ann air an dearbh latha a thachair mi air Donnchadh MacDhòmhnaill ’ic Dhonnchaidh a thachair air Aonghas MacGilleMhaoil. Cha robh sunnd uamhasach math air Aonghas bochd an latha sin. Bha fuachd aige, agus bha e air tuiteam agus asna a bhristeadh trì seachdainean roimhe sin. “Tha a’ Chrìosdachd de sgeulachdan agam-sa,” ors’ esan. Gun teagamh bha sin aige, agus b’ ann agam-sa bha fhios mun d’ fhuair mi an tè mu dheireadh dhiubh a sgrìobhadh. Thug mi còrr is trì bliadhna air sgeulachdan Aonghais leotha fhèin. Cha robh ann dhiubh ach ceud agus trì fichead is a còig, ach b’ fheudar dhomh deich mìle duilleag-sgrìobhaidh a chur tharam mun do ruith sinn ar cùrsa. An sgeulachd a b’ fhaide a bh’ aig Donnchadh, ‘Sgeulachd Mhànuis,’ thug i uair gu leth ga h-aithris. An tè b’ fhaide a bh’ aig Aonghas, an sgeul mu Alasdair mac a’ Chèaird, thug i naoi uairean an uaireadair ga h-innseadh. Bha dà fhichead ’s a trì eile aige a thug còrr is trì uairean an uaireadair.

Bha barrachd ùidh aig Donnchadh ann am fuirm agus cruth an sgeòil, an òirdheirceas agus an doimhne ùr-labhraidh, agus thaomadh e a-mach a chruaidh-Ghàidhlig dhomhainn mar phongan ciùil bho shionnsar airgid. Cha bu mhotha air Aonghas sin uile na builgean air allt-slèibhe. Cuspair an sgeòil an rud a ghreamaich inntinn Aonghais an còmhnaidh. Gun teagamh, dh’fheumte gach facal a bha ri ràdh a chur gu dòigheil na àite fhèin. Bhiodh còmhraidhean fada an siud ‘s an seo anns an sgeulachdan aige. Bhiodh rìghrean is prionnsaidhean a’ còmhradh is a’ cainnt r’a chèile aige air dhòigh is gu saoileadh tu gun robh Aonghas fhèin ag atharrachadh crutha is pearsa a rèir mar bha an còmhradh a’ dol bho bheul gu beul. Mhionnaicheadh duine gum faca Aonghas a h-uile rud a dh’aithris e riamh. Nuair a bhiodh Oisean a’ sealg aige, chitheadh tu na fèidh is na gadhair. Bha e h-uile dealbh a chuireadh e os còir na h-inntinne cho soilleir sin.

B’ e Aonghas an duine a b’ òige de sheachdnar teaghlaich. Bha athair, Calum Barrach mar theirte ris, na sgeulaiche ainmeil na latha. Tha cuimhne aig an t-seann fheadhainn Beinne na Faoghla air fhathast. Bha fearann aig Aonghas am baile Ghrìminis. Bhiodh e cuideachd a’ falbh le each is càrn a’ giùlain luchd-turais gu tric. Thug e fad shia bliadhna deug a’ dol don mhilisidh as t-samhradh. Bha e ann an Sasann agus an Èirinn. Theabas a chur a-mach gu Cogadh Afraga. Thug e fad bhliadhnaichean sa sgoil, ach dhìochuimhnich e gach lide a dh’ionnsaich e riamh. Cha do dhìochuimhnich e aon fhacal de sgeul sam bith a chuala e ged nach b’ ann ach aon uair riamh na bheatha. Duine, mòr, sgoinneil, làidir, calma, a bh’ ann. Bha e sia troighean is dà òirleach gu leth air a bhonnan.

Sgrìobh mi cunntas fada air a bheatha bho bheul Aonghais fhèin. Rinneadh an dearbh-rud do Dhonnchadh. Is tric a chaidh Aonghas seachad an Fhadhail a Tuath ri marbh-dhorchadas oidhche is ri stoirm is gailleann, an t-each aige fon chàrn a’ snàmh, am fear-turais air fras-mhullach a ghuaillean aige, agus sruth fuar na fadhlach suas gu ruige a smigead. Thionndaich tarbh fiadhaich air Aonghas latha. Thug Aonghas sgailc dha am bàrr na h-adhairce le cuaille bata. Thuit an tarbh na ghlag-phaiseanaidh. “Mharbh thu e,” thuirt coimhearsnach ris. “Mura mharbhainn-s’ e,” ors’ Aonghas, “bha mi fhèin marbh.” Bha trì chairteal na h-uarach ann mun tàinig an tarbh thuige fhèin a-rithist. Bha Aonghas latha eile a’ treabhadh le paidhir each. Chualas urchair agus ghabh na h-eich sgian. A-mach leotha air a’ chuthach leis a’ chrann. A-mach mo liadh às an dèidh, agus greim-bàis aige air a’ chrann, thar phollaichean, bhotaichean is ligidhean gus an robh na h-ainmidhean truagha air an sàrachadh. Is tric a thachair gun robh marbh-iarraidh air seann-bhodaich is cailleachan Bheinne Fhaoghla oidhcheannan dorcha geamhraidh gus an d’ fhuaradh iad mu dheireadh slàn, seasgair, sona an taigh-cèilidh air choreigin far an robh Aonghas air tòiseachadh air sgeulachd mhòir.

Bha Aonghas gu bhith ceithir fichead nuair a chaidh e an imrich dheireannach. Thug sinn oidhche gheamhraidh sa bhliadhna 1948 ag obair air sgeulachd fhada gus an do chrìochnaicheadh i mu cheithir uairean sa mhadainn. Bha an oidhche dorcha, fuar, fearthainneach le stoirm bhon iar-dheas. Thàinig Aonghas a-mach a dh’ionnsaigh an dorais mhòir còmhla rium is mi a’ falbh. Chì mi fhathast a sheann bhodhaig mhòir, thoirteil a’ toirt dhìom an t-solais a bha a-staigh.

“Thig tràth an ath-oidhch’, a ghràidhein. Chuimhnich mi air tè ’ile, tè mhòr, mhòr.”

 

And the translation goes something like this:

 

 

Angus MacMillan and Duncan MacDonald

 

The two most famous storytellers in Scotland and even, perhaps, in Western Europe died this summer gone. At the time a few brief notices appeared about them in the newspapers. Some, perhaps, have heard about them in the Highlands but they were never given the same respect they were due as say either Highland or Lowland chiefs or, indeed, even the singers who have but only a little Gaelic who win a gold medal at the Mod. Both Angus and Duncan were buried in the presence of only a few neighbours and close friends who paid their last respects and who then returned to either cut their peat, to place their lobster pots or to drive their cattle. Nevertheless, these two late storytellers have made a greater contribution to Scottish Gaelic literature than any other pair has done for more than a century.

They passed away within three weeks of one another. Their remains will have eternal rest in Nunton cemetery in Benbecula and Ardmichael in South Uist. We, at this time, suffer a great loss by their passing. Angus MacMillan died on the 17th of May just gone and Duncan MacDonald on the 7th of June. Angus was on his deathbed for more than eight months whereas Duncan died suddenly: his last illness only lasting three days. It is now my duty to say something about their legacy. They were alike in one way but completely different in every other way. It is fitting that Gaels should remember them for their like will never be seen again.

Duncan MacDonald was born in Snishival in South Uist. He was one of a family of five. As young man he took up his vocation as a stonemason and for one to two years during the summer he joined the militia. His father, Donald MacDonald, was a renowned storyteller as well as being a strong and powerfully built man. Duncan received his early education at Howmore. After his father’s death he inherited land at Peninerine that he went on to work for the rest of his life as well as keeping up his job as a stonemason. He married Margaret, daughter of Angus MacIntyre, who belonged to a family that were especially skilled in old lore, songs and music and it comes as no surprise that these were these very subjects that were of the greatest interest in Duncan’s Peninerine homestead. Duncan’s ancestors were able storytellers and poets: his grandfather, Iain MacDonald, a tailor, came from North Uist and married a daughter of the tacksman of Fir a’ Ghearraidh Fhlich in Gerinish. His ancestors, Clann ’ic Rùiridh, originally came from the Isle of Skye and were poets to the MacDonalds of Duntuilm.

Duncan and his wife had a family of two boys and two girls. They lost their eldest son in 1934, and Duncan’s wife passed away two years ago. Duncan first travelled to Glasgow in 1909 and, some forty years later, was to return to the city to record his stories to be aired on the Third Programme. David Thomson and I chose him as a storyteller for recording Black House into White. Duncan was the very first proper storyteller in Scotland to be broadcast on the Third. Last year, the University of Glasgow invited him to a Folklore conference in Stornoway and after that he was invited by An Comunn Gàidhealach (The Highland Society) to attend the Mod in Oban. This was to be his first and last Mod. My very last sight of him was on Peninerine machair when my brother, Alasdair, and myself, shortly after Christmas, were saying farewell to him at four o’ clock in the morning after a long night telling stories. The next time was on the 10th of June just gone by when I was one of six pallbearers that carried his remains along the machair from Howbeg to Ardmichael.

Donald MacDonald from Eriskay was, I had thought, the first person to record stories from Duncan but that honour must go to K[irkland] C[ameron] Craig for he was the first person to draw the Gaelic world’s attention to such an exceptional and fluent storyteller as Duncan. There was hardly a mention of oral tradition or its like made in Scotland in that Spring of 1947 when I first became acquainted with Duncan. Shortly before this, Craig had written down the best and longest stories contained in Duncan’s repertoire. This book did not appear in print until the Autumn of 1950. No small labour did this man undertake to record these big, long stories word by word. It was easy enough for anyone else to come along on his heels with recording machines and other devices. Duncan had a wealth of different stories and anecdotes about such things as the Fianna, ballads, the Clanranald, the MacMhuirichs, religion, fairy lore and many others besides. He knew everything that was worth recording. As time went on new material would come back to him – things that had not been recollected for a long time. Some of this he would remember as we walked along the Uist machair or on the busy streets of Glasgow when we were together there for a week. I did not see Duncan very often for there were other things on my mind that drew my attention away to Benbecula. Between September 1947 and September 1949, I recorded more than one hundred stories from him, items that had not been written down by Craig. At the beginning of 1950, John Lorne Campbell under the aegis of the Scotland’s Oral Tradition Society recorded stories and songs from Duncan. Shortly before this, K. C. Craig had taken down twenty-six songs from Màiri nighean Alasdair, Duncan’s maternal aunt. Three years were to pass before I met with Duncan again. I advised Duncan’s son, Donald John, to record and to transcribe his father’s repertoire. Donald John had only a short period in which to carry out his work but he managed to record over one and a half thousand pages of lore from this gentleman. Without any doubt, Donald John is the best folklore collector that has come amongst us in Scotland this century. More is the pity that he did not begin his work years before: but who would have thought that Duncan would survive no longer than the summer just gone.

Duncan as a storyteller was the equal of Patrick Òg MacCrimmon as a piper. Everything that he recited was polished, shapely and elegant. Duncan’s Gaelic was most eloquent and fluent: the best I have ever heard. Everything he recited was given both weight and due consideration.

On the very same day I first met Duncan MacDonald I also met Angus MacMillan. Poor Angus was not in a very good mood that day for he had a cold and a broken rib sustained from a fall three weeks earlier. He said: “I have a Christendom (i.e. a lot) of stories.” He certainly did and before long I knew this only too well when I had written down the very last of them. I spent over three years on Angus’s stories alone. Although they only amounted to one hundred and sixty-five items, I had to use ten thousand manuscript pages to write them all down before we had run our course. Duncan’s longest story Sgeulachd Mhànuis (The History of Manus) took one and half hours to tell whereas Angus’s longest story concerning Alasdair mac a’ Chèaird (Alasdair son of the Caird) took nine hours to tell. And there were some forty-three other such stories that took over three hours each to tell.

Duncan’s interest lay more in a story’s shape and form, and also in the splendour and depth of rhetorical language as deep, hard Gaelic flowed from him like grace notes played upon a silver chanter. Angus only gave thought to these things as if they were mere bubbles on a mountain burn. The story’s subject matter was always the uppermost aspect that caught Angus’s attention. Nevertheless, every single word had to be said and to be set in its own place. Long dialogues used to pepper his stories where kings and princes would speak and talk to one another in such a way as if to suppose that Angus himself imitated them through his own character as the conversation went on. People would swear that Angus actually saw everything he actually recited. When he had Ossian hunting, you could see the deer and hounds. Every mental picture he conjured up was as clear as that.

Angus was the youngest of a family of seven. Calum Barrach, as they called his father, was a famous storyteller in his own day. The old people of Benbecula still remember him to this day. Angus owned land in the township of Griminish. He also often used to taxi travellers in his horse and cart. He spent every summer for sixteen years in the militia when he travelled to both England and Ireland and he almost went to the Boer War. Although he spent many years in school he forgot everything he learnt there but he never forgot one word of any story that he heard even if it had only been told just once. He was a big, strong, brave, excellent man who was six feet and two and a half inches tall in his stockings.

I wrote a long biography straight from Angus’s mouth, and the same was done for Duncan also. Angus often crossed the North Ford in the dead of midnight in stormy weather with his horse under his cart swimming, a traveller on his shoulders, and with the ford’s cold current reaching up to his chin. One day a wild bull turned on Angus so that he had to hit it on its horn with his walking stick. The bull fell down unconscious. “You’ve killed it,” a neighbour said to him. “If I had not killed it,” Angus said, “then I would have been dead.” Three quarters of an hour passed before the bull regained consciousness. Another day Angus was ploughing with a pair of horses. A report of gunfire was heard which frightened the wits out of the horses so much so that they ran off with the plough still attached. Angus, still gripping the plough for dear life, was pulled through bog and mud until the poor beasts were eventually tired out. Often the old men and women of Benbecula would risk life and limb to journey on a dark winter’s night until they reached the safety of a sheltered, convivial ceilidh house in which Angus had already began to recite a long tale.

When he passed away Angus was nearly eighty years of age. In 1948 we spent one winter’s night recording a long story until completed around four o’ clock in the morning. That night was dark, cold and showery due to stormy weather coming in from the southwest. As I was leaving, Angus saw me to the big door. I can still recollect that large, burly frame of his that blocked the light from inside.

On parting, he said: “Come early tomorrow night, my dear laddie. I have remembered another long, long one.”

 

Calum Maclean also wrote an obituary for both of them. He wrote the one for Angus MacMillan when he was stationed in Morar and was, much to his regret, unable to make it back to Benbecula in time to make the funeral of not only one of his most important informants but also who became a close friend. Maclean relates in a diary entry for the 20th of May 1954 the following:

 

Did some writing after breakfast today. I phoned up to Morar Hotel about noon and asked for Calum MacKellaig. He was not in, but I was told that a message had come from Angus McIntosh in Edinburgh saying that Aonghas Barrach, Angus MacMillan, died on Tuesday and that the funeral was today. It was too late to go to the funeral. Poor Aonghas has gone at last – may God rest his soul. He would have been eighty years of age next July. I sent a telegram to Calum saying that I regretted not having had time to go to the funeral. Even if I had heard on Wednesday night it would have been too late to get out to Uist. Angus’s death was a bad blow. He was such a loveable old man. I thought of the years spent with him in Uist, of our long nights of storytelling and of the very long tales. I last saw him on New Year’s Eve last. He was asleep when I left his house last New Year’s morning. He did suffer a lot during the last years and it was probably a blessing that he did go. The heart-attacks became very frequently latterly. Benbecula will be a different place now without Aonghas Barrach and Angus MacLellan. Id est perfectum! Both have left much after them. I spent the greatest part of the afternoon writing appreciations of Angus for the papers. I sent off copies to three papers...

 

MacMillan’s obituary is here published in full:

 

The Late Angus MacMillan: An Appreciation

 

With the passing of Angus MacMillan of Griminish, Benbecula, an important link and long tradition of storytelling is severed. He was about the last of a type that has gone from our midst, the traditional Gaelic storyteller. Only about six of them still survive in the Gaelic-speaking areas. In many ways Angus was the most outstanding.

Formal education and modern ideas had little or no influence upon him. He lived to see the atomic age, but his word was peopled with heroes, giants, fairy princesses, and the sons of the Kings of Lochlann, the Land of Light, and the Green Isle at the World’s End. He was the perfect example of the untaught and unlettered but highly cultured and refined mind. The heroes and heroines of this stories are set for him a high standard of conduct, and he really did live up to that standard.

In him there was nothing petty, nothing mean, nothing ignoble. He knew that the son of the King of Greece acted in such a manner in a certain situation, and in a similar situation Angus himself would do only what befitted a king’s son. All that was added to the virtues and the grace that his Catholic faith had given him. To his neighbours he was always the true and warm-hearted friend, ever ready to lend a helping hand in time of need or trouble. His door was always open alike to friend or total stranger. Nationality, creed and social status made no difference to him.

Eminent scholars in several European countries are today proud to have numbered Angus MacMillan among their friends. To folklorists Angus was much more that a mere source of information. He was a phenomenon. His feats of storytelling are unequalled in the history of folklore recording. His tales took not hours, but sometimes several nights to narrate. In the archives of the Irish Folklore Commission in Dublin there are almost 10,000 MS. pages of tales recorded from the dictation of Angus MacMillan. The Irish Commission has presented a microfilm copy of the entire collection to the University of Edinburgh.

Slàn agus beannachd leibh, Aonghais. Cha bhi bhur leithid ann a-rithist. Requiescat in Pace.

 

References:

Calum I. MacGilleathain, ‘Aonghus agus Donnchadh’, Gairm, air. 10 (An Geamhradh, 1954), pp: 170–74

Calum I. Maclean. ‘The Late Angus MacMillan: An Appreciation’, The Scotsman, no. 34632 (27/05/1954.), p. 10(7)
NLS MS 29795 (Calum Maclean’s diaries covering 1951 to 1954)

Images:

Angus MacMillan, 1950s and Duncan MacDonald, 1953. Courtesy of the School of Scottish Studies Archives

Duncan of the Stories: A South Uist Seanchaidh

On the passing of Duncan MacDonald (1882–1954), styled Donnachadh mac Dhòmhnaill ’ic Dhonncaidh, at the age of seventy-one, John Lorne Campbell, one of the many folklorists who recorded him including Calum Maclean, gave the following impressions of him. MacDonald was undoubtedly the best storyteller to have been recorded by Campbell or Maclean. On more than once occasion Maclean said that he had never met a better storyteller in either Gaelic Ireland or Scotland. That in itself is very high praise indeed for Maclean recorded from some hundreds of folk throughout his short but prolific collecting career:

 

My first meeting with Duncan MacDonald (Dunnchadh mac Dhòmhnaill ’ic Dhunnchaidh ’ic Iain ’ic Dhòmhnaill ’ic Thormaid) was at Lochboisdale in 1950. In those days I was making wire recordings of Gaelic folksongs and folklore in Uist and Barra with the aid of a Leverhulme Foundation expense grant, and Duncan, whose house had no electricity, had come to Lochboisdale to be recorded there.

 

By 1950 Duncan’s reputation had spread amongst students of folklore, and I was anxious to meet him. He arrived, a short, cheerful, vivacious, strongly-built man in his late sixties. One was immediately conscious of being in the presence of a personality; an artist, a man who knew both his own subject and his own mind. Duncan was a member of the fast diminishing band of the Gaelic story-tellers, the last traditional story-tellers of Western Europe. All these men are personalities and comparison would be invidious; but there was something about Duncan that marked him out: the excellence of his Gaelic (I have never heard a better speaker), the artistic perfection with which he told the heroic tales “The Story of Manus,” “The Man of the Habit,” “The Story of the Son of the King of Norway,” “Conall Gulbann, Son of the King of Ireland,” “The Great Tuaraisgeil,” “The Man who got his Wife from Turkey” (the last a story of the Crusades). Some of these stories are known in other versions, but Duncan’s telling of them approached perfection. Luckily, besides having been recorded more than once, the texts of these stories have been published by K. C. Craig in “Sgialachdan Dhunnchaidh” and in the Irish periodical Béal-oideas (there is, unfortunately, no journal of Scottish folklore).

 

My purpose was primarily to record songs and ballads for the preservation of the tunes, which, before the invention of modern recording gear, had been far more difficult to take down than the words and were often in danger of being lost; but I was glad to let Duncan record whatever he liked, so as to have the pleasure of hearing his stories and playing them to others. Apart from these heroic tales, Duncan’s fund of anecdote, song and local history was inexhaustible; he seemed to know everything that had happened in South Uist for the last three hundred and fifty years. He knew scores of songs, too, and although his voice was not particularly good it is likely that some fine tunes have been preserved through him alone.

 

All these things Duncan carried in his memory, as is the custom of the unlettered tradition-bearers of Gaeldom, men who carry in their heads what would fill many books, and who still understand and practice the art of conversation as it was used before the minds of people were cluttered up with the clichés and half-truths of modern education. Their type has been vividly described in the writings of Alexander Carmichael, J. F. Campbell of Islay, and Robin Flower.

 

One of the most interesting things Duncan recorded for me was detailed accounts of the eleven different handicrafts, using all the technical Gaelic terms involved. Such words have been forgotten by nearly everyone nowadays. These crafts, such as building a “black house” (which had been Duncan’s own craft—he remembered when you could get a house made for £12) had been an immemorial background to Scottish rural life but were now passing into oblivion.

 

I can only hope that someone had the time and the means to question Duncan exhaustively about these things, and record the answers. No country has been more indifferent, generally and officially, to the loss of its native oral traditions than Scotland; the day may well come when this prodigality will be bitterly regretted. Amateurs likes Alexander Carmichael, J. F. Campbell of Islay, Fr. Allan McDonald (who, incidentally, noted form others a number of the anecdotes Duncan used to tell), and Frances Tolmie have reduced the balance, but an enormous amount has been lost, and we have still no national Folklore Commission or national Scottish Folklore Archive.

 

Fortunately Duncan MacDonald was discovered just in time by the Irish Folklore Commission and the School of Scottish Studies as well as by Mr K. C. Craig and by the writer. (One shudders to think of what would have been lost had he died ten years earlier.) Duncan’s great day came at the International Folklore Conference at Stornoway in October 1953, when, before a gathering of international scholars, he recited in Gaelic the heroic tale, “The Man of the Habit”—which takes about an hour to tell—while his audience followed an English translation.  His performance made an enormous impression, and ended with an ovation.

 

From Stornoway Duncan went to the Mod at Oban to meet with further well-deserved admiration. So vivid was his personality, so evocative his conversation, that it is difficult to believe that he has gone. South Uist will not be the same without him. Fortunately, beside the recordings he made, part of this knowledge and skill lives on amongst the members of his gifted family. But those of us who knew him realise that something irreplaceable has gone with him and his cheerful greetings and inexhaustible flow of conversation, anecdote and repartee—something, indeed, belonging much more to the 17th century and the great ages of Gaeldom than to the present day.

 

Likewise, Calum Maclean left his own impressions of both Angus MacMillan and Duncan MacDonald who both died within three weeks of one another in an article which appeared in the Gaelic periodical Gairm in 1954.

 

Reference:

John Lorne Campbell, ‘Duncan of the Stories’, The Scots Magazine, vol. 61, no 6 (September, 1954), pp. 473–74

 

Image:

Duncan MacDonald rope-making by Werner Kissling, 1953. Courtesy of the School of Scottish Studies Archives

Calum Pìobaire: Calum MacPherson, Piper of Cluny MacPherson

One of the most famous pipers of the nineteenth century is undoubtedly Calum MacPherson (1828–1898), styled Calum Pìobaire or Calum Dubh. Born in Raasay to a piper steeped in the traditions of the most Highland of instruments, MacPherson became one of the most successful competitive pipers and teachers of his generation. According to his son Angus, author of A Highlander Looks Back, his father had been taught by his own piping father Angus ‘Cam’ MacPherson (1800–1887) who could trace his musical lineage to the famous MacCrimmons of Boreraig, the hereditary pipers of MacLeod of Dunvegan. Like his father before him, Calum Pìobaire was in the service of Cluny MacPherson for a number of years and from his base at Catlodge would walk to various competitions throughout the Highlands and Islands and from where he would teach ceòl mòr, the classical music of the Great Highland Bagpipe, to his many pupils who came from far and wide. This short anecdote was transcribed by Calum Maclean between the 21st and 29th of April from the recitation of John MacDonald of Highbridge:

Chuala sibh uile ma dhéidhinn a’ phìobaire ainimeil (P428.) a bh’ ann an Calum Chluanaidh, Calum Mac a’ Phearsain. Bha e aig an Tighearna Chluanaidh am Bàideanach. Agus bha piobaireachd glé mhór comh-fharpeisean gu bhith ann an Dùn Eideann. Bha trì fichead pìobaire gu bhith cruinn.

“A bheil thu a’ dol a Dhùn Eideann?” thuir^st Mac Tighearna Chluanaidh ris.

“Ma-tà,” thuir^st e, “chan eil a’ phìob agam ann a suidheachadh air son a dhol a sin.”

“Dé tha thu a’ smaoineachdainn a chosdadh e de dh’ airⁱgead dut air son a’ phìob a chur cear^st?”

“Cosdaidh not.”

“Seo dhut not, ma-tà.”

Fhuair e not. Agus bha e gu math trom air an deoch.

“Agus ma dh’ òlas tu sin,” thuir^st e, “cha bhi tha na’s fhaide a’s an t-seiribheis againn.”

A-nis bha e a' dol a chumail seo ann an dìomhaireachd, ach na bu dé bh’ ann, na bu de an fhor^a(fh)ais a fhuair a bhean gun robh an not aige, bha i cho trom sin air an deoch. Ghoid i a’ ‘not.’ Thàinig Calum a-mach is bha e gu math brònach is e a’ dol a chur a dh’ iarraidh rudan a chuireadh a’ phìob cear^st. Is thàinig a’ nighean a-mach.

“Dé tha a’ cuir oirbh, a dhuine?”

“Ma-tà, thug Tighearna Chluanidh dhomh-sa ‘not’ air son a’ phìob agam a chur air dòigh is mi a’ dol a Dhùn Eideann. Agus chaidh a thoir^st bhuam.”

“Ma-tà, cuiridh mi geall riut,” thuir^st ise, “gur h-e mo mhàthair a ghoid a’ ‘not’. Ach goididh mise not oirre-se.”

Bha i a’ siubhal thall is a bhos. Chaidh a ‘not’ a chuir ann an àite gu math dìomhaireach ach fhuair a’ nighean e. Is thug i a ‘not’ do Chalum. Fhuair Calum a chuile rud a bh’ ann air son a’ phìob a chur air dòigh. Dh’fhal^abh e a Dhùn Eideann. Is chaidh Mac Tighearna Chluanaidh leis air son nach fhaigheadh e an an deoch a ghabhail. Bha e a’ toir^st dà gach biadh is deoch na dh’fheumadh e, ach cha robh e a’ faotainn tuillidh ’s a’ chòir. Agus mar sin ’n uair a chaidh e a dh’ ionnsaigh comh-farapaisean ann a sin, ’s e thug a mach a’ chiad duais à trì fichead pìobaire. Agus bha iad cho toilichte agus cho pròiseil as na rinn Calum. Agus bha e anns an t-seiribheis aig Tighearna Chluanaidh gus na chaochail e.

Bha Calum trip anns a’ Ghearasdan agus e aig na ‘Games’ anns a’ Ghearasdan, agus fhuair e duais gu math àrd ann mur a d’fhuair e a’ chiad té. Bha e a’ dol dachaigh is smùid mhór dheoch air is e a’ cluich na pìob. Bha pìobaire: ’s e pìobaire a bha ’s an òsdair a bha an Drochaidh Ruaidh, fear MacCoinnich. Cha chuala e is chan fhaca e Calum riamh gu siod, is shaoil leis gur h-e pìobaire ceird a bh’ ann. Thuir^st e ris nach robh a’ phìob aige a’ dol cear^st.

“Ma-tà, chan eil,” thuir^st Calum, “is cha mhutha a tha mi fhìn a’ dol cear^st. Ach an rud a chuireadh cear^st mise,” thuir^st e, “’S e deagh-dhrama.”

“Gheibh thu sin,” thuir^st a’ fear eile.

Fhuair e sin. O! thug e a mach a’ phìob a bh’ aige fhéin.

“Shin agat pìob agus cluich por^st oirre sin. Cha mhór is fhiach a’ phìob a th’ agat.”

“An-dà, a laochain,” thuir^st Calum, “tha an còrr ceòl anns an fheadan a tha sin ged a tha i air a ceangal a suas le dearnagan na tha anns a’ phìob agat uile gu léir. Cha toirinn a’ feadan sin,” thuir^st esan, “air feadan a th’ ann am pìob am Breatainn. Is iomadh por^st a thug mi as,” thuir^st e “agus a tha mi an dùil a bheir mi fhathast.”

’N uair a fhuair Calum an drama ’s i air a gleasadh ’s i air a cur an òrdugh, chaill a’ fear eile a mhisneach ’n uair a chuala e Calum a’ bruidheann.

Dh’ fhal^abh e anns a’ char^abad anns an robh e agus paidhir each ann. Chluich e am por^st suas seachad air Achadh Doire agus e a’ cluich ‘Boc Liath nan Gobhar.’ Sin am por^st a bh’ aige. Agus bu ghasda leis am por^st sin a chluich, ’n uair a bhitheadh e ann an trim math. 

And the translation goes something like this:

You’ve all heard about the famous piper Calum MacPherson. He was in service to Cluny MacPherson in Badenoch. There was to be a big piping competition in Edinburgh. Sixty pipers were to be present.

“Are you going to Edinburgh?” Cluny MacPherson asked him.

“Well,” he said, “my pipes aren’t set up to go there.”

“What do you think it would cost to get your pipes set up?”

“It’ll cost a pound.”

“Here it is, then,”

He got a pound note. And he was quite fond of drink.

“If you drink that,” he said, “you’ll no longer be in our service.”

Now he was going to keep this secret, and whatever happened, his wife found out that he had a pound note, and she was likewise fond of the drink. She stole the pound note. Calum came out and he was quite sad for he was going to get his pipes set up. His daughter came out.

“What’s wrong with you, man?”

“Well, Cluny MacPherson gave me a pound note to get my pipes set up in order to go to Edinburgh; and it was stolen from me.”

“Well, I bet you,” she said, “that it was mum who stole the pound note and I’ll steal it back from her.”

She searched here and there. The pound note had been hidden in quite a secret place but the daughter found it. She gave the pound note to Calum so that he could get everything ready to set up his pipes. He set out for Edinburgh. Cluny MacPherson’s son accompanied him to make sure he stayed off the drink. He gave him all his food and drink that he wished for but he never got more than was necessary. And so when he went to the competition he took the first prize out of the sixty pipers. And they were very pleased and proud of Calum’s performance. He was in Cluny MacPherson’s service until his death.

Calum was another time in Fort William where he attended the Games there and he got quite a high prize if indeed he didn’t actually get the first prize. He was on his way home and he was very drunk as he played his pipes. There was piper who was an innkeeper in Roybridge, a man by the name of MacKenzie. He had never heard nor saw Calum until then and he thought he was a tinker-piper. He said to him that his pipes were going well.

“Well, no,” said Calum, “and neither am I going well either. But there’s one thing that will put me right,” he said, “a good dram.”

“You’ll get that,” said the other man.

He got the dram. Oh! he took out his own set of pipes.

“Now that’s a set of pipes and give us a tune. They’re nearly as good as you own set.”

“Well, laddie,” said Calum, “there’s more music in that pipe-chanter although it’s strung with string than that which is present in your set of pipes. I wouldn’t give that pipe-chanter away,” he said, “for any other pipe-chanter in the whole of Britain. Many’s a tune I’ve played on it,” he said, “and I expect to play many more.”

By the time Calum had taken his dram and tuned the pipes and put them in order, the other man had lost his nerve when he had heard Calum talking.

He set off in the coach in which he was travelling with a pair of horses. He played a tune gong by up Achadh Doire and the tune was ‘Boc Liatha nan Gobhar’ (lit. ‘The Grey Buck of the Goats’ but known as ‘The Shaggy Grey Buck’, a 6/8 jig). He could play that tune very well when the mood would take him.

Interestingly enough, one of Calum (sometimes Malcolm) MacPherson’s star pupils was Pipe-Major William MacLean (1876–1957), nick-named ‘Blowhard’, a relative of Calum Maclean’s, who owned the Creagorry Inn in Benbecula for a number of years which probably inspired him to compose the reel Creagorry Blend.

Reference:

SSS NB 8, pp. 728–31

Image:

Mrs Kennedy, proprietor, Calum MacPherson, styled Calum Pìobaire, at Dalwhinnie Inn (Loch Ericht Hotel). This photo may actually date from October 1861 when Queen Victoria stayed overnight. A memorial cairn stands at Catlodge.

Death of a Nonagerarian: James MacKinnon of Northbay

Amongst the papers collated by John Lorne Campbell in Canna House is a fascinating scrapbook of diverse material such as newspaper clippings about tradition bearers. Reproduced in full is an obituary notice that appeared in the Stornoway Gazette: 

 

The death of Mr James Mackinnon (Sheamus Iain Ghunnairidh), Northbay, on 18th September removed one of the island’s best known inhabitants.

 

Born in Earsary (Barra) on 23rd December 1866, he spent the early part of his married life there till he got a croft at Northbay at the beginning of the century when the Northbay Estate was broken up. Here he worked hard, like other crofter fishermen with a young family to make a home and improve his bit of land, neither of which was easy in those days.

 

But Sheamus Iain Ghunnairidh was ambitious and industrious, and had the advantage of being a real handyman – able to turn his hand to everything about the croft.

 

He built his own house and made an excellent stone walled garden to it. He was his own blacksmith, and made panniers, lobster creels, harness etc., besides being able to mend boats and carts.

 

As a young man he followed the herring fishing round the British coats, and for a time, worked at the construction of the Fort William – Mallaig railway. After the first World War he concentrated more on his croft work and the local fishing. He was never idle unless on a Sunday, which day of the week he felt most wearisome, especially after his cronies passed on as he could neither read nor write, and fire-side ceilidhs had gone out of fashion.

 

He was, however, very sensible and intelligent and could converse in English fairly well. He has a wonderful memory even to the last and was well known as a story-teller. Authors from many parts came to him for folklore and “sgeulachdan” of which he had a great store. Tall, handsome and with a genial personality, he was a respected figure in the community.

 

It was he who was chosen to light the island’s bonfire on “V” Day and he was invited to be presented to the Queen during the Royal Visit last year, but in view of the distance and the long wait involved, he was advised to stay at home.

 

The last years of his long life were spent quietly about his croft, and even the week before his illness he was out helping with the hay. His leisure hours were spent in the garden or in walks to see his stock. Often he might be seen resting in the sunshine and puffing at his pipe. He didn’t feel the cold and despised sitting round the fire. He never knew a day’s illness until weakness overtook him ten days before his death, which came peacefully in his own home.

 

He was predeceased by his wife, only son and eldest daughter and is survived by two married daughters, one of whom lived with him. He was laid to rest in Eoligarry cemetery after Requiem Mass offered by Rev. Calum Macneil in Northbay Church in the absence of the Parish Priest.

 

MacKinnon was the first storyteller that Calum Maclean met in Scotland who had a repertoire of stories akin to those collected by John Francis Campbell and his team of collectors a century before. A year before his death, Maclean visited MacKinnon in March 1956, where he found him “resting after a hard day’s work planting potatoes.”

 

Reference:

Anon., ‘Death of a Nonagerarian’, Stornoway Gazette & West Coast Advertiser (1 October 1957)

 

Image:

James MacKinnon of Northbay, styled Seumas Iain Ghunnairigh, by George Scott-Moncrieff, May, 1943. Courtesy of Cnuasach Bhéaloideas Éireann, Coláiste Ollscoile Baile Átha Cliath / National Folklore Collection, University College Dublin.

A View from Badenoch on Highland Superstitions

The following item was transcribed by Calum Maclean on the 7th of July 1952 from the recitation of John MacDonald, a retired carpenter, then aged 77, from Newtonmore, Badenoch. It is not too often that a tradition bearer gives an overview of what he or she thinks about a particular subject – Highland superstitions in this instance. It may be assumed that MacDonald had read a fair bit of material about the subject area, one which by all appearances seemed to have fascinated him:

 

Highlanders are addicted to superstition. Perhaps the rugged nature of the country, its dreary wastes and rapid torrents which thunder and lightning and the rains of heaven exhaust their terrific rage, wrought on their imaginative powers and so they ascribed everything to the superior powers. Be that as it may, I think so long as ignorance abounded superstition did much more abound. So the world has grown older: the people have grown wiser and the grosser. While saying this, it must be admitted that some of the milder forms still find acceptance such as freits and omens:

 

“Marry in May and you'll rue it for age,” is an old freit. And a dog howling at night it still believed to betoken a death (B733.2.). Then there is the practice of first footing at the New Year time and the throwing of an old boot after the bride. There is an old rhyme which embraces a number of omens:

 

West wind to the bairn;
When gang for its name;
Rain to the corpse
Carried to its long hame;
A bonnie blue sky

To welcome the bride,
As she gangs to the kirk
with the sun on her side.

 

The belief in ghosts, witches, fairies etc. was quite common at the beginning of this century. In fact the ghost stories of Scotland would fill a large volume. Witches were the object of dread. They were accused of having intercourse with Satan. It is said that the Black Officer of Baile Chròdhann made bargains with the Evil One (M211.). It was believed that the witch could cure diseases and inflict diseases (G265.4.), could draw away every drop of milk (D2083.3.) from, the cattle. Only a horse-shoe (D1561.1.3.) nailed to the byre door or a sprig of rowan tree tied with a red thread was a protection (D1385.2.5.). It is popularly believed that fairies inhabited mounds or eminences (F211.). One such eminence I am reminded of near my own home called the ‘Sìdhean’ – probably taken from the word ‘sìdhich’. It is believed that in Hallowe’en  (F211.1.1.1.) any person going round one of these hillocks nine times  (Z71.6.) contrary to the course of the sun  (D1791.2.), a door would open  (F211.1.1.) by which he would be admitted to the realms of fairyland  (F211.1.). The burning of witches (G200.) forms a black chapter in the history of Scotland based, no doubt, in the command given in the 22nd chapter of Exodus:  “Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.” Some time ago I worked at Fortrose near the very spot where the Brahan Seer was burned in a barrel of tar (S112.1.). 

 

Closely related to superstition is the second sight (D1825.1.). People believe that Nature bestows on some individuals this gift called in Gaelic ‘taisiche’, a spectre or a vision – an impression made either by the eye on the mind or the mind upon the eye. Seers are said to see events before they happen such as funerals (D1825.7.1.), marriages etc. (D1825.7.). I can recall one or two individuals who were said to have this faculty. Dr. Johnson believed in the genuineness of this faculty. Highlanders are singularly attached to their birthplace and that fondness is not confined to the desire of living. It is extended even to the grave. The idea of dying at a distance and among strangers could not be endured. To be consigned to the grave among strangers was a great calamity. A story will illustrate. A few years ago an aged woman went to visit a friend – her daughter – in Perth. She was from Laggan. While there she took a slight chill and fever set in. One evening when a quantity of snow fell – it had fallen during the night and she expressed great anxiety when told that a fall was expected. Next morning her bed was found empty and no trace of her could be discovered till the second day, when she sent word that she had slipped out of the house about midnight, set off on foot through the snow and never stopped till she arrived home – a distance of more than twenty miles, her daughter went to see her. She said: “What if I grew worse and if I had died they could not get my remains through the deep snow. And if I had told my daughter she could have locked every door of the house. And God forbid that my bones should lie at a distance from my own home.” To be interred decently is a big consideration in the mind of the Highlander. In fact every article is secured to assure a respectable interment – to put it in Gaìdhlig “crìoch onarach.”

 

The narrator gives an overall view of some of the typical beliefs that used to held (and perhaps may yet be still held) by some Highlanders. Such superstitions are, however, by no means limited to a Gaelic wold view and can be found in many parts of the world.
 

Reference:

SSS NB 13, pp. 1118–22

 

Image:

Portrait of Captain John MacPherson, the ‘infamous’ Black Officer. Courtesy of the Clan MacPherson Museum, Newtonmore, Badenoch.

Calum Maclean’s Diary Entry from Connemara

From his home-base of An Teach Mór, Indreabhán [Inverin], Co. Galway, on the west coast of Ireland, Calum Maclean wrote, on the 16th of November 1944, a fairly long and interesting diary entry about his time collecting in Connemara. His account is evocative of the time when storytelling was still to be heard amongst the native Irish speakers that lived to the west of Galway city. Maclean had been in Ireland for around five years by the time he wrote the following account. During that time he became fluent in Irish Gaelic and this did not go unnoticed by his contacts back in Dublin. Five years earlier he began a post-graduate course at University College Dublin which had been curtailed due to the outbreak of the Second World War. Maclean then decided to go to the west of Ireland shortly afterwards and began collecting for the Irish Folklore Commission as a part-time collector in 1942.

 

An Teach Mór

Indreabhán, Cois Fhairrge

Co. na Gaillimhe

16.XI.’44

 

Mise Colm Iain MacGhille Eathain as oileán Ratharsair i n-iarthar na h-Alban. Bhíos ag bailiú béaloideas do Choimisiún Béaloideas na h-Éireann ’sa gceanntar seo dhá bhlian ó shoin. Tháinig mé ar ais chuig an áit se air an 14mh lá de mhí na Samhna le cuairt ghearr a thabhairt ar an áit. D’ fhága mé an áit seo blian agas chúig ráithe ó shóin, ach tá na sean-daoine a thug adhbahr béaloideas dhom cheana beó slán fós, buideachas le Dia. Níor cailleadh aon duine aca ó shoin cé go raibh cuid aca aosda go maith – cuir i gcás Pádraig Ó Cúláin, Baile a’ Logáin, Cor na Rón atá 87, agas Maitiú Ó Tuathail na Criogáin atá 90. Tá Maitiú mar a chéile, gcumhnaidhe, shilfeá nár tháinig aon aois air ó chunnaic mé é roimhe seo. Chuadhas siar aréir a’ bhreathnú air agas tá sé chomh acrach agas bhí aríamh. Tá neart seanchais agas sgéalta aige fós nár thug mé liom chor ar bith fós. Mar sin táim ag dul siar go dtí é aríst mar bhí go leór le rádh aige réir nár chuala mé ag an duine ach é féin. Níl ’sa teach anois ach Maitiú agas a bhean, sean-bhean laghach atá tuairim 86 d’ aois. Ní raibh an t-sláinte go maith aice dhá bhliain é ó shoin, nuair a d’ fhága mé iad, ach aréir chuir sé iongantas or mi bheith i n-a suidhe agas a bheith i n-án obair an tighe a dhéanamh chomh maith agas bhith sí i n-án aige aon lá aríamh. Tá Maitiú agas a bhean i n-a gcomhnaidhe i dteach ceann-tuighe giota beag ó thuaidh den’ mbothar mór a théigheanns siar third na Criogáin go Conamara thiar. Tá an teach ar thaobh na láimhe deise is tú ag dul siar go Ros a’ Mhíl. Beidh mion-chunntas ar an teach seo ’sa leabhar seo i n-áiteiánt eile. Tá inghean le Maitiú ag obair thall i Sasana faoi láthair agas ta mac leis pósda ar a’ mbaile céadna. Nuair a bhuaileas isteach chuig Maitiú aréir 15.IX.’44, chuir sé féin agas a’ bhean an-fháilte romham, mar ní raibh fhios aca chor ar bith go raibh mé teagaithe chuig an taobh tíre seo. Ba gearr a bhíos istigh aca nó gur tráchtadh ar sgéalta agas seanchas. Thug mé foir n-deara go bhfuil an chuimhne ag Maitiú chomh maith céadna agas bhí aríamh. Tá an glór breagh céadna aige i gcomhnaidhe agas tá se éasgaidhe rudaí a bhreacadh síos uaidh. Theasbáin mé dhó paidreachaí a bhailigh mé an samhradh seo thuas i dTeidhleann i dTír Chonaill, agas chuir siad-san paidreachaí eile i gcuimhne dhó-san. Sgríobh mé síos uaidh dhá phaidir e bhí aige, agas d’ innis mé dhó annsin go rabhas a’ tóraidheacht seanchais agas sgéalta faoi Fhianna Éireann. Thug sé dhá ghiotá beag eile domh, ach is gearr a bhíomar a’ sgríobhadh nuair a tháinig beirt bhuachaill óg isteach aige, beairt de’n dream céadna a theagadh isteach chuige nuair a bhíos annseo cheana dhá bhliain ó shoin. Buachaillí óga as a’ mbaile sin iad a theaganns ar cuairt chuig Maitiú agas a bhean chuile oichdhe a thosaigh siad a’ teach ar cuairt chuca blianta ó shoin. Teagann siad i gcomhnaidhe tuairim a h-ocht a’ chlog ’san oidhche. Tugann siad móin isteach agas cuireann siad caoi air an teine an chéad uair. Annsin suidheann chuile dhuine aca mór-thimcheall na teineadh, as tosaigheann Maitiú a’ cur síos ar chúrsaí an t-saoghail mhóir, an cogadh agas an obair a’ bhionns ar siubhal amuigh, an nuacht a thuganns daoine leó as Gaillimhe agas as Conamara thiar. Fear e Maitiú atá i n-dán cuimhniú ar chuile fhocal a chloiseann sé ó dhaoine is cuma más fada gearr ó shoin a cualthas iad. Aréir bhí sé a’ trácht ar chómhrádh a bhí aige le fear as Tír an Fhiadha thiar. Sílim nár dubhairt an fear am aon fhocal nár chuimhnaigh Maitiú air, a’ cur síos ar an gcogadh a bhí siad. Nuair a bhí Maitiú reidh le cúrsaí fánacha an t-saoghail, thosaigh sé a’ cainnt ar na daoine láidire a bhí i gConamara fadó. Chainntigh sé faoi Phádraig Labhrais, faoi Thomás Ruadh Mhac Dhonnchadha, agus faoi Mhaitias Ó Dúbháin. Faoi seo níor fhéad mé cur isteach ar Mhaitiú, agas iarraidh air na sgéalta imseacht go mall ’sa gcaoi go bhféadfainn iad a bhreacadh síos; mar bhí an sgéalaidheacht anois faoi lán-t-seól aige agas ba mhór an feall cosg a chur air. Nuair a bhí cuid mhaith innsighte aige faoi na gaisgidhigh a bhí i gConamara tuairim céad bhliain ó shoin, tharraing sé anuas Fianna Éireann aríst. Thrácht sé annsin ar an gclaidheamh a bhí ag Goll Mac Mhórna...Thosaigh sé annsin ar sgéal faoin Dara Donn a bhí a’ troid le Fianna Éireann. Annsin aríst bhí sgéal eile aige faoi Chaol an Iarainn. Tá an méid sin seanchais le sgríobhadh fós agam, ach aréir níor fhéad mé ach cnámh gach sgéil a bhreacadh síos ’sa gcaoi go gcuirfinn i gcuimhne dhó iad aríst. Faoi’n am seo bhí sé fiche roimh a deich ’san oidhche, agas ó bhí aísteir dhá mhíle le shiubhal agam, d’ fhága mé slán aca, ach gur gheall mé go dtiocfainn ar ais aríst luath ’sa lá air an Aoine i n-a dheaidh sin. “Bí anoir cho luath ’s is féidir leat,” adeir Maitiú, “agas ma bhéas an lá go breagh, sé ’n áit a ghabhas muid síos ar na carraighreachaí go bhfeicfigh muid a mbeidh aon bhreac le fail.” Tá dúil mhór ag Maitiú ’san iasgach ghliomach ar chladaigh Chonomara. Is meinic a chuaidh sé treasna go Conndae a’ Chláir i n-a churrachín agas isteach go h-Árainn. Tá aithne aige ar thuaisceart an Chláir chomh maith Cois Fhairrge. Bhí sé thar cionn a’ iomradh le n-a mhaidí rámha, agas d’ aithneóchthá sin air mar tá sé go h-an-láidir fós. Thóig sé deichneabhar cualodair agas gan aon chéird aige ach gliomadóireacht agas gan aige ach leath-ghabhaltas tálúna mar shlighe-bheathadh, nuair a chliosfeadh an ghliomadóireacht air. Is iongantach chomh beódha láidir is atá Maitiú fós. Dubhairt sé féin liom aréir go bhfuil sé ocht mbliana agas cheithre fichead (88), ach deir daoine eile go bhfuil a cheithre fichead is a deich slánuighte aige. Dubhairt sé go raibh sé a’ sgaradh agas a’ baint mhóna an samhradh seo, agas chreidfinn sin go maith. Fear árd caol é Máitiú, tá sé an-díreach, silim nach bhfuil sé blas níos lugha ná se troighthe ar aoirde. Tá a chuid gruaige liath, ach níor chaill sé morán dá chuid guraige aríamh. Bíonn sé bearrtha i gcomhnaidhe, cé is mórté de’n chroimbéal. Sean-fhear slachtmhar é, mar tá súilí glasa loinnreacha aige, súilí a’ bhíonns a’ gáiridh de ghnáth. Tá glór an-bhreagh aige, agas tá an Ghaedhilge go fíor-líomhtha aige. Tá sé i n-dán amhráin a rádh fós, agas d’ aithneóchtha go raibh an-ghuth aige nuair amháin. Is fearr mar sheanchaidhe is mar sgéalaidhe é ná amhránaidhe. Nuair a bhíonns sé ag innseacht sgéalta, ní bhíonn aon gheaitsí ar siubhal aige. Mar is meinicí suidheann sé síos gan chorraighe le linn dó a bheith a’ sgéalaidheacht. Ar uairibh bionn sos gearr aige agas caitheann sé a phíopa. Corr-uair a chaitheann sé tobac, nuair a bhionns an sgéalaidheacht ar bun aige. Is furasda fheiceál go bhfuil an-dúil aige ’sa gceird mar imthigheann an sgéal leis uaireantaí. Beidh trácht ar an dream a thug na sgéalta agas an seanchas dó an chéad uair i n-áit éicint eile ’sa leabhar seo.

 

And the translation goes something like this:

 

I’m Calum Iain Maclean from the isle of Raasay on the west coast of Scotland. I’ve been collecting oral traditions for the Irish Folklore Commission in this part [of the country] for two years. I came back to this place on the 14th of November for a short visit. I left this place a year and five seasons ago but the old folk from whom I collected are all hale and hearty, thanks be to God. None of them have passed away since despite being quite old – for example Pádraig Ó Cúláin, Baile a’ Logáin, Cor na Rón [Cornarona] who is 87 and Maitiú Ó Tuathail, na Criogáin who is 90. Maitiú is the same as always and appears not to have aged since I saw him last. I went over to see him last night and he’s just as obliging as he has ever been. He possesses lots of lore and stories that I’ve never yet taken down. Therefore I’m going to go and see him again as he has lots to say that no one else but him knows. Only Maitiú and his wife, a lovely old woman who is aged around 86, stay in their house. She hasn’t been too well over the past two years since I was last here but last night she surprised me as she sat down and continued her housework as well as ever and she has been his friend every day since. Maitiú and his wife stay in a thatched-house not far north off the highway that wends its way westwards through the Criogáin to west Connemara. The house is on the right as you make your way westwards to Ros a’ Mhíl [Rossaveal]. There is a detailed account of this house in another part of this book. Maitiú has a daughter who is now working over in England and he has also a married son here [in the township]. When I visited Maitiú last night 15.IX.’44 he and his wife gave me a very warm welcome as they had no idea that I was coming to this part of the country. I wasn’t long in when mention was made of stories and lore. I noted that Maitiú’s memory is just as good as it has ever been. He has likewise a beautiful voice and he’s keen to have things taken down. I showed him prayers that I collected this summer up in Teidhleann in Tír Chonaill [Tyrconnel], and they reminded him of other prayers he knew. I wrote down from him two prayers he knew, and then he told me some lore and stories about the Fianna of Ireland. I’ve already written this lore down but last night I could only take down the outline of each story so that I could remember them again. He then gave another two short pieces, and I had scarcely written them down when a couple of young lads came in, the same couple who would come in here two years ago. Young lads from the township who come to visit Maitiú and his wife every night since they started visiting years ago. They would always visit around eight o’clock at night. They would take in peat and the first thing they would do would be to place it on the fire. Then everyone would sit around the fire and Maitiú would tell of what was happening in the wide world such as the war and what work had to be done outdoors, the news that people had from Galway and west Connemara. Maitiú is a man who remembers every single word he hears from folk whether he has heard it short time before or even a long time before. Last night he mentioned a conversation he had with a man from west Tír an Fhiadha. I think that this man didn’t say a word that Maitiú couldn’t recall; they were talking about the war. When Maitiú had finished talking about worldly things, he began speaking about strongmen who had been in Connemara long ago. He spoke about Pádraig Labhrais, Tomás Ruadh Mac Dhonnchadha and Maitias Ó Dúbháin. Because of this I couldn’t interrupt Maitiú and ask him to tell stories slowly so that I could note them down; for his storytelling was now under full sail and it would have been a great shame [to interrupt him]. By the time he had spent a good part of time talking about those Connemara heroes from around a hundred years ago, he then mentioned the Fianna of Ireland again. He then mentioned Goll Mac Mórna’s sword...He then began on a story about Dara Donn squabbling with the Fianna of Ireland. Then he had another story about Caol an Iarainn. I’ve already written this lore down but last night I could only take down the outline of each story so that I could be remember them again. As it was twenty minutes to ten at night and as I had to walk two miles, I bade them farewell promising that I would return as soon as I good the Friday after. “Be here as early as you can make it,” said Maitiú, “and if it’s a nice day, we can go down to the fish weir to see if there’s any trout to be caught.” Maitiú greatly enjoys lobster-fishing on the Connemara shoreline. Many a time has he gone over to Country Clare in a currach and over to the Aran Isles. He knows northern Clare just as well as Cois Fharraige. He gave a brilliant description of using oars and it was apparent that he’s still exceptionally strong. He brought up a family of ten relying only on lobster-fishing and with only half-holding of land to grow produce when the lobster-fishing failed. It’s amazing how lively and strong Maitiú still is. He himself told me last night that he’s eighty-eight years of age but other folk said that he is ninety years of age. He said that he had been cutting and collecting peat this summer and I can well believe him. Máitiú is a tall, thin man and he’s very upright; I shouldn’t think that he’s anything less than six feet in height. His has grey hair but it has hardly ever thinned. He always wore it short, but he has a long moustache. He was a tidy old man with sparkling grey eyes that were always full of laughter. He has a lovely voice, and his Gaelic is very polished. He still sings songs and it’s apparent that he had a good singing voice. He’s a better raconteur and storyteller than singer. When he tells a story, he makes no gestures. More often than not he sits down to mend nets whilst telling a story. At other times he would have a short break whilst he smoked his pipe. Very occasionally, he would smoke at the beginning of a story. It’s easy to see that he very much enjoys telling stories. There will be a mention of the folk who gave him the stories and lore in the first place in another part of this book. 

Reference:
NFC 969: 3–8 [Courtesy of Cnuasach Bhéaloideas Éireann, Coláiste Ollscoile Baile Átha Cliath / National Folklore Collection, University College Dublin]

Image:
A ruined house in Indreabhán (Inverin) © Copyright Graham Horn and licensed for reuse under this Creative Commons Licence

A Hebridean Tour: Séamus Ennis and Calum Maclean

On his very first collecting trip to the Western Isles (specifically Barra) in September 1946, Maclean was later joined by one of the Irish Folklore Commission’s best (and youngest) collectors: Séamus Ennis (Mac Aonghusa), a very gifted piper and traditional singer. Ennis was four years younger than Maclean; born in Jameston in Finglas, North County Dublin in 1919 and died in 1982. For a period of five years between 1942 and 1947, Ennis worked at the Irish Folklore Commission. A better job offer appeared on the horizon when RTÉ offered him a post and so he then left the Commission to pursue a broadcasting career.

Writing in 1953, Maclean recollecting his first crossing to Barra states that despite not knowing any of the islanders he approached the trip with an air of excitement and perhaps with even some amount of trepidation:

 

One September evening seven years ago I crossed the Minch for the first time on my way out to Barra. It was a beautifully calm evening – the only calm evening on which I have ever gone that way, and I have crossed the Minch often enough since then. I had heard much about Barra, but had no idea what type of material to expect there. Everywhere I had heard the same story. Tales and legends, old songs and such had now gone. The old folk had gone. I knew not one living soul in Barra: nor in any of the Outer Hebrides for that matter. Nevertheless I approached Barra with eager anticipation…

 

In the very same year he first visited Barra, Maclean later recalled his initial first impressions of what he was going to collect though as circumstances turned out it seemed as if he had many of those from whom he recorded material had only recently passed on:

 

I stayed in Castlebay during my first week, and gathered as much information as possible regarding possible tradition bearers. Here again I discovered that I had come too late. My friend, Miss Annie Johnston, spoke of the late Ealasaid Eachainn [Elizabeth MacKinnon] with her fund of song and story, of which only a very small part has been recorded. That was another mine of information irremediably lost. A noted storyteller, Murchadh an Eilein, died a year or two before; and Ruairi Iain Bhàin, an unsurpassed singer of folk-songs had gone to his grave also.

 

Recollecting their trip to Barra, Maclean of an evocative evening when they went to Eoligarry in the north part of the island:

 

In springtime my colleague Seumas Ennis, the folkmusic collector of our Commission, and I toured the islands, making gramophone recordings of speech and singing. One week we gave to Barra. It was a glorious week of sunny days and moonlit nights. We recorded for posterity the voices of Miss Annie Johnston, Seumas MacKinnon, the “Coddy,” Donald MacPhee of Brevig, and Neil Gillies of Castlebay. These speech recordings were made for the purposes of phonetic and dialect study, and also to illustrate the tradition bearer’s style of narration. One beautiful night we motored to Eoligarry schoolhouse. We were accompanied by Flora MacNeil of Castlebay, one of the many charming and attractive young ladies I have seen in the Isles. She sings well, and was to do recordings for us that night. That night also we recorded the singing of Mrs Buchanan, a daughter of the noted folksinger, the late Ruairidh Iain Bhàin. I can still see her standing in dim lamplight before the microphone and hear her singing the fairy song, “Chì mi ’n tomain coarainn, cuilinn.” That melody haunts me still.

 

Maclean noted down a similar visit in his diary that took place on Thursday the 6th of March 1947. At this time he kept wrote his diary in Irish Gaelic (later changing it to Scottish Gaelic and then eventually English) but which is given here in translation:

 

…Flora MacNeil was in our company. She was going to meet folk in Eoligarry. We left the recording gear at the house of the schoolmaster, Neil Angus MacDonald. We went to Morag Maclean’s house and took her back to the schoolhouse. Seámus took down Katie Buchanan and Flora MacNeil. We set up the recording gear and Katie Buchanan sang three or four songs. Flora MacNeil also sang a song. Then Neil Angus played the pipes. Neil’s father was an excellent piper and he excelled in ceòl mòr and especially in cainntaireachd. That is the way in which they sang the tune when it was being learnt. The old pipers never wrote music at all and they used canntaireachd to transmit the music. On this night Neil Angus recorded canntaireached, filling two records. He played two pieces of ceòl mòr, Cumha Mhàiri nighean Alasdair Ruaidh (Mary MacLeod’s Lament) and Fàilte MhicGilleChaluim Ratharsair (MacLeod of Rasaay’s Welome). He also sang a bit of Crònan na Caillich sa Bheinn Bhric (The Lullaby of the Old Women of Ben Breck) and played this on the pipes. He also gave a sample of Dance Music canntaireachd also. Seámus was very pleased how the night went. It was late enough before we reached home. It was an excellent night all around. The moon shone as brightly as it did during the day.

 

Perhaps the key element to Ennis’s fascination with collecting was music and he must have been rather astounded at what was to be found not only in Barra but also in South Uist, an island which had been a stronghold for piping over very many generations:

 

Seumas Ennis has come across from Dublin and had never before heard canntaireachd, the humming of pibroch and pipe music. That night, however, Neil Angus MacDonald, schoolmaster of Eoligarry, a piper also and the son of a piper, kindly made two complete records of cainntaireachd. I had lived long years in Ireland, but I had never seen an Irishman entranced until that night.

 

Unlike Maclean it would appear that Ennis never kept a diary of his Scottish trip. There are, however, a few extant letters that he wrote back to James Hamilton Delargy, Director of the Irish Folklore Commission, and to Sean O’ Sullivan, the Archivist there.

Maclean was fully conscious that collecting very much a race against time but although he may have felt daunted at times by the sheer amount of fieldwork that lay before him his enthusiasm seldom wavered. Writing in 1947, he offered the following observation with regard to collecting and also the opportunities which fieldwork afforded:

 

He always knows that he rescues something from oblivion. The discovery and recording of a beautiful song, or story, which might otherwise have perished is always a joy. But most valuable of all is the wealth of friendships that come his way. Between the collector and narrator a common interest serves to forge a link of comradeship. The collector finds it necessary to spend hours and hours in the company of some old person and, if he is sufficiently tactful and deferential, friendship is assured.

 

The collectors during their stint in the Hebrides took in Eigg, Barra, Raasay, Canna and South Uist. Ennis managed to pick up enough Scots Gaelic to enable him to transcribe much of the songs collected by John Lorne Campbell. Many of these beautifully transcribed pieces have been preserved and are in the keeping of the National Folklore Collection at University College Dublin. Some of them were reproduced in Campbell’s Songs Remembered in Exile (1990), his last and one of his most important books. Both Maclean and Campbell owed a great debt to Ennis and one which was repaid with the hospitality shown to the Irishman who never seemed to get fed up when asked either to play the pipes or to sing. Ennis probably relished the attention and also to give people some entertainment.

 

References:

NFC 1111: 267–68

NLS MS.29780

Calum Maclean, ‘In Search of Folklore in the Western Isles’, Scotland’s S.M.T. Magazine, vol. 40, no. 6 (1947), pp. 40–44

Ríonach uí Ógáin (ed.), Going to the Well for Water: the Séamus Ennis Field Diary 1942–1946 (Cork: Cork University Press, 2009) [first published as Mise an Fear Ceoil: Séamus Ennis–Dialann Taistil 1942–1946 (Gaillimh: Cló Iar-Chonnachta, 2007)]

 

Image:

Séamus Ennis in the 1950s