Dalmore - A Few Tails More.

This blog, "Dalmore - Tales of a Lewis Village", will be taking a rest, for a while.
However, in the meantime, may I recommend that you take a look at that other Dalmore blog, "Dalmore - A Few Tails More". With a wee twist, the word 'Tales' morphs into 'Tails'. Neat? Well I thought so! In these stories, we will share in the lives of some of Dalmore's celebrity animals - So-Sally, Rupie, Kenny Iceland, Filax, Stowlia and Fancy and some others.
To access this other Dalmore blog, go to

http://www.dalmoretails.blogspot.com/

Catch Me If You Can.

Each year, Shonnie would send a hen to each of his brothers and sisters in Renfrew, always for New Year (never Christmas). I can still see that badly stained parcel delivered by the postman,a parcel which would deliver up an infrequent meal of epicurean delight. Nowadays, we deliberately misrepresent what we know to be a hen, by calling it a "chicken", or for that matter, we never eat mutton now, only "lamb". What Shonnie sent was unquestionably an old "cearc",whose laying days were spent,or her husband the "coilleach", now old and exhausted. A real chicken was small, and perhaps yellow, and wouldn't fill a hole in one's tooth,as the saying goes. It was always soup that was made with the hen, and very tasty the old "cearc" or "coilleach" was, served with the "chicken" soup and potato.
You will remember from before, that Shonnie was an innovator, an entrepreneur, a man of ideas. You see, Shonnie wasn't married. How the "guga" became the focus of this enterprise, I can only guess at. The guga is the solan goose, whose fledglings are harvested annually by the Niseachs on their visit to Sula Sgeir, a small island in the wild seas north of Lewis. Shonnie had observed that out the Pentland Road,about 3 miles from Carloway, the many lochs there provided excellent breeding grounds for various species of water fowl, mainly ducks and geese. Shonnie had it in his mind that the geese on these lochs were the young "guga", and that, should they be caught and fattened up, they could be sent out to Renfrew, instead of the scrawny "cearcan" we received each New Year. He was excited about this "guga" scheme, and so were we in Renfrew at the news. I am no ornithologist,but I doubt that the geese in question were solan geese, but were more likely to be barnacle geese or Canada geese, the kind I see when fishing Loch Awe. Whatever kind they were, they were definitely geese, and by mid summer they were getting to be quite a size, but were as yet unable to fly.
Shonnie's plan was to capture possibly half a dozen of these geese,keep them in a large cage beside the house, and feed them up, to give him and each of us on the mainland a huge goose for New Year. He decided that, for his purposes, Loch Laxavat Ard, about 3 miles from Carloway, would be "the locus of action". The loch was teeming with water fowl, and at one particular point, its waters are very close to the road, from which a small boat can be launched.
Shonnie approached the Ness man, who had built the 14 foot clinker- built boat (SY 92) for him, and ordered a small boat, with which to bag some geese on Loch Laxavat Ard. Shonnie always had some interesting "plan" in hand, maybe because he wasn't married, and had the time to dream ! It was a beautiful little boat,clinker-built and about 7/8 feet in length. This was the very thing, mused Shonnie, which could easily be man-handled onto the tractor's trailer in Dalmore, and as easily launched at the loch side. The new boat, though smaller than "its big sister", was still a fair weight,and proved a lot more awkward to handle, than theory had allowed (it always is). Shonnie started the reliable 4HP British Seagull outboard engine, and he and his bonnie wee boat moved away from the lochside at a respectable speed. Unbeknown to the "guga" hunter, the bush telegraph among the loch's water fowl, was in a state of high alert. Geese and goslings quickened their pace, with one eye on the "guga" boat, another on the nearest landing. But Shonnie was patient with so much at stake, and attempted to sail parallel to the little trains of geese, with a large net at hand. When Shonnie would get as close as he could, he would turn the boat through 90 degrees,give the Seagull full throttle,heading towards the "gugachean" at full speed. The theory was that parent geese would be put to flight, leaving the young gosling, still not fledged, at the mercy of the hunter's net. Well that was, as I've said, the theory.
Well, if Shonnie's boat was propelled by the four horse power of a seagull, it struck Shonnie that, at that moment, the young "guga" had at least 20 horses under the "bonnet". The young geese, using their webbed feet and near perfect wings, would disappear in a blur of spray across the surface of the loch, well out of reach of Shonnie and his net. After a few more tries, he knew that his theory of catching the young "guga" was full of holes,and the project was abandoned forthwith. I don't think Shonnie was too happy with the outcome of events, that day on Loch Laxavat Ard, nor did he realise that the "gugachean" were not what he thought,but some other species of geese, raising their young on those remote Hebridean lochs.
We continued for a few more years receiving a "cearc" for New Year dinner, until we adopted the steak pie, which was the norm in Renfrew, and we discovered, in the rest of Scotland.

There Had to be an Easier Way.

"Iain Glass",my uncle John Macleod, emigrated to Canada in 1923,and rose to be Superintendent of High Schools in the Province of Saskatchewan. He was commissioned from the ranks during WW1 and won the Distinguished Conduct Medal, second only to the Victoria Cross. He won the Battalion's Cup as top marksman in a shooting competition, and this was celebrated with a dinner in the Lewis Castle in Stornoway. Amazingly, the runner-up in this competition was another lad from Garenin. My mother, Anna Glass, was all of 17 years his junior, and adored her brother John. Many's the time she told us about her favourite brother,his achievements and the many stories relating to him.
One thing she would relate to us was that, while at the Nicolson Institute(around 1910-1913), there were occasions when he had to return home to Garenin, whether for provisions or during holidays. I wonder if John's weekend visits required him to return to Stornoway with a boll of meal, like every other "lad of pairts" we've read of. According to my mother, John would travel across the moor between the town and Garenin, and back again during the same weekend, a distance of possibly 30-35 miles. To this 10 year old, this was an amazing feat which only added to the aura surrounding my Super Uncle, and which would exercise my imagination for a very long time into the future.
During the late 1980s, I took up sub-Corbett hill walking and invested heavily in brand names like Berghaus and Tissot. I was at least determined to look the part. My intention was to retrace John's youthful forays "tarsuinn air a' mointeach" (across the moor). I would set out from the Dalmore road end on a bearing of 130 degrees, hill walker's compass in hand, leaving details of my walk with Murchadh a'Bhoer who looked at me in wonderment. I authorised him to raise the alarm if he had not received a phone from me by a certain time. I was feeling good,all shipshape and Munro-like! Murdo was reluctant to call in the police and the RAF rescue,as instructed,and was probably by now questioning my sanity. It was a sunny morning when I launched myself onto the moor, heading out in an approximate South East direction, on as close to a straight line as lochs, peat bogs and other unknown impediments would allow.
For those interested in such things, or are prepared to retrace my steps, here briefly are some locations along the way.
Dalmore road-end -----> southern end of Loch Rahacleit(area of very many ruined sheilings)---->straight thro' between Loch Galavat and Loch na Leac(4 mls out)------>
north end of Loch na Breac---->north end of Loch Gaimheach na Faoileag(just north of Stacashal)---->between Beinn Mholach and Beinn Chailean(9mls out)---->headwaters of the Laxdale River---->follow the Laxdale R.---->Laxdale Bridge---->Caberfeidh Hotel,Sty.(Total approx 14/15 miles). Things to be aware of, if you care to try this journey.
1. Don't do it! but if you must :-
2. The number of "airidhean"(sheilings) on the moors here is considerable. Ruined now, they must have been like a string of little hamlets, with people from Bragar up to Barvas, perhaps, looking after their cattle during that eight week period when they had by law to move their livestock from the crofts. There was a relaxed lifestyle on the "airidh" as long as the children were vigilant in keeping the cattle from fighting(and possible injury). Children might be born here, lovers arranged trysts and people died out here(refer to blog on the Dalmore Church). My mother once sang to me songs of the sheilings,which were beautiful, but I regret to say that I didn't record them. On one of his visits to Lewis, my uncle Iain from Canada visited his family's sheiling about 2 miles out on the moor at Loch Tom Liathbhrat
3. The old peat workings of the people on the West Side,so far out on the moors, have now been so eroded by the elements, that what is left is a vast array of giant pinnacles of old peat like the termite mounds you see in Northern Australia. With the soft spongy ground in between, this is a hellish area through which to navigate your way.
4. When you pick up the "source" of the Laxdale River, The Ordnance Survey map would have you believe that it's easy now, downhill all the way to Stornoway. The terrain here is another spongy expanse of moss and rushes, difficult if not dangerous to cross. I had to walk on the very edge of the river, following every last meander. This was a gruelling time, and possibly the worst part of the whole traverse of the moor.
5. When rest/lunch breaks were subtracted, the total time was 6.5 hours. I was picked up in Stornoway at 5 pm and Murdo Bear was informed that I had survived.

On returning "back home to Glasgow", I visited my mother, and bursting with pride I told her how I had retraced Uncle John's cross country trek, and how difficult it was, and how much I admired him for it. My mother listened to me for a little,and then asked the fairly obvious question "Why would John, who lived in Garenin, travel up to Dalmore to start his journey?" It hadn't dawned on me that John started out from Garenin. I had put myself in John's shoes forgetting that I, and not John, came from Dalmore.
The words that my mother uttered next nearly floored me.
"Iain,A'Ghraidh, your uncle John travelled the Pentland Road to Stornoway, like everyone else; how else?" I forced a smile,gave a nod of my head,and never again mentioned my trip to Stornoway, "tarsuinn air a'mointeach", UNTIL NOW ! Much,much later she asked if I had encountered Mac an t-Sronaich out there on those desolate moors. Thankfully, my sense of humour had been restored by then!
NB. The building of a road from the "busy fishing port of Carloway" to Stornoway was approved by John Sinclair, 1st Baron Pentland while he was Secretary of State for Scotland(1905-1912), just in time for wee John Macleod from Garenin to find an easy, quicker way to Stornoway.
NNB. Mac an t-Sronaich was supposedly an evil man and murderer, who hid out on the Lewis moors around 1830, a fugitive from the law, for crimes committed on the mainland. The stories surrounding the "Fantom" (sic) were debunked in James Shaw Grant's book, "The Gaelic Vikings".

Good Reasons to Remember Rothesay.

My uncle,John Macleod (Iain Glass) was an intelligent,educated man, held in high esteem by all who knew him. The story which follows was told to me by my uncle personally,on one of his trips to the U.K. in the late 1950s.For one who has grave doubts (unfortunate pun) about the supernatural, I still wonder at what he told me that day,the more so because you knew that he was an intelligent man,and certainly not given to lying or romancing. The following happenings occurred in the town of Rothesay in the Firth of Clyde,sometime during World War One. The address and number of a house in Rothesay were chosen by me,without knowing this town at all,and having forgotten any address which John may have used. The address for our purposes is No.13, High Street,Rothesay,which Google Earth tells me does in fact exist. So,if you live at present at 13 High Street, relax - it's only a story !
During this war,soldiers would return home to Britain for rest and recuperation in the homes of ordinary households,while still under the command of their officers. Lieutenant Macleod and his company of men were billeted in the homes of the good people of Rothesay,and it was John's duty to place the men in the homes according to a list he was given. Each soldier had to present himself at the designated billet,and hand over his ration book to the head of the house who would buy the soldier's groceries etc. The Army would answer for the bills.
With all the men now placed in their "new homes",for a time at least, John saw to his own billet with a family residing at 13 High Street. This was a large detached house situated in an overrun garden of about half an acre. Here was a large family, and John was told that he would have to sleep beside their eldest son,in an attic room at the top of the house. Not what John would have wished, but a dreadful conflict was taking place,all over Europe and beyond,and so, when needs must! John was obliged to shop for his foodstuffs in the shops around Rothesay,for as little as his rations would permit.and hand it to the mistress of No.13 High Street, that she might cook his food at the same time as she saw to her own family. A strange thing happened in each shop which John visited. When John handed over his ration book,he noted that invariably the address was read aloud in a halting fashion,with a murmur or a facial grimace from an onlooker. After a couple of days,John confronted a shopkeeper about the events surrounding the ration book and the address printed on it. "Don't you know ,sir,that there are ghosts in the house at 13 High Street". That evening at dinner,around which the whole family were seated, John broke the silence by making the bold statement "I am told that there are ghosts in this house". No one looked up from the table,nor did anyone say a word. Later that evening when John and the eldest son were preparing for bed,the young man said in quite a relaxed way,"John, would you like to see the ghosts? They usually appear in the early hours so if you wish,you get some sleep.and I will give you a shake as they are about to come". God knows how John enjoyed any sleep,but it seems he did until he was wakened by the young man of the house. It should be noted that the bed was hard against a wall,with the youth on the outside,and John behind him placed next to the wall.The following were John's words,as best I remember. He had barely heard the words "John,they are coming!" when a cold white mist began to form at the foot of the bed. This continued and now out of a dense mist evolved the figure of a very old man with long white hair and beard,who made his way up the side of the bed,leaning over the youth with his watery eyes fixed on John. "What did you do ?",I demanded. John told me that he was at that moment paralysed with fear. He could not move. The old man left the bedside,only to be replaced by a succession of "spirits"each younger than the last (John reckoned there were about 20 different spectres). The penultimate "visitor" was a beautiful young child dressed in a fabulous costume,who had to rise on tiptoes to gaze into John's face. There was a return visit from the self same old man who had petrified John at the outset,before finally disappearing into the aether. Before anyone asks, Iain Glass neither smoked nor imbibed alcohol throughout his life. Often,as a secondary school teacher,nearing the end of a term,pupils would ask to hear my "ghost stories" This story was often repeated to a hushed audience, but what happened at the end of one such telling amazed me. A young girl,over on the left in the front row,waited until there was quiet and then said." I have an aunt who lives in Rothesay,and I often stay with her on holiday. She has told me that there is a house in Rothesay which is haunted with many ghosts".So there we have John's story about "13 High Street,Rothesay",and I am none the wiser.

Canadians Do have a Sense of Humour.

My uncle,John Macleod (Iain Glass),finally graduated M.A.(Hons)at Glasgow University just after the First World War,which had interrupted his course. John had contracted tuberculosis in his youth,and this had recurred at various times thereafter. The doctors now told John that the only betterment which he might see was if he settled in a country which experienced a cold, dry climate eg. Switzerland. There was a teaching position in Lima,Peru,which is located at a high altitude in the South American Andes. The climate was perfect for him,and he would be teaching English and Mathematics to the English speaking children in that city. He informed his parents of his decision, and that his ticket was bought and paid, for passage to Peru. His father(Bodach Glass)was sad to hear how far John felt he had to travel for his health and a teaching position. Glass gave it some thought for a few days,and finally he proposed the following. If John were to consider going to Canada,where incidentally Glass had a brother in Preston,Ontario,then Glass,his father would pay his passage to Canada. I believe John was able to recoup his fare to South America. John settled in the Province of Saskatchewan,where conditions were perfect for his health. John "rose through the ranks" in the province's educational establishment,as one of their most experienced Inspector of Schools. In the 1950s and early 60s John was to visit the U.K. many times as part of a team, recruiting trained teachers here, for jobs in that prairie province.
It was during these visits to the U.K.that we got to know our Uncle John so well,and he always finished his recruiting drive in Scotland in order that he could spend time with his kith and kin in Renfrew, and especially in Dalmore,which always readied itself for a mini invasion of some of John's Canadian team,all Ph.Ds as befits an island replete in doctorates viz. Dr.Tait,Dr.Titus and Dr.Jim Pfeiffer,a young man who encouraged me to stay on in school,when I was bent on leaving.
When they came ("Na duine uasail")ie.the toffs,all doctors,you know, everything had to be spick and span,manners had to be burnished, and a toilet was specially erected in the Creagan for the use of the doctors only - no scraggy wee "tons" would sit down here ! They would eat fine dinners of minced beef and potatoes,followed by tinned fruit and thick Cremola custard,while we ate the usual fare of fish and boiled eggs, and porridge, if you were unlucky. The dog,Fancy, and Filax(new spelling!)the cat, were barred from the house while the toffs were in residence, and had to remain outside especially during meals. Two humorous occasions come to mind while the Canadians stayed at 5 Dalmore.
The first occasion was when John, and the usual posse of doctors,were seated for "one o'clock dinner" with us Hebrideans at the big table in the middle of the kitchen. My mother was serving mince from a large pot,as she circled the table,asking each in turn if they wanted mince or salt herring. I guessed that this situation was not quite kosher,as the North Americans were alone in having cutlery in front of them. The situation was quickly clarified when my mother asked the first Hebridean(me,as it happens) in a confident voice, "Would you like mince,Iain ?",followed in a further millisecond with the whispered Gaelic advice "Can nach 'eil" (Say you don't). I complied with the "faux egalite'". This charade continued, with my Auntie Dolly following behind my mother with a sooty pot of salt herrings ie. until my mother came to serve Donald,my older brother. By now "les Canadiens" were aware of the developing situation. "Would you like mince,Donald?"/"Can nach 'eil" were the question and answer which were hysterically anticipated by the fifteen or so people round that table. "Mother,you know that I would prefer herring and potatoes every time !!",said the Big D. My mother was the first to explode in laughter,followed by the Canadians and then us Hebrideans. None of the doctors opted for herring - strange,knowing how they were weaned on pemmican. What I'd give now for a feed of salt herring and potatoes and a bowl of thick milk.
The second occasion occurred in 1956,I think,when John's wife Mary from Canada,and her daughter Ilona,my first cousin, paid their own visit to Dalmore,without the presence of a single Ph.D. The situation was as above,with everyone seated round the table, and Mary and Ilona served the obligatory mince. It was Shonnie,I think,who noticed that Fancy,our faithful tyke,was in the "dining room" with the Canadians,and he promptly ordered her outside through the door which was jammed open,it being a warm day. Fancy went outside, but only as far as the threshold,where she stood with a clear view of the dining room. What she noticed was that Filax,the cat, was seated inside,between the table and the fireside,a fact that seemed to have escaped the notice of all the diners,including Shonnie. As witnessed by us all,Fancy crept in,and very carefully picked Filax up "by the scruff of her neck" and trotted outside into the sunlight and gently deposited her pal Filax over by the fence. Talk about laughter and amazement! The dramatis personae were amply rewarded for this amazing show,but not with mince.

BLOG BECOMES A BOOK

My blog "Dalmore - Tales of a Lewis Village" is now available as an online book,containing 222 pages and illustrated with many photographs. So far,it has been very favourably received. To obtain copies of the book:-
Go to the website "www.blurb.com"
then click on "bookstore"
In the vacant window type "dalmore",and click on "search"
Click on "preview",then "about book".


You are now in the position to order and pay(by credit card)for copies of the book.There is also information on the book and the author.
Paperback copy £12.50 (plus postage)
Hardback copy (with dust cover) £19.95 (plus postage)

Note. Cost of shipping (postage) is greatly reduced when ordering
multiple copies of the books.
Example. Ordering 10 paperback copies,reduces postage to only £0.80 per
book.

If you have a problem with the instructions above on how to order the book,please e-mail
dj.maclennan@btinternet.com
OR "Dalmore - Tales of a Lewis Village" is now for sale at these three Stornoway outlets :-
The Baltic Bookshop,8-10 Cromwell Street HS1 2DA
Hebridean Jewellery,63 Cromwell Street HS1 2DD
An Lanntair Arts Centre,Kenneth Street HS1 2DS
and at Calanais Visitor Centre,Calanais,Lewis HS2 9DY
Gearrannan Blackhouse Village,Carloway,Lewis HS2 9AL

The Lewis Corn Mill ( "Norse" Mill )

The milling of corn and barley,the main crops of the old Lewis townships,was an essential requirement(as anywhere else)in producing flour and meal. Hundreds of these simple mills were built and operated throughout Gaeldom. Wherever one finds a loch feeding into a stream below,then an old mill ruin will lie close-by. In some cases,the head of the loch(the reservoir)was dammed to give a better outflow of water. Any school pupil(well,some) will know that the potential energy stored in the water high in the loch,is converted to kinetic energy,as the rapid flowing waters of the stream pass through the mill down below. I suspect that, even back then,there were some Ph.Ds around who could tell you all about it! I notice that there is little archaeology in Scandinavia(Viking or Norse)to show that this type of mill ever existed there,or that the design has anything to do with the Vikings who conquered and settled the Hebrides. The simple design of this "muilean"(cf.French "moulin") had been around for a very long time,I think, and has even been referred to as a "Greek" mill. Still,it's a great advance on the quern stone. In a 1898 map of the area,the Shawbost "norse mill",which is today a favoured tourist attraction,is in fact only one of two "corn mills" on"Allt nam Breac"(trout stream)which flows from "Lochan Tioram"(small dry loch)near Beinne Cloich and ends in "Loch na Muilne"(the loch of the mills).Note the use of the plural here, suggesting that both mills were operational at the same/different times. The map shows that at this time a channel or mill lade had been constructed,taking the mill water from the east end of Loch Raoinavat,beside the road,along parallel to the stream and passing through two corn mills in turn, before joining Loch nam Muilne. The mill lade was possible here because for much of its course,the terrain is fairly level,and it was only as it approached the mills,that the level ground gave way to a considerable downward slope.This is the mill race whose fast water flow is responsible for driving the mill stones. The early corn mills for long and weary had retained the same basic design.and had always been considered "fit for purpose" by the people who built and used them. Here, the Shawbost mill of 1898 seems to be a "later model",with its mill lade and mill race.
The corn mill was built and thatched in the usual way,but this was a small building comprising the dry upper level where the millstones ground out the oats and flour,and the "wet" lower level where the incoming water torrent turned the shaft of the millwheel. The wooden blades of the wheel were arranged horizontally and consisted of 6 or 8 of them arranged symmetrically around the shaft,usually perpendicular to the axis of rotation. The blades in today's wheel at Shawbost are angled to the axis to give a smooth flow of water,which is an improvement,but devised of course in hindsight. The "engine room" of the mill was often located below ground level(after a bit of digging),and this,together with the down slope,led to a very fast millrace. The rotating shaft was of wood,and would be strengthened with further blocks, bound by iron braces. Above in the dry milling area,directly above, were the two large millstones,one on top of the other,but only the upper stone was connected to the rotating shaft. It was the turning of this stone on the fixed stone beneath which produced the milling action. The corn was fed into the centre of the top stone by means of the "brog"(shoe),a leather container which was slightly shaken as it was suspended from a moving part of the mechanism.This ensured that the corn was fed into the mill at an even rate. The ground corn or barley spewed out between the stones to be collected by the miller. It seems that at some stage a "corn kiln" was added to this milling complex to dry grain that was damp,before moving it to the mill proper. Was there no end to the ingenuity of the Shawbost men? But it took a Garenin man to raise the Shawbost mill from a heap of stones in the late 1960s. Robert Macleod MBE,a cousin of both my parents,was at that time a technical teacher at Shawbost School. The first complete rebuild of this mill was undertaken by Shawbost pupils under the able guidance of "Rob Calum".
I remember that it would be around this time, that I took my young brother,Gordon, to show him the rebuilt Shawbost mill(it wasn't so well patronised in these days),and ,of course,to give him the complete guide of a Viking/Norse/Greek mill, as related to me by George Dalmore. After a mind-numbing "Time Team" style lecture,which I'm sure he appreciated,,we retraced our way back along the mill lade to the lapping waters of Loch Raoinavat. There was a sort of sluice gate(I think),composed of various wooden slats which,if removed,would allow water to leave the loch and enter the mill lade. I removed 2 or 3 slats and started back towards the mill. The channel(lade) at first filled slowly, but as we approached Rob Calum's mill,we could see that the volume and rate of flow was growing exponentially by the second. A tsunami was about to enter the mill race,and when it struck the whole mill roared,as if it were being tested to destruction! The rotation of the blades was just a blur,and the upper millstone threatened to take a walk. Running back to the loch,I replaced the slats in the sluice,and prayed very hard. The waters subsided,the water wheel survived its most extreme test,and after 33 years,I'm glad I've got that off my chest!
For more on the norse-type mill,see the post "An Gearraidh. Some other stories."

You may be interested in the other Dalmore blog,
" DALMORE - A FEW MORE TAILS "
Blog address :- www.dalmoretails.blogspot.com

The "Taigh Dubh" (Black House). # 2.

In an earlier post(Clann'ic Iain,"Long","Glass"),I described how, with my mother,I visited the home of my great-uncle,"Long" as he lay on his death bed. This was one of the early blackhouses,with none of the partitions you find in later versions(Gearrannan 1860),or it may have been that,since "Long" and his wife had no family,the "open plan" of the "sean taigh dubh" would serve them just as well as their forebears. "Taigh Shoudie"(my father's house,No.4 Dalmore),had in fact been occupied by a family, before Dalmore was cleared around 1852 to make way for a sheep farm. This would mean that the house was possibly built around 1830,an early "taigh dubh",we may assume.I was told that the walls of this house were in good shape when "Shoudie",my grandfather came across from Garenin to take over the croft at No.4. Walls, traditionally built nearly 100 years before,had weathered all the storms the Atlantic had thrown at them,and yet there they stood,waiting for a roof, absent for over 60 years. In 1920,some new design features were incorporated in the "conversion" of the older 1830's house. But first,let us try to describe how the old style black house would have looked inside - the house itself, we "built" in the previous article.
In the old "taigh dubh",there was just one entrance, which was used by people and animals alike. On entering,the animals(we mean mainly cattle)took their place down in the "todhar",while the people occupied the greater part of the building at the upper end. The cow dung("todhar") accumulated there until it was removed in spring to be spread on the "feannagan"(rig/strip field). The slurry from the "todhar" issued from a purpose-built hole at the bottom of the building. The whole "taigh dubh" was built on a gentle incline,sloping down towards the "todhar". In heavy rain,any water which came through the thatch,formed little rivulets that joined the slurry. Keep in mind that the standard of thatching bore little resemblance to what we see in the typical English country cottage,where thick bundles of reeds and wooden pegs were employed(or in the Gearannan houses,which had eventually to be thatched in the "English style"). Harking back to "taigh Long",you will remember how little there was in the way of furniture.There was a spring well inside the entrance door(unusual)and the peat fire was located in the middle of the earthen floor,with only a small hole in the thatch to allow the smoke to escape. It was not an efficient air conditioner,as the interior of the "taigh dubh" would often be thick with smoke. Modern theorists say that the smoke was a powerful disinfectant,and maybe that's just what was needed! Chain and "striolla" hung from a roof timber and were located above the "teine"(fire)for cooking. In early spring,all of the thatch(but not the timbers)were stripped from the roof,but this was not a spring clean,as we know it. The thatch, laden with a year's build-up of peat soot and tars, was an exceptionally rich source of fertiliser. Bales of corn straw were at hand,that same day, to thatch the roof anew,as the rain is never far away in these parts. This old thatch was used in conjunction with the cow dung as a very rich fertiliser on the croft. In some places,seaweed,mainly sea wracks was also used. It was stored in circular walled enclosures known as "torran poll". (See the post "An Ghearraid.Dalmore's Little Jewel"). It has been said that when the fire was in the middle of the old black house floor,many at a ceilidh could find a seat round the "teine". When the fireplace made its appearance in the "modern" black house,only a semicircle of people could ceilidh,unless you were prepared to contribute a song or story from the byre. The long roof beam, covered in fingers of soot and tar,was known as the "cabar suiche"(soot covered beam). There is a song of yester years which laments the gradual decline in the ceilidh, and the intimacy and warmth of the old "taigh dubh"
"A'Charaid ghalabh a h-uile rud,bho ghalabh an cabar suiche" which said that "Everything went,my friend,when the "cabar suiche" vanished". Yet,in my opinion,nothing destroyed the ceilidh more than the arrival of television in Lewis. "Ghalabh a'cheilidh mar bha sinn eolach." (The ceilidh which we were used to,has gone forever).
Over at No.5 Dalmore,we lived in what I coined a "taigh dubh-geal" a 1923 version of a black house,which now had two entrances(the cows now had their own),fireplaces,separate rooms,barn and stable. There later followed the "taigh a'bhord",the bungalow and later the T.V. I would have to echo the sentiments of the song in repeating that line:- "A'Charaid,ghalabh a'h-uile rud". The Dalmore I remember has changed forever. Every single thing I knew and loved has gone,and the clock can not be put back for me.
N.B.(a) The timbers used in building the roof at No.5 Dalmore in the 1920s were all transported from the previous house in Garenin.
(b) The main beam of the old Dalmore Church was reused in the roof of the mission hall in Tolsta a' Chaolais in 1848,and it is there until this day.

Building a "Taigh Dubh." ( A Black House.) # 1.

The Hebridean black house (Gael."taigh dubh"),one might suppose,gets its name from "the darkness and the thick smoke" within the walls and beneath the thatch. Some have suggested that thatch ("tughaid")has been mistaken for"dubh". It is possible(ie. dubh <--> tugh )but unlikely. Like Gearranan,I think that the name "taigh tughaid" is a more apt name for these old Hebridean houses. When,in the middle of the 19th century,many of the black houses were being built,doctors,ministers,estate factors etc.were already being housed in modern two storey houses that boasted glass-paned windows all round,slate roofs and a couple of chimney stacks.It was cement/mortar built and might be pointed in white lime. It was, to all intents,a modern house,which would not be out of place today. This modern edifice was understandably known as a "taigh geal" (a white house),and I think that it's at this juncture,the old house,by comparison,would have been dubbed "dubh" (black).
Because the prevailing winds in Lewis are westerly/southwesterly, and can often be gale force, dwellings were necessarily of a low build and positioned to afford maximum shelter from the strong winds. When the Hebridean sought to build a "taigh dubh",he would have in mind the maxim "Cul ri gaoth,aghaidh gu ghrian" (Back to the wind,face towards the sun). Of all the black houses which I knew in Dalmore,all obeyed this maxim (ie. long axis of each house was perpendicular to that of the glen,with the back of the houses facing towards the shore). Two exceptions were Taigh Shoudie and Taigh Murchadh Sgiobair,built high up the crofts under the hill, which afforded protection from the constant westerlies. If a young man intended marriage,it might take him 2 or 3 years to assemble a quantity of suitable stone to build the marital home. Roof timbers, and what little wood was required for "furniture"(eg. beds), was always a problem in an island with no trees. They would have to depend on what was thrown up by the sea,lost or jettisoned by passing ships - timbers,planks or even oars. Being at the "receiving end" of the Gulf Stream/North Atlantic Drift,at times they might salvage some logs from the Caribbean or the Labrador coast. If one had to,then there were always the old fir stumps in the peat bogs(from the days when the whole island was covered by trees).
Even when the building materials were assembled,you had to be au fait with the considerable skills that went into building a "taigh dubh",but failing that, there would always be a "clachair" (stonemason) in the district,probably a relation of the wife-to-be. The walls of a black house consisted of a double drystone dyke,broad at the base and narrowing towards the top,where it was capped by "closing stones". There was a cavity of several inches between the walls,where the infill could be turf,pebble,rubble or sand, according to their availability. You now had walls which were extremely well insulated (warm in winter,cool in summer) and sound proofed ("an gaoth agus an cuan-t-siar" ie.the wind and the Western(Atlantic)Ocean). The house's outer wall was tapered in such a way which allowed rainwater to drip off,and not permeate the interior. Any little gaps that caused draughts within the house were dealt with using a plug of wool,what else? The walls were as broad as they were high(5 or 6 feet),strong,low lying and durable. The end walls were rounded(as was the thatched roof) which allowed the prevailing wind a "streamlined flow" over the "taigh dubh". It has been said that the black house resembles an upturned Viking longboat or its cousin, the Celtic birlinn. I think they may be right! The roof of the house would pose a lot more problems,not least the paucity of wood on the island. The roof timbers rose from the inner wall line to support the roof of turf or thatch. Because of this,there was a grass covered "path" all around the house,between the outer wall and the roof. Sheep could often be seen grazing up there,the better climbers,that is. Often,flat "stepping" stones were incorporated in the outer wall in the form of an outside staircase,which gave easy access to the roof(eg.for thatching). I think some of the sheep knew this trick! The roof covering would probably be two layers of turf overlain with cereal straw. To prevent damage by wind, the thatch might be covered here and there with old portions of fishing nets found on the shore. For double insurance,heather ropes weighed down by large stones,were draped over the thatch on the roof. Because of the shortage of wood,and the toil involved in collecting stone,houses were often built back-to-back,sharing a common wall(eg.father/son or brother/sister). The house described here is of the 1860 vintage but there were versions of the "taigh dubh" long before this period and certainly after 1860. The Gearrannan thatched houses belong to this time(my mother born in No.4 and father born in No.9). The house at No. 5 Dalmore,where I was born, was really a "new build" black house, finished in 1923,and possibly the final version ever to be built - a sort of "taigh dubh-geal". Even then, the black house was slowly morphing into a white house,with all mod cons,but with walls 6 feet thick,cattle down in the toilet and rats "in the belfry".
There's the inside of the house still to do,and much,much more. To be continued....

A Radan S' Iolaire.

Iolair(fem.iolaire)is the Gaelic for "eagle",and in the Island of Lewis we are talking of the "golden eagle", a majestic and beautiful bird. It is pronounced "yoo-lir". Unfortunately in Lewis the word "iolaire", when pronounced as "eye-oh-lare",takes on a different meaning altogether(an anglecised pronunciation). This was the name of the boat (M.V. "Iolaire")which went aground on the dangerous rocks outside Stornoway, known as the Beasts of Holm. The Iolaire was requisitioned to bring home hundreds of Islanders who had survived the Great War of 1914-18. 205 brave lads died that New Year's Day,January 1st.1919,the greatest disaster ever to befall Lewis.
When I was a child,the golden eagle had a terrible reputation on our side of the island. It was responsible for the killing of lambs,they maintained,and its appearance high above Dalmore elicited a form of blind panic in the people.I heard repeated cries of "Iolaire,Iolaire",and shotguns discharged in an effort to scare the eagle away from our village. The eagle soared past, well above the "beinn". With what we know now,this behaviour was irrational and bore the hallmark of mistaken beliefs from the past.Today you will find pairs of golden eagles throughout the Highlands and Islands. I used to enjoy lying down on a heather hillside, and with powerful binoculars, watch the eagles soaring high above, or just coming and going from their eyrie - truly,magnificent birds which should be respected,and not shot or poisoned, as still happens in some quarters. Ravens are in fact a bigger threat to sheep and their lambs.
While one can go along with a story about the great golden eagle,one is definitely uncomfortable with anything to do with "a radan",which appears in the title of this post. Gaelic speakers will know this word "radan", but if I had titled this post "Rats and Eagles",some might have recoiled in disgust,and now that wouldn't do! You see,humans living in "black houses"(traditional/thatched)were never more than a few feet away from a rat(Rattus rattus,the black rat or the "Norwegian" species,Rattus norvegicus,the brown rat). It was common to see rats scattering when the stooks of corn were being dismantled, or occasionally when removing a peat stack,but only in a black house did one realise how close we lived with these brown whiskered rodents. Night and day,but more so at night,one could hear the noise from that other world, just above the pink painted wooden ceiling. There was the odd squeak,but the main noise came from the rats scurrying to and fro throughout the full length of the "taigh dubh". At times there would be no noise,but often when I lay in bed at night, the whole rat population seemed to be engaged in a ho-down. Later, I would gently slip off to sleep, seduced by the gentle sound of squeaks and scrapings.For all their proximity to us,I only once saw a rat inside the house,and this happened one morning when I awoke in my box bed to see a rat eating corn seed, which had spilled from one of the bags kept down in the closet,where I now slept. As I moved my head the rat vanished. You might say we lived in harmony with the rats,or more probably, that humans and "radan" had no other option in a "taigh dubh".
One place where you might see a rat was in the hen house,whose roof was merely an extension of that of the main house,although if you entered, there was never a sign of them. There was however plenty of evidence that they had been there, in the number of damaged eggs and empty shells. Action had to be taken to rid the hen house of rats. Shonnie bought 3or 4 cages to trap the rats alive. I remember them as large metal traps, which looked like, and functioned like a lobster creel. Whatever the bait was, those traps filled regularly with our egg-eating rodents. We carried the traps to the "leathad"(slope)under the "beinn",and there Shonnie released the rats one at a time,with Fancy our collie dog yelping in anticipation. It was no contest as, one by one, Fancy caught the rats and disposed of them by shaking and breaking their necks. I have to admit that as a small boy I enjoyed this gratuitous slaughter,but nowadays I think I'd call Rentokil. I would not mourn for Rattus rattus as they have been here as long as man ,and are certain to be here long after our demise, which we seem hell-bent on.

A Cute Little Loop and a Curly Tail.

I suppose that my formal education started in Dalmore,in a small way,it has to be said,and at an early age - another of these childhood memories. This was a sort of kindergarten,just for me, in a "taigh dubh"(black house),with a slate,slate pencil,newspaper and scissors. The curriculum was tight, and based on what was known as the "3Rs" ( Reading,wRiting,aRithmetic ).
Two memories of my pre-school experiences are as clear today as they were over 60 years ago. It was a summer's evening and "Aonghas Dhomnull Mhor" was over on a ceilidh from Dalbeg,which is about a mile away,across the moor,"as the crow flies"(which we used to say!) Angus Macarthur,a cousin of "Old Glass",was a regular visitor and had consummate ceilidh skills ie. he was "good company". As the adult "comhradh"(talk/ceilidh)continued around the peat fire,I was busy at the large table in the centre of the room,cutting strips of newspaper of varying lengths from a copy of the "Daily Express",which was ubiquitous in Lewis homes at that time. Were the Leodhaisich all Tories at that time? Were they still full of the war-time spirit of John Bull,Beaverbrook and Churchill? So I'd be fashioning capital letters using the scissors viz."A",using two long strips,and one short "crossbar". Rounded letters,such as "S"or"G" were still composed of short straight strips. The letters were posted on the two wooden uprights supporting the mantlepiece,using saliva,mine of course. Angus Dalbeg was,between cups of tea and a bit of "craic", taking an interest in the letters that were beginning to cover the black painted surfaces beside him at the fireside. He was impressed,I think. However,at one point ,Angus thought that the "child wordsmith" had slipped up. I had approached the fireside,with a long strip and one short one. I wet the long strip with saliva and stuck it in a vertical orientation.The short one was attached to it half way down and making an angle of 45 degrees to the vertical(clockwise). To Angus, this looked like a lop-sided "Y",but I wasn't quite finished..I had one more short strip,and under "Dalbeg's nose" the one-legged Y became a fully fashioned "K". Old Angus was taken aback. He hadn't thought of a K. He was duly impressed and my reputation was intact.
Then,I had nursery maths under my Uncle Shonnie's tutelage. With the slate and pencil,I had to reproduce the numbers 1 to 10 as often as I wished on the slate until I tired,or my spine chilled with the screech of slate on slate. Notice that Shonnie did not ask for the numbers from 0 to 9. Shonnie was the budding business man,and did not recognise the "zero",unless it was tucked in behind some other digits (eg. 200 sheep or £3ooo ). For each number I scratched out correctly on the slate,Shonnie would place an "old" penny on top of it. He had a huge banker's cloth bag full of pennies,and as long as I was willing,he would cover the numbers with copper. But there was a snag,more a difference of opinion,concerning the number "2". Shonnie did not recognise a "two" like this "2",with a straight stroke along the bottom. He demanded that the oblique downward stroke of the "2" be followed by a cute little loop and a curly tail. How ridiculous,but try as I might,I could not do this "other"two. I was definitely angry at this.and took my problem over to my Maclennan uncles on the other side of the valley. Using a Daily Express and the stub of a pencil, my Uncle Iain showed me how to do those strange "twos",and had me fill a full page until he was certain that I'd mastered what Shonnie demanded. I raced back to No.5,got Shonnie out of the weaving house and scratched out a multitude of "curly" twos on the slate. Give him his due,for every "2" I inscribed,and there were a lot,Shonnie slapped down another penny. I think that in retrospect I was more concerned with pride than with pennies.I never again wrote a "2" with a"cute little loop and a curly tail".

The Skies Above Dalmore.

Back in the 1940s and 1950,the romantic or the delusional might convince himself that the sun always shone on Dalmore,but the pile of wellies and oilskins behind the closet door would suggest otherwise. What I am certain of is that the air was pure and extremely clear,albeit tinged with the aroma of peat smoke. That is not the case today,despite appearances .
On warm summer days I would lie down on the long grass of the Creagan,a small mound behind our house at No.5. Lying on my back,with my head on a pillow of buttercups and clover flowers,I would look far into the blue heavens,blue as far as one could see except for wisps of cirrus or high stratus clouds. What really entranced me were the long white trails which crossed Dalmore very high up, and headed out across the Atlantic. These were the "jetrails",the vapour trails,caused by the first transatlantic jet-engined airliners on their way to America. Later,when I worked as a student at Renfrew Airport,I discovered that the Isle of Lewis was directly below the flight path of planes from London and Continental Europe. These early "jetliners" like the De Havilland Comet came into service in 1952 when I was 11 years old,and I was one of the first to see them. Now there's a thing! When the "plane spotting" was over,I would drift off in a beautiful sleep in the warmth of the sun, with the gentlest of breezes caressing my face.
On a clear night,just before sunset,I sometimes made my way to the highest point on Beinn Dhal a' Mor(directly over our house)to witness a wonderful spectacle of lights,because from that vantage point,it was possible to see four different lighthouses each with their distinctive sequence of flashes. Towards the west,and in the near distance,was the light at Luimishader at the head of Loch Carloway,and much further west and on the horizon,the flashing light on the Flannan Isles. Turning in the other direction,it was easy to make out the lights at the Butt of Lewis and Tiumpan Head. For me it was a real thrill,and my mind was engaged with the light sequences that identified for me the different lighthouses. While we are talking about the night sky, I will always remember the glorious sights to be seen in the sky above ; the firmament of stars and planets in the Milky Way,the "shooting stars" and above all,the spiral galaxies of our infininite universe. Since these days I have never again witnessed such spectacular skies in Dalmore(or anywhere else),which can only be due to the pollution spreading throughout the entire atmosphere. As things are now,I might not even be able to see the four lighthouses from the top of Beinn Dhal a'Mor.

Early Childhood Memories.

Some people have very early childhood memories,while others have no such recall. I don't know if this confers any special attributes on those who have,but whether this is a blessing or not,some of my early memories are particularly vivid,all those years on. My earliest memory is sitting in one of these large coach built prams(Silver Cross/Marmet type),which for my mother must have been a welcome hand-me-down. It was a beautiful summer's day,and a young neighbour's girl,May Macinnes was in charge of me,while she sat on a bench in the Robertson Park in Renfrew. To this day, I know the exact spot where the pram was placed.I remember the beautiful show of flowers nearby,and being about 10 months old ( first summer after 1941),I was in one of those embroidered white frocks,which even little boys were wont to wear,back in these days. This would be the summer of 1942. I remember the air raid siren being tested (the siren was on the roof of the police station,next door to us on Inchinnan Road ),and I recall very clearly burying my head beneath some pillows. I remember the drill of pulling on that awful stinking gas mask.I can still see my uncle(Iain Shoudie)home on leave,and visiting us in Renfrew in his navy uniform and hat. For the long period before D-Day,there was a great build-up of US naval personnel in the Firth of Clyde,and when off-duty they were transported by naval trucks "up country" to the towns on the Clyde. I had my own American pals who gathered nightly at McShane's fish and chip shop at the end of our tenement building. I would entertain them with my take on Churchill and Hitler,which they seemed to enjoy, and for which I'd be rewarded with "candy" or sticks of American spearmint chewing gum(not those Chiclets of British Beechnut!).These Americans had little cameras,and I often had my photograph taken "to show the folks back home" in Idaho or Virginia this "delightful Scottish child". My mother would come downstairs to fetch me, and lead little Churchill home for his bath in the "sink". The sink overlooked the main road,and I was always conscious that the girl Macaskill,directly opposite, might catch sight of me during these ablutions.
I have early childhood memories of Dalmore,although one or two are now a bit tattered with age. I have already told the story(in a very early post)of the death of Monty,Murchadh a' Sgiobair's dog, and my part in his burial. As pall-bearers go,I was very young indeed. When I was 3 or 4,there was small dump inside the village fence,in "lot na Cnamhan" which fascinated me.I presume that the dump was entirely of the Bones Family's making,and that the rubbish therein rightfully belonged to them. Undeterred,my eyes noticed an old lead-acid battery lying there,and I instantly saw a use for it (Don't ask,please). I manhandled it onto the road and using a bit of rope I dragged it very slowly through the village. The journey was long and the battery was heavy,but finally I got this trophy back home to No.5 Dalmore,where my grandfather,Glass and my mother just happened to be standing. "Where did you get that,A Ghraidh?" asked Old Glass. I told him that it was just a bit of rubbish from the dump at Taigh na Cnamhan,but while I felt that it might not win favour with the bodach,I hoped that it might just squeeze past my "modern" mother,Glass's favourite child. "Now,A Ghraidh,take the thing back to where you got it". A "modern" plea was entered on my behalf by my mother,but to no avail. "Rud nach buin thut,na buin dha" is what he told me (and my mother,too)and I never forgot it. A translation would be "If something doesn't belong to you,don't have anything to do with it". Well, I had to drag the bloody thing all the way out to Old Bones' dump,and what pained me was that I couldn't even remember what I was going to do with it(the battery,that is). These early memories are like small gems at the bottom of a trinket box.

A Bright Light Goes Out In Dalmore.

Some years ago,on a visit to London (I crossed Foster's "bouncey" bridge,newly opened,but soon to close),I was walking along the Thames Embankment, when I noticed this old steamer moored on the riverbank,bedecked in colourful bunting and advertising itself in neon lights. This old lady was now a floating restaurant,but it has to be said that she was still looking good. When I looked at the name on the bow,I could hardly believe my eyes. It was the "Queen Mary II",a beautiful ship on which my Uncle Shonnie worked when I was a boy,and which I often saw,standing at the Ferry Green in Renfrew. She was the largest "pleasure steamer" belonging to the Caledonian Steam Packet Company(CSPC), capable of carrying over 2000 passengers each day(including Sundays,would you credit it)from Glasgow "doon the watter" as far as Rothesay,or beyond. Shonnie worked as an A.B. on board the Q.M.2 for some years after the war,and my mother and "her boys" were at times non-paying guests of the CSPC,on the days when brother Shonnie was at the head of the "gangway" taking tickets and clicking each passenger on, with a small hand held comptometer. Of course,he didn't "click" for us. I should add that I went on board the "Queen Mary Restaurant" and was shown around. It would be 1951 when Shonnie returned home, to take over the running of the croft at 5 Dalmore,after my Aunt Peigi died that summer. He took over the weaving of tweeds,which Peigi had done so ably in the past. Shonnie has been mentioned many times in previous posts,and so here I'd like to show another facet of his personality. Shonnie was an able mimic of local "personalities",and coupled with his own brand of humour, could "invent" stories which were extremely funny,but never hurtful. People would repeat these stories knowing full well that their author,Shonnie,was wont to take a good bit of licence,however "believable" the plot and its characters might be. An example of this was the story(told previously) of the two young women from Bernera who stayed overnight in "taigh Shoudie" in Dalmore,while making for the communions in Shawbost. It was true that these women did arrive in Dalmore,but the conversations and events which took place inside No.4 Dalmore bore the imprint of Shonnie's humour. Still,it's his story which lives on. He often put on a "show" at meal times. One of his best pieces of mimicry was of a local worthy,who would wade through the sheep in a fank looking for his own. With arms outstretched and the fingers on his hands splayed wide,he would abruptly turn the sheep's head to one side to check its ear markings,moving from one beast to the next. Well, the large number of people round the table were Shonnie's fank of sheep,and he moved slowly around the table twisting heads and checking ears. There were peals of laughter and slowly he moved nearer his sister Dolly,our aunt. Having been so often at the receiving end of this jape,Dollag would give him a very stern warning to steer clear of her in the fank ! He would pass her by,and then, without warning,he would wheel round, turning her head to one side,just like all the other sheep. "I warned you",Dollag cried as she chased her brother around the "fank".
When we heard the news in Renfrew,it was received in shock and disbelief. Shonnie,it was said,had been involved in a serious accident involving his own tractor,down by the cemetery in Dalmore. Shonnie had just driven out of our small field above the cemetery,and had stopped the tractor to close the gate to the field. He could not have secured the handbrake properly,and being on a steep downward slope,Shonnie saw the tractor beginning to roll towards the cemetery fence,with visions of the destruction of various gravestones. By running alongside the moving tractor,he had hoped to jump aboard and apply the tractor's brakes. Instead,one of the large rear wheels caught Shonnie in the small of his back,and severed his spinal cord. Shonnie died one week later at Killearn Hospital,Glasgow on the 21st of March,1960. He was just 52 years old. As when people ask "Where were you when President Kennedy was assassinated ?",I know where I was when Shonnie died. I was sitting the Dynamics Paper in my 6th year at Paisley Grammar School. At intervals throughout that exam,it kept coming to me. "Shonnie is dead".
For me,a bright flame had been extinguished in Dalmore,and I could never afterwards rekindle the happiness I once knew there.

Stornoway Bread - "The Best". Ask the Cows.

A newly baked Stornoway plain loaf(a variety of bread once favoured by all Scots)is undoubtedly one of the great culinary experiences this sadly homogeneous world can still offer up. It is no exaggeration to assert that once a person has tasted the Stornoway plain loaf,one sets a benchmark which no other bread can ever match. The words "manna" and "ambrosia" come to mind. You might say that it is the Haagen Dazs of all breads. A "breid heid" from Glasgow,on first tasting the Stornoway loaf,lost his reason altogether. People returning from the island remove as much "tat" from their cars,to ensure room for the Stornoway loaves. One family from Liverpool sent their 16 year old back home by 'plane,to make room for a dozen loaves.People in Glasgow ask that you bring them back "just a couple of loaves". I have to remind my new-found "friends" that my car will be returning with five adults,a dog,an outboard engine and a mini wardrobe(on the roof rack,of course)to be returned to Ikea. But,of course I'll do my level best for them, to be sure, "a nise",ahem........ Suffice to say that the Stornoway bread has a fine reputation,yes,the world over. Surely if the Stornoway "marag" can be exported to Glasgow or Edinburgh,then the bread could travel equally well in the same van. Now,if you think this eulogy to a plain loaf is a bit OTT,then I suggest you "make your way to Stornoway",and buy a loaf for yourself at the "Stag Bakery". I know for sure what the outcome will be.
In previous posts, the Stornoway loaf and the Stag Bakery received a couple of mentions. In that regard,Iain M. ("The Croft")told me that his grandfather,known as "Willie Og" from Stornoway was Master Baker at the Stag Bakery. In my young days,I don't think there was a bakery in town of that name. I know that Hughie Mathesons baked bread,but as for other bakeries in Lewis producing this delicious loaf,I simply can't recall. The "Stag" raised its antlers last year in a most unexpected place. With a lady friend of mine,I visited Douglas in South Lanarkshire to visit the Cameronians Museum (closed for refurbishment,at that time),and the Chapel containing the tomb of the "Black Douglas",Robert Bruce's right hand man in the Scottish Wars of Independence. As we made our way along a street of old houses,we stopped outside this cottage to "converse" with a very lively little terrier . Our conversation was picked up by a young lady and her stepfather who were doing renovation work in this cottage,dated around 1590,and by far the oldest house in Douglas. She invited us in, to see her house which she had bought to escape the grind of working and staying in Glasgow. The conversation initially concerned old buildings and somehow it moved to "tighean dhubha",and finally coming to rest on a shared knowledge of the Isle of Lewis. This lady was well acquainted with Lewis and informed me that she was related to the owners of the Stag Bakery in Stornoway. It's a small world,Miss Maclean.
When we were in Dalmore during the holidays,as many as 17 people might be accommodated/fed at the one time in the house at No.5. This took a lot of bread,man(as the Americans say). Donald,my brother,and I would be sent down to the "shed" in Carloway to pick up our bread order. Two sturdy upright bikes,four large canvas bags.and we arrived at Shed a'Hech(Shed a'Bhraseach),where one could expect a little gentle ribbing from the natives. "Well,boyths.how many loafths are needed today at Taigh Glass?" Domhnull a'Bhraseach had a lovely sense of humour,and an attractive lisp. A little embarrassed, I would say 19(23 is the house record),while the Big Yin,my brother lurked outside pretending not to know me. "Tell your Uncle Shonnie that in future we will divert the bread van into Dalmore,to save you boyths the trouble"
I remember once, with a joint cargo of about 12 or 14 loaves,we were heading out towards the Doctor's House,when my fitba'daft brother noticed a "bounce" game in progress on the football park. We lay our bikes carefully by the river,the bread sacks still draped over the handle bars. The game was very enjoyable,until one of the local lads directed my attention to the bicycles "taobh an abhuinn". Cows,that were not there at the start of the game, were feasting on 5 Dalmore's complete weekend bread supply. Well what a mess,and how to explain this away! Some of the loaves were untouched,others had the imprints of bovine dentistry, while still others languished in one of the ruminants' many stomaches. Well,you could only laugh(or cry) at the situation,and fortunately for us, our adult relatives decided,that in the scheme of things,it was better to laugh. Shonnie,my uncle,couldn't quite appreciate the hilarity in the house,and his laugh,when it came, was short and muted. The only worry now was facing Domhnull a'Bhraseach next time around."Well,boyths,how did you get on last week?". O Man,Man!!

Dalmore Tales - 100 Blogs,Not Out.

I began this blog "Dalmore-Tales of a Lewis Village" on the 29th of December,2007 which,barring a few days,is almost one year ago. This is the 100th posting of the blog,but,as I said a long way back, I am grateful and relieved to have been able to document some of the history, and stories relating to Dalmore. I was happy to "resurrect" the people I knew,when I was on my summer holidays in Dalmore(mainly in the years 1945-1960). Had it not been for Google, and the services of an excellent software engineer,my son Alasdair,then the Story of Dalmore would have languished in a large plastic bag at the bottom of a wardrobe,or locked in my memory,as I am the last person alive who remembers this beautiful glen,and the great characters that inhabited it. Some other postings will follow,but another blog, not unrelated to Dalmore,is being hatched "for your delectation".

Preparing the Minks'Feed - An Offal Business.

You didn't get "mink-feed" in large paper sacks from the Crofters,or "The National Mink Breeders Federation" or any other source. By the way,that federation didn't exist. It was created for effect! Unlike feed for sheep(of course they harvested hay etc.in 1956!),the feeding of mink was an elaborate affair,where the main constituents had to be fresh,quantities had to be carefully calculated,and various additives had to be sourced outwith Lewis. We would go over to Stornoway once,sometimes twice a week for the protein rich fish and animal offal. The Broad Bay Fish Shop provided the fish,which was in reality the carcass remaining after the fish fillets had been removed. (mainly haddock and whiting,in these days!). The boys in the fish shop kept our fish aside,presumably for a "bung" from Seoras. Our other visit to town on such days was to Stornoway's slaughterhouse(they had one in these days!). The word "slaughterhouse" is very emotive,and one immediately understands what takes place therein. Today,we send our sentient animals to an "abattoir",which derives from a French word(abatre) meaning to "destroy/put an end to".It seems to have gained currency (even in Stornoway) with those of us who prefer to see our sirloin steak tastefully packaged and displayed in the shops. An abattoir by any other name is a gruesome and hellish place,and yet as a 15 year old with George,I didn't really flinch at what I saw.I once visited Dachau "extermination" camp,near Munich in Germany,and I can tell you that I would never visit such a place again. After what I saw in Stornoway's slaughterhouse,I could never ever revisit such a place,nor will I now recall what I saw there. Suffice to say that we collected two bags of sheep/cattle offal to feed the minks in Dalmore. After collecting the usual "proveeshons",only obtainable in the town(for the womenfolk,that is),a visit to the Star Inn was the rule(for the menfolk,that is). In our case,it was whisky for Seoras and a"sarsaparilla" for the boy. Remember,this 15 year old boy had to drive the A.35 van over to the West Side,but was only allowed to steer until we reached Dalmore road end,when I took over full control for the last mile into Dalmore. After a "te bheag" or two,we were off back home, and another batch of mink food had to be prepared. All of the equipment needed for the feed was housed in a purpose built "house" which we called "taigh na mhink",what else. The correct amounts of fish and offal were minced/ground in a large machine,and to this mulch,various other things were added to maintain the mink in the peak of health - an oil(perhaps olive oil),a coarse grain,and a mixture of minerals and vitamins essential for animals that lived entirely in captivity. This slurry mixture had to be of the right consistancy to be placed on top of the cage for the minks to feed,and perhaps for a few death defying seagulls.

The Mating of Minks - Lost in the Blink of an Eye.

The mating of minks is said to be the "fastest" in the animal kingdom,but I've heard murmurs among the matrons of Shawbost. When the season is right,the designated male has his box attached to the far end of her cage(the mating hasn't started yet - although the wording might suggest it). The metal doors on each cage are simultaneously opened, and the big male gets the first look at his "brammer". In a few seconds,it appears that a maelstrom has inhabited the cage. There is a chase in progress,covering every inch of the cage,including the "roof", but to us all,it is a blur. Somewhere, and at a time known only to the minks(of course),union occurs and the male instantly high-tails it to the safety of his home,thereby avoiding a severe mauling from his "girl friend". "Ruith na oidhche" was a bit like that, if the father got a hold of you. If the mating went to plan,one could expect between 6 and 8 kittens. In theory,two amorous mink could return 3 or 4 times their own number. In practice,survival rates were nowhere near such ratios. Selective breeding gave rise to many different colours and hues of mink offspring. I used to know many of the colours'names,but only "sapphire" and "breath of spring" come to mind now. The mink were "humanely" killed using a special box and carbon monoxide from the car's exhaust. No physical means of killing could be used,as this would damage the mink's pelt and render it useless for sale. All of this took place(thankfully)when I was not in Dalmore,but Seoras told me how difficult it was to remove the mink pelt in exactly the way that was prescribed by those in London, who graded and valued them. I remember that a pelt on average would fetch about £12(a fair sum in 1956). The pelting and the curing of pelts required a lot of skill,infinite care and a lot of experience. If you got it wrong,you stood to lose a lot of money. So,no matter how well you cared for your mink when alive,it was the colour and quality of the dead mink's pelt that determined success or failure in this endeavour. I remember George saying that ,all things being equal,he would need about 500 mink for a viable farm,and that alone would take a lot of money.
A wild mink, after a kill,prefers to eat the internal organs of its prey ie.its heart,liver,kidneys etc. It rarely bothers to eat flesh. I remember once (the only time I can recall) a male mink escaped from its cage in Dalmore,unbeknown to us. Within a short time(perhaps 1 or 2 hours),an irate crofter arrived from Garenin(which is about 2 miles across the moor), to tell us that the black(****)mink had slaughtered over 20 of his hens, before he realised a carnage was taking place in his hen-run. The mink had only eaten the offal of a few hens - the remainder he killed "for sport". This cost Seoras quite a bit,and I don't recall what happened to the mink.

The Mink - A Ruthless Killing Machine.

The mink's box was a wooden hutch,with a sloping roof and a waterproofed felt cover,hinged to open, to allow handling of the mink (only with special large gloves). A sliding metal door was built into the front of the box,when the mink required to be isolated eg.when cleaning the cage or after a "supersonic" mating session. Again,Seoras had everything worked out for me assembling the mink boxes. Measurements and angles were standardised,and all the tools were at hand - Black&Decker rotary electric saw(with angle guide),hammer,nails,felt tacks,sheet metal cutters,Stanley knife.I'm only giving these details for those DIY aficionados that enthuse about such matters,because I myself was very enthusiastic about the mink boxes and cages back in 1956. So,five years after "the electric" was switched on in the "dailean",there was I ripping up planks of pine with an electric saw! The mink boxes/cages were housed over in the "leis" in croft No.6 in long roofed stands,in parallel arrangement. The female mink were much smaller than their male counterparts,and were lightening fast in their movements,and could traverse their cage in a matter of milliseconds. You did not stick your finger through the hexagonal mesh,as a test of reaction speeds - never,ever! What I am about to recount illustrates the speed and tenacity of the female mink. The mink's prepared food was placed at a top corner of the cage furthest from its box,so that it stretched up to feed,with its sharp little nose protruding no more than one,perhaps two centimetres(at a push)through the wire mesh. Being beside the sea,there were always gulls around,and some of these would swoop to take a beakful of the mink's feed. One day while we were feeding the mink,a seagull,descending very slowly and hovering just above a cage, allowed one of its webbed feet to enter the top of the cage through the mesh,just for an instant. The mink's response was immediate;it now held the seagull's leg and was pulling it further into the cage. The gull's wings were flapping wildly,aiming to escape,but in a short time the mink's teeth had transferred to the bird's "undercarriage" and was eating its vital organs,with the gull still flapping its wings,albeit very slowly now. The death of this seagull occurred when it offered the mink a very small "window of opportunity",about 1 or 2 centimetres of the mesh's diameter. The death of the unfortunate bird was not intended as a piece of gratuitous violence. It merely illustrates the deadly killing machine that is the mink.

A Home Fit For Courting Minks.

You will remember that each summer,during our holiday in Dalmore,our Uncle Shonnie would set us up (an unfortunate phrase)with a "Big Job" that would take up a good proportion of our holiday time viz. taking home the peats by horse and cart. You will recall that in negotiating a price for this contract,Shonnie knew that he could not engage us for less than £1 (each)."You drive a hard bargain",was all he would say.
Doing the bobbins for the tweeds(5 shillings per tweed)or selling fishing net floats to my "agent" in Stornoway(1 shilling each)were looked upon as private enterprise,which was encouraged.as long as it didn't interfere with the "Big Job" or the "iteachan".Working for George at the minks was to see my income double, because making a box and cage, together earned me another 5 shillings.The young kids in the village could only stand and stare at the sight of "Spangles" and "Palm Toffee" sticking out of all the pockets of my dungarees,when I returned from town "on business". At times like this,my young friends appreciated my largesse with the "siucarean". I could appreciate how Carnegie must have felt!
I was involved in most aspects of George's mink business. To start with,I made the hutches and cages for the mink,and in doing so,earned good money. The mink cages were made of a strong hexagonal wire mesh,whose diameter would allow only about half an inch of mink nose to poke through. Any more than that - it would be goodbye fingers. Wire cutters, pliers and metal ring ties were employed in the construction of these cuboidal cages,which were big enough for the mink to move about freely. They had to be carefully made to prevent escape,with no sharp protrusions that would damage the animal's pelt. The hutch (or box) would be attached at one end,and a door provided at the other end when the male mink came "a'dean suiridhe" (came courting).
Now you must not think that I devised and planned the cages and boxes myself. Seoras had all the measurements and templates written down for me,and when he saw that I could do a proper job,he let me get on with it. By doing this,Seoras inspired confidence,and you felt a useful member of the team.
I'll continue with the minks in my next post.

Fifty years later, We meet on Loch Awe.

For some years now I have fished Loch Awe for trout , on a boat hired from Donald at Ardbreknish. The loch is about 25 miles long,and it takes a "dog left" at its northern end, past the Cruachan Power Station outflow,terminating at the barrage in the Pass of Brander.Here the loch is very narrow,where the hills plunge almost vertically into the waters. This allows us to fish very close to the loch's sides. Two months ago,near the end of the trout season,we were in the Pass of Brander fishing close to its south side,when only a few yards from me,I "espied" a long sleek black animal travelling parallel with us,and in our direction. It had been a long time(nearly fifty years)since I had seen a mink,but never in the wild. I recognised this long black "weasel-like" animal as a male mink, with its neat whiskered head and its undulating gait as it moved alongside us. We observed it at close quarters for about five minutes,and throughout, it was was completely unfazed. As I said, I'd seen minks a long time ago,hundreds of them,but all were in cages(well,most of the time)and all of them in Dalmore. Fifty years on,the American mink has acquired a very bad press indeed,and nowhere more than in the Outer Hebrides,where a programme of eradication was instituted some years ago. Mink farms were set up in Lewis in the period 1955-1960,but there were only a few. This was a labour intensive and costly enterprise in which Seoras wholly immersed himself, over a period of years. With the rise of the anti-fur lobby,and the vast financial investments needed to push the business into profit,the future looked bleak for Britain's mink farms. Over this period,mink did accidently escape into the wild,but there were accusations that during the closure of some farms,mink were deliberately released,as the killing and pelting of these mink would incur a lot of expense, with no return. I find that hard to believe, as farmers especially would know how vicious and destructive the mink can be,and how devastating it would be for indigenous wildlife.
We will see how Seoras' minks fared in Dalmore.

Learning to Drive the Usual and the Unusual.

In Dalmore,I got the opportunity to drive various motorised vehicles,without any licence and with no interference from the authorities. Anyway, you could not obtain a licence at 13 years of age. In a way,I had gained some experience with the horse and cart taking the peats home from "cul Dhaile Mor". It was only natural to progress to the "horseless carriage",the motor car - Seoras' motor car,the only one in Dalmore,an Austin A35 van,grey in colour with windows all round. I loved that little car with its flying A "mascot" at the front of its bonnet. Firstly I learned to steer the car by leaning across from the front passenger seat,while George operated everything else - gears,clutch,brakes and accelerator. Such dual controlled driving was restricted to the Carloway district,where the local police constable might not notice,or might even turn a blind eye! Later,as my steering competence improved,this dual controlled little van might be found on any single track road on the island. At times,as we motored past another car in a passing place,it could prove disconcerting for the other driver,as George acknowledged him with both hands in the air. In time I was shown how to operate all of the controls,and by driving to and from the Mullach Beag just outside the village, Seoras was confident I could handle his Austin van. I often took it for a spin out to the Dalmore road end,and back.
George certainly was an innovator, and if proof were needed,his purchase of a two-wheeled tractor settled the matter. This was a miniature machine less than half the size of your regular tractor,whose engine,gearbox etc. was mounted centrally between two dinky wee tractor wheels and shod with wee tractor tyres. Red in colour,it had two long handles like those you'ld see on the lawnmowers they used at the Oval Cricket Ground,brakes as on a bicycle's handlebars,and you steered it carefully like you would any powerful wee two-wheeled bogie. Also on the handles were the clutch lever,and a lever for setting direction and speed - forward slowly,forward slightly greater than slowly, and reverse. As far as I know Seoras only used this strange machine for carrying things. He connected the mini tractor to a trailer he had built himself, with a platform seat up front. It was a powerful wee thing which served us well at the peats and the hay. These were happy times with Seoras, my pal.

Daffodils in Dalmore.

One of Seoras' projects was "na bulbichean",a crude gallicisation for "the bulbs",being of course daffodil bulbs,which were to be propogated, and the resulting harvest sold for profit. I was surprised to see that there is a Gaelic word for the "daffodil" which can only have come into our lexicon,when in times past, Gaelic was spoken throughout mainland Scotland. I have seen the yellow iris down by the allt,the honeysuckle growing on the side of the beinn,and even some beautiful little orchids growing out on the mointeach,but I don't believe the daffodil to be indiginous to Lewis(I may be wrong). I've looked up the dictionary,which says that "a daffodil bulb" is succintly expressed in Gaelic as "bun cruinn a lus-a-chrom-chinn". I'm sure Seoras knew that,but if you were in a hurry, "na bulbichean" would do. The bulbs project was one of George's later enterprises,when I was a student hitch-hiking on the "Continent"(today it's called An Roinn Eorpa). So Seoras was without my "help" during the next successive summers. The original daffodil bulbs must have come from the Fens of East Anglia,and since the daffodil is propogated by the creation of further bulbs,in theory one should obtain a substantial yield on one's outlay. Seoras made use of that fertile half acre down on the machair,where the bulbs were cultivated and harvested. The "Daffy project" was not a success(I know not why), and after a few years was abandoned. I believe that there were some others in Lewis who were seduced by the lure of gold in "bun cruinn a lus-a-chrom-chinn". Some bulbs(overspill from the machair)were planted in front of George's house at No.8 Dalmore,so that for many years thereafter,there was/is each spring/summer a beautiful display of narcissi "anns a'leos bhuidhe Dhail a'Mhor". What better memorial to Seoras'enterprise than the yearly show of daffodils in front of the house built for George and his wife Mary.

George Macleod. Innovator and Craftsman.

In recent years, a new breed of crofter has settled in Lewis,people with no ancestral ties to the island who came seeking a better life for themselves and their families. They may be called "na Gall" (Gael.foreigners),but in some villages they were like the blast of oxygen sometimes needed to revive the patient. As a general rule,the "good lifers" domain is readily identifiable. Attached to the end of the croft house is a small "greenhouse" fashioned from wood and plastic sheeting,where tomato plants and peppers are grown. There may be half a dozen cloches in the near vicinity and a variety of farmyard animals free to wander the croft - goats,poultry,ducks and for those with equestrian ambitions for their children,a horse. I wish such people "bon chance" in their search for the "good life".
Actually, Seoras Dhomhnull Chalum (George Macleod,8 Dalmore)was quite a breath of fresh air himself. He brought to our village things that had never probably been seen there before.He acquired ducks and drakes, and for his efforts got beautiful eggs of duck shell blue,of course,and sometimes little ducklings which went swimming in the "allt" with their mother. Later he bought a pair of nanny goats(for milk,I suppose),and I remember they were called Daisybelle and Marybelle(I think) and I can still see them standing at the corner of the house to be milked by Mairi Long, Seoras'wife. They were smelly creatures who would gladly eat your Harris Tweed guernsey,given the chance. True to goat mythology,they could give you a fair "dunt" from behind. I didn't like the taste of goat's milk then,and I don't like it now. Still,the goats were a novelty for me,and a first for our village in the district. In such things,Seoras was "ahead of the curve" - a phrase so often used today. Seoras would have given today's good lifers a run for their money. He was a skilled craftsman in wood and metal and many of his artefacts can be found in homes,far and wide. George's piece de resistance was the spinning wheel,which he so beautifully crafted in different sizes and in a variety of woods. I remember being asked by George to deliver a full sized, working spinning wheel to the textiles department of the Glasgow School of Art,which they had ordered. It was an exact copy of the spinning wheel that had been used by Bodach Glass,my grandfather. The art school were delighted to receive such a beautiful piece of George's craftsmanship.
Still to come - hosts of golden daffodils,sapphires,a breath of spring and a two-wheeled tractor - and then some more.

Seoras Dhomhnull Chalum.

In previous posts,I have acknowledged the influence of certain people I knew, for whom the stories of times past were important, and who would happily recount these in the ceilidh house or to an eager student like myself. These were the "seanachean" of my times(those who recorded,recited the histories and traditions of the past). Some were stories of this world,but in the birthplace of the Brahan Seer,one would expect tales of the "second sight", prophecies uttered,and strange supernatural happenings. No one influenced me more in these and other matters,than my old friend,the late George Macleod,8 Dalmore(Seoras Dhomhnull Chalum). I always found Seoras to be a very interesting man,a person of many talents who was entrepreneurial,who was by definition a "modern man"(not too many of those around in the Lewis of the 1950s and 60s). Seoras taught me many things, with a quiet patience, and in a way which was instructive,interesting and often useful. Seoras would regale me with the tales of old Dalmore,the people he'd been told about and their way of life. As many people may be aware,Seoras composed many songs about our village and its people,and in them it is clear how much he loved Dalmore. George was an intelligent man,who never received the school education which he and others deserved. Seoras would always talk to me as an adult,explaining things and showing me how they worked. Essentially,George had all the qualities to be found in a good teacher,and I was a dedicated pupil. I will have much to say about Seoras in the posts that follow.

Murdo has a Taste for "Drambuie".

Murchadh Shoudie(remember Murchadh am Phost)would take his turn on alternate years,going to Stornoway with the wool. Well,that was the arrangement until shame and opprobrium befell Murdo, "a fear ruadh"(the Red One). I witnessed his fall from grace. On this trip to Stornoway to sell the wool,everything went as one would expect until Murdo,with Seoras and me in attendance,passed through the portals of the Star Inn. Murdo did not have the capacity for liquor that his brother Iain had,but it has to be said that he relished its taste. Iain was "urbane and socially adept" and always kept an eye on "Red". I can still see Murdo at the top end of the bar,getting in the first round for Seoras and himself. Mine was a half pint of "lemonade". Murdo went all posh,and ordered a double Drambuie (yes,I know,a liqueur). It seemed that when Murdo was in town, out of sight of brother John,he liked to imbibe the Jacobite spirit of Charles Edward Stuart. He ordered these double Drambuies,pronouncing their Gaelic name with gusto - "An Dram Buidheach" . After a few more doubles,Murdo was becoming a cause for concern. After his ninth double Drambuie,Murdo collapsed backwards like a falling chimney stack,and it was good fortune that someone was there to break his fall.Seoras was more than concerned now,as blame in these situations is often unfairly levelled at the "innocents". 'An Shoudie's "hooch" had still to be bought at "Buth Henderson",and "Red" delivered to 4 Dalmore in one piece. I still remember Seoras' van approaching the gate at the bottom of the long grassy "leathad"(slope)at No.4,not knowing what to expect. Looking up the hill towards taigh Shoudie,I could see Iain standing in the doorway,and looking over to taigh Glass,I could see my mother(The Commander)standing at the barn door. I don't think they had invented the saying at that time,but if they had, Seoras and I were truly "between a rock and a hard place". Murdo somehow got out of the van,navigated his way past the gate,all this time carrying the precious cargo,with his arms holding it to his chest. A few steps further,and Murdo toppled forward on the grass,still holding the "proveeshons" to his chest. Before we could come to his aid,'An Shoudie was racing down the leathad and was now standing over his brother,"Red". He very carefully turned Murdo over,prised the bag from his grip,and started slowly back up the hill,leaving Murdo lying there looking up at the sky. Seoras and I decided against visiting taigh Shoudie for a good couple of days. Later, we found out that the Glenlivet etc.had survived the crash,and that the giant pork chops went as usual into the soup.

Balaich Shoudie sell their Wool.

There was a time when a sheep's fleece would fetch a decent price ,which made the business of shearing sheep worthwhile. Today,a pound of wool fetches a mere few pennies,and the only reason one can see for using the "deamhais"(shears)is for the comfort of the animal. Why the price of wool has all but evaporated, I am not sure,but try buying a Pringle woollen sweater and it is impossible to reconcile its inflated price with the pittance paid for the wool.
Back in the mid 50s,wool commanded a good price,and for my Maclennan uncles("Balaich Shoudie"),the day they went to sell the year's wool at the Stornoway tweed mills was a day to remember,or not ,as the case might be. Murdo and Iain took it in turn,year about, to sell the wool in town,and undertake some other essential business.For such an outing,smart/casual was the dress order of the day - light pullover over what they now call a "grandad" shirt,navy blue jacket,grey trousers and black shoes. The best cap(not the everyday cap with the stained sweatband)topped all,and was worn at a jaunty angle. It was amazing that the "balaich" could emerge from that "taigh dubh" looking so clean and smart. On the big occasions like weddings or trips to Glasgow,Iain Shoudie donned full "Chicago" dress of dark suit,paper collar and tie,and his wide brimmed hat was worn with the brim pulled slightly over one eye at a rakish angle. Between times,the Chicago suit was kept up in the room,hanging from a nail on the "tallan",and covered by several pages of the Daily Express. I would usually go along on this jaunt with my uncle,who would "hire" the services of Seoras and his Austin A.35 van. After all,we had a large cargo of wool going to Stornoway, and possibly a very different cargo on the way back.
Seoras would have some business of his own in town,but the first stop would be "Moulin Stickey"(Kenneth Mackenzie's mill) to sell the large bales of wool. I never went in to the mill,nor was I privy to how much the wool fetched that day. I just knew that that wool paid well,and that an enjoyable day lay ahead.Certain bills had to be paid,and "proveeshons" acquired,mainly meat, which was not readily available in Carloway.In Willie John Macdonald's shop, beef and beef sausages was the order of the day.Then it was up to Dougie Maclean's butcher shop,and here was purchased two giant pork chops,the likes of which I'd never seen before or since. Onions,carrots.turnip and possibly cabbage completed the shopping list for now,and we all would have lunch in the Royal Hotel,courtesy of the "wool man". If it was 'An Shoudie who was in town,it has to be said that I never came across anyone as well-kent in Stornoway as "himself" . Anywhere 'An Shoudie went,men from different districts seem to know him,and would engage Iain in conversation, mainly of a light hearted nature,and possibly suffused with a little gossip. "Gaireachdaich"(laughter) - it must have been heard in Portnaguran. I'm not sure why 'An Shoudie was so well got with people. He was in the RNR ,did his stints at the Battery and was in the Navy during the war. But so were many other Lewismen. Basically Iain was an extrovert and "a very funny guy",He enjoyed a drink and was very clubbable,and it was guaranteed that your day was better for having met him. It could take half an hour,sometimes,with 'An Shoudie by your side, to travel the short distance from the Royal Hotel to the Town Hall.But I didn't mind-"torr gaireachdaich"
The penultimate stop of the day was always the Star Inn on South Beach Street,where the clientele was in these days mainly "balaich a'Taobh Siar"(West Side Boys). Quite a few nips vanished "down the hatch" and at breakneck speed,while a single half pint of beer seemed to last forever. How do I know such things? Well, this young lad sat in the far corner,watching the action and nursing my own half pint of "lemonade". On the way out of town,somewhere along Bayhead,George's van came to a halt,as if through conditioning. On the opposite side of the road was "Buth Henderson",Stornoway's only licensed grocer(as far as I know),and no sheepman straight from a sale, could pass it by without stocking up. Murdo,Iain's brother,would expect a carry out,and in this he was never disappointed. It invariably consisted of a bottle of Glenlivet whisky,six screwtops of beer, a 20 packet of Capstan Full Strength and another pack of Senior Service cigarettes. And of course,there were the giant pork chops to look forward to.

Iain Mor na Cnamhan.

Iain Mor na Cnamhan was a big man in every sense of the word. After an education in Carloway and at the Nicolson in Stornoway,John Maciver left Dalmore to join the Metropolitan Police in London,and within time,rose to high rank, in this his chosen career. He married a beautiful and delightful lady,a Londoner called Celia,who worked as a telephonist with the B.B.C. They had twins,John and Joan,who like us,spent every summer holiday in Dalmore. More so,they spent the whole of WW2 with their grandparents in Dalmore,away from the Blitz and the frightening V1 and V2 bombs. Through necessity they spent this time away from their mother,Celia, who related to my mother the impossible situation which arose when the twins were returned to London at war's end. Here was a mother who could not understand a word spoken by her children(they spoke only Gaelic),and children transported to an alien environment,now living with a woman whose language was utterly foreign to them. Celia spent a couple of years of hardship,getting the children to accept her,and educating them all over again in English. The strange thing is that ever after,John and Joan could neither speak nor understand a word of Gaelic.
Big John rose to the rank of Detective Chief Superintendent at Scotland Yard and was in charge of many high profile cases including the "Jack Spot" London gangster case,and the Ruth Ellis murder investigations. Ruth Ellis was the last woman to hang in Britain,in 1955. John Maciver was in his time Master Mason of London. Any time we were staying in London or travelling on to mainland Europe,we would stay in Colindale with Celia and John,and we were always welcomed like family. I remember once being driven by John, with Celia at his side, to Euston Station to catch a Saturday evening train back to Glasgow.It was the end of the Glasgow Fair Holiday,and the station was packed with a multitude of people. John navigated his large black saloon through this throng to the station's main entrance. A young London bobby approached the car,and told John firmly but politely that he could not enter and would need to reverse. John said nothing,and his expression remained unchanged. Reaching into a waistcoat pocket,John showed the bobby what was obviously his warrant card."Just follow me,sir.Make way for this car".I felt like a thousand pounds.
P.S. The first time I tasted a mushroom was in Dalmore. Celia,on holiday one year in Dalmore,had espied large mushrooms high up on croft No.10,under the hill. I asked John and Joan why they were harvesting those large saucer like objects. "Come over to the house and you'll see". When I tried my first fried mushroom,it tasted like a juicey piece of steak - truely delicious,although it would be many years on before mushrooms appeared on my plate again.

The Two Annies and the Horse Treatment.

Anna na Cnamhan (Annie Maciver)was one of my mother's best friends,the other being Phemie Galbraith from Acharacle,whom she met during her days in the New Club in Glasgow. Anna na Cnamhan was also known as Annie Bones or Annie Smith,her own proper married name. Ages with my mother,and coming like her from Dalmore, they were in the same class throughout their time in Carloway School. In a class photograph(courtesy of the Carloway Historical Society),Annie appears as a sweet faced "doll"in ringlets,and attired in the most beautiful dress. These were the words of my mother,who had straight hair and no ringlets. "She was the only girl in the Cnamhan's family,and the youngest,and they really treated her like a doll",said my mother without the least hint of jealousy. They both went to Glasgow,where their friendship was further cemented,and they were regular visitors in each other's house. Annie would come to our house in Renfrew for a "sleepover",and bless them,they were just like two young girls again,crying with laughter underneath a pile of Harris Tweed blankets. I remember visiting my mother one Saturday afternoon and noticing that she looked very tired."A graidh,I'm knackered(unaware of this word's etymology,I think).Annie Smith was here yesterday, and we talked and laughed right through the night". I didn't stay too long.
I recall that one of the two Annies came across an article in the Sunday Post,concerning a treatment used by veterinary surgeons in equine "arthritis". The Annies were fellow sufferers of arthritis,and were always on the lookout for novel treatments. The Sunday Post was an invaluable source of modern medical advances. Now,Lewis ladies are never far from expert advice(there are many Ph.Ds around),and through the offices of one such person,they acquired a winchester full of this potent liquid,which would see to their aches and pains once and for all. The fair skin of these ladies are far removed from the hide of a horse,as they were to discover,and the experiment was immediately abandoned. No further mention was made of "the horse treatment" by Anna Glass or her pal Anna na Cnamhan That did not stop me and others from enquiring if there was anything new in the Sunday Post.

John Maciver. "Na Cnamhan"

While I could never understand the origins of the names "Glass" and "Shoudie" for my two grandfathers,the nickname, "Na Cnamhan", for old John Maciver(10 Dalmore)was at least explicable by virtue of his rangy appearance. Tall and thin, Iain was known as "Na Cnamhan",which translates as "the bones". Note the use of the plural here. We are not talking of a single bone,but a collection. Addressed in the first person,he was known as Iain,but otherwise it was always "Na Cnamhan"(Bones). "Taigh na Cnamhan" was the last house as you left the village,and was the only other "taigh gheal" (white house)in Dalmore, when I was a young boy. Na Cnamhan and his wife had connections in Carloway and Doune(I think),and he was one of the original ten to secure a croft in Dalmore in the early 1920s. I only knew Iain and his wife to see them in the kitchen of No.10,but I do recall his slow sonorous voice. Seoras and Iain Shoudie,my uncle,were testament of Na Cnamhan's quick,and at times acerbic wit,delivered in a slow monotone.
They had a family of four boys(Donald,John,Murdo,Archie) and one girl,Annie,the youngest,who was ages with my own mother(Anna Glass). Donald married one of Seoras'sisters and they settled in Stornoway. Mudd na Cnamhan(Murdo),whom I often spoke to while he was weaving, married a beautiful woman from Shawbost called Mairi Anna,and they went off to live in Barvas. The one member of the family who looked like his father and with a similar physique was Archie,who inherited the croft,and whom I got to know well. Archie lived up to the "Cnamhan" moniker. He was tall,thin and gangly,but could he move on these long legs of his? He had a fine turn of phrase,very dry and very witty. He was a likeable man. Archie obtained his driving licence later in life(like many others in the district)and bought himself a Bedford Dormobile van,de rigeur among the fashionistas of the island,the whaling fraternity. Archie,I don't think,ever mastered the proper use of a car's clutch,and consequently his van travelled along the roads in a peculiar series of leaps and shudders. One tended to pull into the first available passing place at the sight of Archie's chariot in the distance. Maybe this was the reason for Archie's unblemished driving record. Archie often called into Taigh Shoudie for a wee bit morning ceilidh,and even the odd dram.
Archie was called up as a private in the Cameron Highlanders during WW2,and he was one of the unfortunates to be captured at St.Valery in France,when the entire 51st Highland Division were taken by the Germans in 1940. When Archie returned to Lewis after his captivity,he was literally a bag of bones, and very weak. Still,years of good Lewis feeding,especially from his wife Chrissie,was to put that to rights.
N.B. It was only recently that I realised that the Gaelic for Archibald was "Gilleasbuig",which means the "follower of the bishop". Now boys,don't fret. This was in pre-reformation days. A bit more on Clann na Cnamhan in the next post.

Shoudie has a Close Shave.

Communion services were (and still are) held throughout Lewis during 3 or 4 day gatherings in district churches,with many services and many visiting ministers in attendance. Communion would be offered at special services to all communicants during these days. There was a "season" during the year when "na h-orduighean" were in full swing throughout the island. People would travel long distances,often on foot,to attend communions in distant villages. This was the case with the two young ladies from Bernera who were making their way to "Orduighean Siabost" (Shawbost Communions). Darkness was falling as they made their way through Carloway,and they knew that they would not make Shawbost by nightfall,especially as they were now pretty fatigued. One of the ladies remarked that they had relatives in Dalmore - Maclennans, originally from Bernera. She was sure that they would find a bed there for the night. At this juncture,it should be pointed out(and there's no delicate way of relating this) that one of the ladies had an excessive amount of dark facial hair, on her upper lip and around her chin. They made their way to "taigh Shoudie",and Murdo answered the rap at the door. The ladies stated their business and said who they were. Ushering them into the house,Murdo said "Father,there's a girl and a young boy here to see us,relatives of ours from Bernera. They were made very welcome, given something to eat,and the conversation centred on their kith and kin back in Bernera. Gradually,Murdo realised that a great mistake had been made,and addressing his father Shoudie, he said "Father,it's not a boy and a girl at all,but two young women from Bernera". Well, Bodach Shoudie had to think fast. "Bless me,bless me, but my eyesight is not what it used to be,and the smoke in here can get so bad at times, that sometimes I call Mary,the Merak and at other times I think that the Merak is Mary.
N.B. Mary was his wife. As for "the Merak" - I've no idea who or what she was.It was exactly as I heard it! The ladies went on their way the next day,hopefully none the worse for meeting new found relatives.

Shoudie. His Exceptional Strength.

My paternal grandfather, Alexander Maclennan came from Garenin,the son of Murdo Maclennan, from Bosta on the island of Bernera,and known as "Murchaidh Drobhair" (his people had been cattle drovers). He married a Garenin girl,Mary Maclennan(b,1826),known as "Mairi Alasdair",and Murdo came courting his true love by rowboat across the salty waters of Loch Roag(weather permitting). This is not the case of consanguinity it might seem. Although all these Maclennans came originally from Bernera(Bosta/Kirkibost),Mary's people came to Garenin by way of a couple of generations' stay in Tolsta a'Chaolais. So,we have a Maclennan married to a Maclennan,albeit involving a slight separation of a couple of generations. Mary had a younger sister,Catherine(b.1837),who for some years(c.1860)was maid in the manse on St.Kilda,the "island on the edge of the world". When she returned home to Garenin,she was known as "Mairi Hirta". Hirta is the Gaelic name for St.Kilda. Mairi Hirta was my grandfather Maclennan's aunt,and it is he,"Shoudie",that is the subject of this letter. I've no idea how he came to be called "Shoudie",but I do know of two other Maclennans, also known as Shoudie,one living in Shawbost,and another in Point. Strange,wouldn't you say?
My grandfather had worked in one of the Glasgow shipyards for a time,and while there,had sustained multiple fractures to one of his legs,when a heavy steel plate fell on him from a gantry above. The way his fractures were set left Shoudie unable to straighten that leg for the rest of his days. It seems that in his youth, Shoudie had a "set-to" with a very powerfully built tinker from Stornoway called Seamus Drummond. A great many years later Drummond called at Shoudie's house to repair or sell tin utensils,and was invited in,not knowing whose house it was. Drummond,peering through the smoke,saw a man wearing a bonnet, at the upper end of the "being"(bench)lying stretched out with one leg bent,touching the clay floor,the other stiff and straight, resting along the bench."Shoudie,is that you,man? Is this truly the man I tussled with all those years ago?" I'm sure that they had much to talk about.Shoudie was not "big-made" but he was known for the exceptional strength in his arms and wrists. One day in Garenin,a group of young men were involved in a "contest" of strength to see who could lift a cart's axle,with the two large wheels attached. They all had various attempts,but no one could raise the wheels above the grass. An older man who had witnessed this trial of strength saw Shoudie come "hirpling" in the road,and baiting the youths,said that the man approaching could do what none of them had managed. They laughed at this and accepted the man's wager of a pouch of tobacco(Shoudie smoked a pipe). The man pointed to the cartwheel and axle,and told Shoudie "there's a poke of tobacco in this if you can lift that lot off the ground". Shoudie took up position and,with one hand,raised the "competition piece" clean off the ground.

Corrections.
1.My stupid error. It was Mary Maclennan's sister Catherine(Catriona),who had been maid to the minister in St.Kilda(Hirta),and on her return to Garenin was thereafter known as "Catriona Hirt"
2.I recently bought Calum Ferguson's exceptional book,"St.Kildan Heritage" (Acair 2006),and it was there I learned some information that was important to me,but would be the cause of this second error.
In Calum Ferguson's book,amongst a great deal of factual information on St.Kilda,he includes the 1891 census,which is of course the official Government Census initiated in 1841 to cover every part of Britain.
In House No.1(ie.the Manse), we have
Fiddes,Angus(48)-minister
MacLennan,Catherine(43)-servant
Chisnell,Jessie(45)-nurse.

Assuming the accuracy of the census details,if Catherine MacLennan was aged 43 years in 1891,then she must have been born in 1848,and not 1837 as in my blog. Again,she could not have been a maid to the minister in c.1860,being then only 12 years old.

Although my dates were a bit awry,I did know that my ancestor,Catriona Hirta was in St.Kilda "away back then" as maid to the minister. But her name is absent from the 1901 Census! For me it places Catherine in a different era,and persuades me to find out a bit more about her time on Hirta.

Sheepdog Trials. One Man and his Dog.

When I was a young lad in the early 1950s,the Lewis sheepdog came in all 57 varieties(it seemed to me),which might loosely be referred to as the "West Highland" sheepdog. Whether these dogs ever existed as a true breed,I don't know,but what I do know is that they were highly skilled in the tasks demanded of them. I believe they were better at sheep gathering and fetching on the wide expanses of the Lewis moors,than at close quarter work on the croft.There were exceptions,of course. The Shoudie dog,Julia(aka Stowlia or Dolita)was always impressed to see a large flock of sheep being brought towards the fank by two or three of her fellow canines. Stowlia would,at this late stage,join in the fun,running back and forward just like the class-act dogs,her tail wagging furiously at the kudos of being seen as a real sheepdog. She was just great! Even back then,certain men were recognised for their prowess with their sheepdogs,and their pups were always in demand by others.
In no time at all,sheepdog trials became very popular on Lewis,and contestants became increasingly high-profile in competitions which demanded great skills from both man and dog. Competition was keen at these trials,and in many cases, frankly, fierce. It was at this time that crofters began to import sheepdogs from the mainland,dogs of proven ability and known pedigree. They were almost entirely of the breed known as the "border collie",which originated in the Scottish borders,and which were the stars of the big UK trialing scene. They were small,very fast and highly intelligent. Usually black, with some patches of white,they were expensive to buy and this usually entailed the Lewisman going out to the mainland to assess the pup and its mother. All the serious trialists on Lewis and Harris bought into the border collie,and spent long hours training their dogs to obey their commands,using voice,whistle and who knows,what else.
Norman Macarthur(Tiger Navarre)stayed at the end of the Dalmore road,just inside the Carloway fence. If you knew "Tiger",you knew how appropriate was this name. "Navarre", his father,I assume was given that name because of his presence in France during World War One. Tiger,the brother-in law of Seoras(George,8 Dalmore),was already known as being good with a sheepdog,at that time,a large brown and black dog called Toss. Tiger went over to the border collies,and from that time (c.1955)he emerged as possibly the top sheepdog trialist in all Lewis and Harris. I was often in Tiger's house, as I knew Alex(Alexina)his wife from her days living in Dalmore. Alex was a kind woman,with a fine sense of humour. I remember one day going over to the dogs in their outside kennel with some some bread or potatoes,when I was stopped in my tracks by Tiger shouting at me "Don't go near the dogs.I am the one who feeds these dogs.and only me"
We would attend trials in Shawbost,Lochs and Barvas in George's Austin A.35 van,and often returned with a 1st.prize and a silver cup. The one to win was the Stornoway Sheepdog Trials,held each year in the Castle Grounds. Tiger did not get it all his own way,as at this time, there was a very worthy opponent in the Stornoway butcher,'An Bhragie.If anyone were capable of denting Tiger's crown,it would be 'An Bhragie. Often, these two would be well ahead of the field. I remember one Stornoway trials(1956/1957), when we went across in the A.35 van with Tiger and his dog,and Ia'Ruadh Dhomhnull Higort(Garenin),who felt like mixing it with the big boys. 'An Bhragie was there as expected and performed to his usual high standard. I don't remember how the points were scored in these trials,but I do recall parts of the trials viz. outrun,shedding,penning. Tiger won that year,and the Cup was Dalmore bound. A lot of whisky went into, and out of, that large silver trophy in the following few days.
I have not been to sheepdog trials in a very long time,and I would not be surprised to discover that they now employ satellite navigation and radio controlled collars.

Fishing at "Bandaberie",Dalmore.

I have written about the Gearraidh in previous posts,that beautiful, green and fertile part of Dalmore,a land of old corn mills, and at times home to the "iolaire",the majestic golden eagle. It is,however,a place in which one never feels at ease, and I'm not sure why! The Gearraidh pushes out into the Atlantic Ocean in a promontory at "Rudha an Trileachain"(headland of the oyster catchers ),and how well named it is. The rocks here are strewn with the shells of mussels and limpets,but gey few oysters. You see,the bulk of the island's shellfish leaves for France and Spain in giant refrigerated lorries. "Round the corner" from this point and flanking the wild beach of "Seiligeach"(Sp.?)is a sea rock called "Bandaberie",a favoured plinth for sea fishing with the "slat"(bamboo rod),yielding good catches,but it is an exceedingly treacherous place. Not for nothing was "Bandaberie" feared by the women of Dalmore.
To access the site,you had to climb down a near vertical rock face(about 20 feet down),and carrying the "slat",that could be difficult. However,there were enough finger and toe holds to ease your descent. Strong sea currents swirled around the rock from which we fished,and the top of the rock was only inches above the sea. You always had to be mindful of those freak waves that crashed over the rock,and be prepared to abandon your position. These bamboo rods were 20-25 feet long,and a strong twine,tied at the top,ran down the length of the rod(no reel needed here). Attached to the end of the line was a cast of 6 or 7 flies made from large hooks and white seagull feathers. Cold boiled potato left over from the "tatties and herring" lunch would be squashed in the hand and this ground bait tossed into the clear waters of the "geotha". Within a few minutes,the long bamboo("slat")would be arching over with the great strain on the line,and you could see perhaps 6 or 7 fish down in the waters below. While in the water,this heavy catch was buoyed by the upthrust(Archimedes'Principle,you recall),but when the fish were pulled from the water,you had a seething mass of disparate forces acting in every direction,including up. The only thing that might be considered art, was landing every last fish on the rocks behind you. You then had to "dehook" every fish,and stick them in the brown hessian bag, On Bandaberie, it was rare to catch any fish except the "cuidaig"(cuddy/small saithe)or the"saighean"(saithe/coal fish). The only thing which limited your catch(or enthusiasm) was the knowledge that you had to get a heavy bag of fish up that near vertical cliff,and then transport it nearly a mile over hill and dale. Then,of course,the fish had to be gutted and washed.
These fresh fish, fried in the morning's bacon fat,and served with Stag bread and butter and a mug of tea, was a meal to savour. I wonder if anyone still fishes at Bandaberie,or knows how to get down there. I doubt it.
Domhnull Lamont and my uncle Norman(Tormod Glass)fished on Bandaberie a great deal,and installed a rope/wire ladder there, which afforded easier access to the site.

P.S. Tamra (U.S.A.) Thanks for your comment. D.J.Maclennan.

Donald Macleod("Glass") Dies,Aged 92 years

It was a lovely April day and old "Bodach Glass" decided to take a gentle stroll,perhaps as far as the "traigh"(shore). His daughter Dollag agreed,exhorting him to be careful and to take his time.The old man set out across the "stairean"(path to house) with his "bata" in hand, Some time later in the afternoon,Domhnull Chalum had awakened after "forty winks" in his chair at No.8. He told his wife that he had a mind to take a walk into the shore. "O a'ghraidh,you have not been in there in years". "Well,I feel like taking a walk in there now", Donald replied. He was now in his late 80s,so each step was measured and taken slowly, down the road, past the cemetery and the "allt"(river) to the shore.
Anyone who knows Dalmore beach is aware of the large rounded stones situated half way along the traigh,where Allt Dhailamor empties into the sea. It was here, from a point above the river, that Domhnull Chalum discovered his old friend "Glass" lying prostrate on the stones. Donald set out back to the village to alert folk of the situation. Finding Glass on the stones,has given rise to two possible scenarios. The first of these is that Glass was making his way across the stones when his foot became trapped under some boulders. He was too weak to extricate his foot,and seeing the incoming tide approaching ever nearer,he feared he might drown and suffered a massive stroke. The second,and more probable scenario,is that he suffered a stroke and fell on the rocks. However it happened,a stroke was diagnosed by the doctor.
Villagers followed Shonnie with the horse and cart,which was lined with bales of hay,and Old Glass was removed from there to his own house at No.5 Dalmore. There in his bed,where I often heard him pray long and fervently to his Lord,Donald Macleod,my Grandpa, passed away peacefully on the 30th April,1953 aged 92 years.

"Glass". A Fearless Old Bodach.

The two incidents related here,though small in themselves,demonstrates the fearlessness of my grandfather,"Glass",even at his advanced age. In fairness,he was a fairly fit old gentleman,albeit he now carried a walking stick to steady his gait.
Shonnie had gathered together some sheep in a small impromptu fank,high up on croft No.9 under Beinn Dhalamor. Shonnie was dealing with some sheep helped by one of my aunts. I was standing just outside the "gate" of the fank,beside my grandfather,when a ram leaped over the gate,and with its large horns,struck my grandad square on his chest. Old Glass fell back,but as the ram continued over him,he held out his "bata" and its crook locked with one of its horns.As the ram was subdued,I heard the bodach utter the word "salachar"(filth)
One afternoon,I was sitting with my grandpa Glass and his old pal Domhnull Chalum on some seats down by the roadside at No.8. Two or three of the younger men were in attendance. The gate for the village was out the road at No.10(we called it "geata na Cnamhean"),and should always have been kept closed to stop animals making their way into the rich machair pastures and the cemetery. The sound of "thunder" drew our attention to a cloud of dust out the road,and emerging out of this were the three village horses coming in the road at a full gallop. Someone had left the gate open and our equine friends were heading into the shore. Nobody moved, and seeing these three stallions bearing down on us,it seemed the sensible thing to do. But no one could have foreseen what happened next. Glass got up and shuffled out to the middle of the road,and shouting and waving his arms and bata about,like a man possessed,the horses took one look at this wild old bodach and came to a sudden halt.One of the younger men saw the horses out the road,and shut the gate. The generational gap was beginning to show, even back then.

"Glass" buys the Premier House Clock.

On the only visit "Glass",my grandfather,made to Renfrew(that I'm aware of),he was staying in Hairst(harvest)Street with his married daughter Kate,my aunt.This was around the early 1930s. Kate's tenement house was directly opposite Ross's Premier House,which was a large two-storey furniture store,also selling household "fancy goods". Bodach Glass was on the look out for a quality wall clock to take back to Dalmore. Glass knew that the Premier House had a good selection of clocks for sale, and finally paid a visit to their shop across the road. He was confronted by a large selection of clocks of all types and sizes,but almost immediately he knew of the one he wanted. This was a fine half-size case clock in dark hardwood,which chimed the hour and the half hour. It had an elegant,yet simple face and the pendulum lay behind a door of wood and bevelled glass. The salesman endeavoured to interest him in other clocks,but every time Glass made it plain that his mind was made up. "I'm sorry,sir but that clock is not for sale. You see,sir,that is the shop's clock". No matter,Glass told him that it was that clock,or none at all. Consultations followed,and one might have heard the manager say "A sale is a sale". Glass was very proud of his clock and on the way back to Lewis by train and boat,he carried it, held firmly on his lap(with the pendulum removed). As stated elsewhere,only the bodach saw to "his" clock in Dalmore,which he wound once a week,always on the same day. This clock is still keeping time and chiming away on the kitchen wall at No.7 Dalmore. The care taken by Glass with his clock to an extent mirrors the great care his wife Mary took in carrying her sewing machine from Garenin to Dalmore.

My Mother is Employed by Madam at the Club.

My mother,Anna Glass,was born in Garenin in 1911,the youngest of a family of nine children. When she was 12 years old,she went with her family to their new croft in Dalmore,but a large part of her heart was left behind in Garenin,which she would freely admit. Like most girls of that ilk and time,she followed the herring fleets from Lerwick to Lowestoft, but earlier had worked as a maid in Taigh a'Bhaicair in Carloway,which also involved her helping out in the shop,adjacent to the Baker's house. In the early 1930s,my mother left for Glasgow to seek employment there,in service, like thousands of fine girls from the Highlands and Islands. It was during this time that a friend of hers from Lewis,told my mother of the grand position she had in the New Club,a gentleman's club located in Glasgow's city centre. This was the foremost and most exclusive club in Glasgow,the equal of any in London. It had in its membership the top lawyers and industrialists,people like Sir Peter Coats of the thread family, the two Weir brothers(Weirs of Cathcart) and R.W.Forsyth the Glasgow retailers. My mother went for a job at the New Club,and was seen by a Miss Dick,who was in overall charge, managing the club, and who had her own suite of rooms within the building. She was the daughter of a doctor in Burghead near Inverness,and with her background, was suited to her position of looking after such fine gentlemen. She was known by club members and staff alike as "Madam". My mother was taken on as a waitress,and working there at the New Club,was like working at Buckingham Palace,but with nicer people. She shared the good news with her older sister Kate,married and living in Renfrew. She wrote a letter to her mother and father back in Dalmore,extolling the grandeur of the club,and the kindness of "Madam". Bodach Glass had not been further than Peterhead,but the words "club" and "madam" had an unwholesome ring to them. It was not,they agreed,a place for their Annie to work in,no matter how grand she found it. A letter expressing their concerns was dispatched to my mother in Glasgow forthwith. It took a visit by my Auntie Kate to the New Club,and a long letter from Miss Dick(no mention was made of "madam") before Old Glass and Mairi Ruadh were satisfied that their youngest daughter was not employed in a house of ill-repute.

Glass,Radio Luxemburg and a Barrel of Whisky.

I was 12 year old when "Glass" died,but still have vivid memories of him. I have recounted previously that I always slept behind the bodach "up in the room",that I was privy to his long prayers to God,that he "took the book" every night without exception and that he closely resembled the King's father,King George V.
His people had remained with the established church(Church of Scotland)at the Disruption which took place back in 1843, giving rise to the Free Church, which the vast majority of Lewis people joined. I remember my grandfather,Glass, dressing for church,three piece black suit,white shirt,black tie,highly polished boots and fob watch and chain across his middle. The last thing before leaving was to stand in front of mirror by the room door,and gently comb the royal white beard. He had been an elder of his church in Carloway for many years,and strangely he had a doppelganger there in the Carloway church, in the person of the Carloway Postmaster,"Am Post Mhor". They really were alike,elders of their church and men of a certain standing. The "Eaglais Saor" lacked the gravitas of such men.
I think that Glass might have been termed a liberal of the Church,but in truth, most people outwith the Free Church were looked upon as such, adhering to some dangerous heresies of the "distant past". Glass,you'll remember,allowed us city boys to listen to Radio Luxemburg's "Top Twenty" at 11.00 pm on a Sunday night. "O mo gradh ort". Unlike "Shoudie", my other grandfather, Glass neither smoked nor drank(ie.alcohol)but saw no reason to denounce others who did. During the war, Glass found a barrel of whisky bobbing about on the surf on Dalmore beach. There was no need to worry the hard pressed customs' men,so Glass had the barrel removed to his barn by horse and cart, under the watchful eye of a couple of interested old friends in the village. "Dhe a'seo",they must have wondered. Well,they would discover shortly. Glass would invite Shoudie and Domhnull Chalum over to No.5 each day after lunch(except Sunday,of course - he wasn't that much of a liberal). Glass would excuse himself and head for the "sobhal",where the "uisge beatha" was secreted under the hay,draw off two good measures and return to his pals,who never once made a comment,but they did wonder about Glass's way with water and whisky. The conversations these afternoons were highly enjoyable and at times frivolous,despite the war and its privations. Shoudie must have hoped that Glass could change a few dockin leaves into tobacco! These afternoon get-togethers would last quite a while - well,until the barrel ran dry.

Mairi Ruadh and Miss Darling of Stornoway

Glass's wife was Mary Macneil(Mairi Dhomhnaill Fhionnlaigh),but she was always known as "Mairi Ruadh" (Red haired Mary). Born in Garenin like her husband,my grandmother came over to Dalmore when she was 50 years old, to take charge of a new home in a new village,without the support of her kith and kin in Garenin. She died in 1940,aged 69,so that anything I know of her was gleaned from the stories told to me by mother,aunts and others who knew her well. Mairi Ruadh was a woman of strong character,an imposing figure who had the love and respect of her family. She had the fine looks and hair colour of the Macneils. As a young lass,she was in service at a manse in Tarbert,Harris before marrying Glass at the young age of 19 years. As we have seen,Mary prepared wool for weavers in Garenin,including her husband. Her most prized possession in her home was an early model Singer sewing machine and with this she could run up men's trousers,jackets and a variety of ladies apparel. Mary was well known in the district for her prowess at sewing,and many were the favours she did for other people. When,in 1923,the family's goods and chattels were being moved by road to their new home in Dalmore,Mary was so afraid that her sewing machine would be damaged in the cart,that she carried the machine,strapped to her back,the 3 miles over the hills to Dalmore. That was some feat, which shows how much she valued her Singer sewing machine.
The following story involves my grandmother in the late 1920s,and in a strange way it has a resonance in the present. By about 1927, Mairi Ruadh had her new home to her liking,and her youngest Annie(Anna Glass,aged 16)had captured the heart of Alasdair Shoudie the "best looking lad in the whole district"(her very words to me). Even back then,Dalmore,and especially the beach,proved a great attraction to visitors, and in particular two people who came quite often to Dalmore in a "horse and gig" all the way over from Stornoway. These were "duine uasail"(toffs,if you will)as their clothes would attest. The lady wore a beautiful coat,trimmed with fur,a fur hat and expensive shoes.Her gentleman friend wore plus fours and brogues and his bonnet matched his jacket. In case one might think this to be fiction,we have photographs taken by the "duine uasail's" own camera - no one in Dalmore had a camera in 1927! One afternoon in late summer,our family were down at the "feannaig"(strip field) beside the road making stooks of the corn,when these two people stopped to chat. Mairi Ruadh invited them over to the house for a "copan the",and maybe some scones and pancakes. It transpired that the lady was a Miss Darling,who taught at Stornoway Primary School. After that, she and the man in plus fours often stopped off at 5 Dalmore to visit Mairi Ruadh and sample the very best home baking this side of Stornoway.
Now fast forward from 1927 to around 1994,and there was I, parked at the ferry terminal at Uig in Skye,waiting for the "Hebrides" to transport me to Lewis(via Harris,of course). A family pulled up in their car abreast of me,and the driver was immediately recognisable(white hair and jet black bushy eyebrows) as that able young Labour MP for Edinburgh Central,Alistair Darling. It was some time later,thinking of that name "Darling" that I made the connection between that man in the car and Miss Darling of 1927. She was possibly the Chancellor of the Exchequer's great aunt.
If the Chancellor gets wind of my blog,then maybe he will invite me to No.11 for scones and pancakes. And when he holidays in Lewis,as he often does,and he takes his family to Dalmore,he might want to glance across at the ruin at No.5,where two fine ladies,the Miss Darling and the Mistress Macleod once took tea together.

" Glass". Crofter,Weaver and Fisherman.

Glass,my grandfather,was an industrious man,who never let the grass grow under his feet. He was a great provider for his family,and in that regard,he was willing to turn his hand to many different jobs. In the first place he was a crofter on the five acres at 5 Dalmore, and happy he must have been to rent this croft here in the "Dailean",which recently had been Padruig Sinclair's sheep farm. He was also a weaver,weaving tweed on a wooden hand loom,which I can remember was stored in the "sobhal" (barn) at No.5, possibly hoping to be ressurected, if that new fankled iron loom proved a failure. Alas,alas old friend! These tweeds were made into blankets by his wife Mary,who was in business(in a small way) with a friend, Catherine Macleod,when they were still in Garenin.From time to time,Glass wove tweeds for the mills in Stornoway. He was reckoned to be a fine weaver in these days.
Glass was also a fisherman on one of the local sailing boats of the "Carloway Fleet",based at the Dunan. He was a crew member of the 21 ton "Press Home",owned by his cousin "Gherry" (Duncan Macleod). This was in the years 1880-1890,when there were 26 boats fishing all year round, out of Loch Carloway. Later,Glass would own his own boat,"The Plover" (SY 571),around 1890. At other times,he followed the fishing season over on the east coast of Scotland with Shoudie's brother, " Domhnull Drobhair" (Donald Maclennan,9 Garenin). These two men were lifelong friends. These sail boats operated 3 miles out to sea, and used the large line,each line bearing 1,000 hooks,baited with eel(sometimes halibut!).They were after ling which was a highly prized fish back in these days. A common daily return for these boats might be 500/600 ling and they were sold for 7 or 8 pence(old money)each. The ling had to measure 2 and a half feet,"eye to tail" or failing that, 2 ling for one.
I was told the following story about Glass,"eithear Gherry" and a colossal catch of ling,which occurred in the distant past. It seems that Glass ,with a crew of 5 or 6 in "eithear Gherry"(Gherry's boat)went out very early one morning to fish for ling using the large lines,and according to the storyteller,they struck gold almost immediately. The boat was up to the gunwales(or is it rowlocks)in an abundance of ling. They got their catch to the market just as it opened,and their catch commanded a record price for those times. Glass suggested that if they all put their shares of the money together,they would be in a position to buy the boat from the owner,Gherry,if he was in agreement. He was,and the ownership transferred to "Glass & Co". Well that's the story,and maybe that's how the "Press Home" became "The Plover" - maybe!

"Glass" and his wife "Mairi Ruadh".

As mentioned elsewhere,my grandfather,Donald Macleod ("Glass"),was born in Garenin in 1860, and was one of the Macleods whose ancestors first settled in the Sithean,the small hamlet below the present Garenin road. Garenin grew into a sizable village,with "Macleod" the predominant surname. In 1890,Glass,a young man of 30 years,married his sweetheart,Mary Macneil,aged just 19, who stayed out the road at No.14. She had striking red hair, and because of this my grandmother was always known as "Mairi Ruadh". Their first marital home was in the small building which today houses the "laundry" in the Garenin Thatched Village. In 1904 he moved to Croft No.4 where he had built a house on a relative's croft(his father,Norman's,I think).This is "Taigh Glass",No.4A,one of the thatched houses which today can be rented from the Garenin Trust. As we have seen in earlier postings,Glass acquired the newly created croft at No.5 Dalmore in 1920,and the whole family moved there in 1923. Dalmore was just a couple of miles up the coast,which was just as well as many of the children(my mother told me) were very homesick for Garenin,and were always making return visits there to see their cousins and friends. Two of Glass's nine children never lived to see the home in Dalmore,his son Donald who died in Holland in 1916 during WWI(see earlier postings),and Christina who died from tuberculosis in 1912,aged only 19 years. My mother said that "Cairistiona" was a very Christian girl,and that in the last week before she died in December,she wakened once and said to her mother that she would dearly love a piece of fresh fish, "A'Ghraidh,this is the middle of winter,and there are no boats out",said her mother. "God will provide,I am sure",replied Cairistiona. Her brother Norman,then aged 9,was out on the moor behind Garenin when he saw a strange thing indeed. There in a peat bog,jumping and flapping about,was a good sized sole,which could only have been transported there by some seabird,whose bill was unable to hold on to the "leabag" before Norman lifted it. Every one was amazed at what happened,except Christina.
Glass was 60 when he moved to Dalmore and 63 before he saw his house built and his wife and children settled there. How many nowadays could start a new life, at what is at present an age to retire. They don't make them like "Glass" and "Mairi Ruadh" anymore,and they have not done so for a very long time,I think.

Clann 'ic Iain. "Long" and "Glass"

My maternal grandfather, Donald Macleod,was known as "Glass",and this monicker.if ever understood,was forgotten in the mists of time. But, he would always be known as "Glass",somewhat neater than his "sloinneadh" in Gaelic, "Domhnall Thormoid 'an 'ic Iain". "Sloinneadh" means surname in English, but it conveys a lot more information than the anglicised surname "Macleod",which is a clan name shared by hundreds of thousands of people the world over. However this simple lineage explains Glass's "slionneadh" in Gaelic,of course.
Iain(John Macleod b.~1760)--> Mac Iain(John Macleod b.~1790)--> Tormod 'an 'ic Iain(Norman Macleod b.1824)--> Domhnall Thormoid 'an 'ic Iain(Donald Macleod b.1860 ie.GLASS).
Iain Shoudie,a Maclennan uncle,and a nonsense rhymster,used to sing a little ditty to me as a young boy, which made some allusion to a physical characteristic inherited from my Macleod side.The last line of the ditty was
"Ha sron clann 'ic Iain air an Dhada". Whatever he observed,I (Dada)could see nothing peculiar about my nose.
I remember when (in 1951)I was 10 years old being taken to see the only other survivor of Glass's siblings,his brother Duncan,known as "Long",who was on his death bed in his old style black house at No.18 Gearrannan.This was a very old design of "taigh dubh",with the long axis of the house perpendicular to the hill and following its slope downhill. There was only one door which was used by people and animals alike,and the interior was "open plan". There was no "tallan" to separate man and beast. Just inside the door on the right was the well supplied by a spring.I don't know if this was unusual in a house of this vintage ie. first find yourself a spring and then build your house around it! There were no windows at all,and the fire burned in the middle of the rough clay floor.There was a gap in the thatch above the fire,which allowed some of the smoke out, and a small amount of daylight in,by which one could just see "Long".I do remember some people around his bed who were probably close relatives like my mother,one of many nieces("Long" and his wife,Catherine,had no children of their own). There was a cupboard and a few chairs, and the box bed on which "Long" was lying. At the lower end of the house was a large amount of cow manure,which would have been cleared out in spring, if Duncan had been a fit man. My abiding memory of "Taigh Long" was one of great poverty,and yet, many people who lived in these black houses reared large families and lived to a good age. "Long" lived all of 89 years,and his brother Glass died a year later in 1953,aged 92 years - poor in some things,rich in the things that matter.

R.A.F. Uig Crash Land In Carloway

There were some fine teams and fine players in Lewis at that time,and particularly so "re na samhraidh a bhalaich Goill" (ie.during the summers of the Lowland boys). These lads brought their own skills to the Lewis game,which meant that no one could be sure of the outcome of a game, as few realised the calibre of these "new signings",nor from whence they came. They played throughout the year in a very competitive and often punishing arena. Their close season would allow them the luxury of playing during Lewis'"summer season".
A game which is still remembered,and which is probably the finest ever on Lewis soil, took place around 1958 in Carloway,between Carloway and the RAF team from Uig, where the RAF then had a sizable base. Today Aird Uig, with the remains of that camp, has an eerie quality about it,and in some ways reminds me of the location for "The Wicker Man". Being a services' team,they wanted for nothing,and were immaculately turned out and well supported. What became apparent later was that over half the RAF team were signed players with various English sides(Divisions 2,3 and 4). Carloway could boast Donald Maclennan(Renfrew Juniors) and the "Pralan" twins,Murdo and Duncan from Upper Carloway,who both played for Ardrossan Winton Rovers at that time.Seen for the first time,certainly by me,were the binovular twins of Anna Gherchy, two lads called Donnie and Ronnie Mackinnon(father was from Skye,you see)who took to the field that evening. I must say that they they looked the part, and their recent slim history was impressive. They had recently played for Dunipace Juniors and Rutherglen Glencairn and had been signed by top Scottish clubs,Donnie by Partick Thistle and his twin brother,Ronnie by Glasgow Rangers. In the first half,RAF proved to be the professionals, of which we were unaware,and led 2-0 at the interval. As bad as the result was,continuing taunts of "Come on Carloway,show us your style!"began to exercise the sizable home support. Every English accent from Newcastle to the Thames estuary were arrainged in belittling the Carloway boys.
Murdo Mackay ("The Bear")was the team's manager by dint of having bought the orange juice and the plastic pail. He pulled Donald,my brother aside,and in not so many words,asked what the hell was going on. "Don't worry,A' Mhurchadh,we'll take six off them". In Glasgow,such a statement is one of hope over promise. Whatever was said or agreed among the Carloway team,the crowd witnessed a brilliant display of football,probably never repeated again on the island.Ronnie Mackinnon moved up to the centre of the forward line,Donnie remained in midfield,and Donald my brother had a roving commission down the right flank.The idea was to feed Ronnie down the middle,and being the consumate professional,he scored five brilliant goals fed to him mainly by my brother,who scored himself to make the final score Carloway 6, RAF Uig 2."We'll take six off them". Maybe a wee bit of a prophecy.What do you think?
During the second half,the Sassenach support were beginning to get a tad tired of my cousin,Aonghas Hearradh, continuing to cry "Come on RAF Uig,show us your style!"

The Stornoway Cup Final (Around 1956)

In the months of July and August each year,football on the island of Lewis was trasformeed by the arrival of scores of young proto Leodhaisich who were "home" on their fortnight's fair holiday. They came from all parts of mainland Scotland and there were even some from England and the USA. Foreign holidays were almost unknown to us in the 1950s, and the arrival of so many young men and women to the island in the space of a few weeks, recalled the days when these islands were rightly known as "Tir nan Oig" (The Land of the Young ). The Glasgow Fair fortnight was by far the busiest time,when the island was "jumping" with dances,"cattle shows",busy bothans,something called "ruith nan oidhche"(which never was explained to me!)and of course a packed programme of football fixtures. Young men who regularly played football on the mainland,at amateur,secondary juvenile and junior levels,converged on Lewis to pull on the strips of their host villages,albeit for a couple of weeks. The game was thus transformed the length and breadth of the island during these summer weeks. In some small way,it is similar to the influx of foreign players to the Scottish League nowadays. When my brother,Donald, arrived in Stornoway at the beginning of the Glasgow Fair(second fortnight in July),"officials" of Carloway F.C. were standing at the bottom of the ship's gangway to sign Donald as a Carloway player for the duration. At least once,they paid his fare from Glasgow for an important game, a day or two outwith the Fair holiday. Of course every team would sign up 2 or 3 "visitors",and no game would play out as one might have expected, in the days before the arrival of this windfall of football talent.
And so it was that Domhnull Glass and a couple of fellow professionals turned out for Carloway against Stornoway United in the final of the Stornoway Cup at Goathill Park (1956?). United were the top team in these days,and were loath to surrender "their town's cup" to a bunch of Siarachs.They were so determined to win this game that they flew two of their top players from Inverness to Stornoway,at the club's expense.Few ordinary people could afford the high cost of a plane journey. The two United stars were "Raleigh" and "Blake"( nicknames,of course ),and these lads were working on the mainland. No expense would be spared in bringing these men over for this cup final. I can not think of the names "Raleigh" and "Blake", without picturing two Royal Naval destroyers viz. "HMS Raleigh" and "HMS Blake" coming to wreak havoc on this wee boat from Carloway. The result was United 1, Carloway 5 and to say that this was unbelievable is close to the truth. Donald's performance was outstanding, and this galvanised his fellow team mates to secure one of the biggest upsets in Lewis football history. There was a large dance later that evening in the Stornoway Town Hall, at which the cup was presented to a euphoric Carloway team and its 3 supporters.

We often say that it's a small world,and sometimes we can't believe just how small!
Last Sunday,while in the middle of writing this post ,I and three friends went on a fast boat trip from Seil Island to Iona. The young lady assisting,after some discussion about seals,found out that I had Lewis connections in Dalmore. "My mother is a Maciver from North Shawbost" exclaimed Liz,and she then mentioned that her uncle was known as "Larry". "Is that the same Larry who played football for Carloway when my brother was there? I am right in saying that he was a handsome cove,with beautiful Brylcreemed hair,and a good player to boot?" Liz said that this was the same Larry, and to him I extend my very best wishes(Iain Alasdair Shoudie).
And to the beautiful little ecologist,Liz I thank you for making my trip to Iona so interesting. By the way,Liz,when you laugh your face lights up,just like Larry's.

Stornoway and the "Deedle Doddle".

I have to say that, when I was younger,I found Stornoway to be an interesting place,and at times,even exciting. It was of course a town,a Royal Burgh indeed,and increasingly cosmopolitan. There were people from Mallaig,Buckie,Inverness and a few Sassenaich in highly placed positions,with of course the Italians in the cafes and the itinerant Asian gentlemen with their large brown cases of clothing and haberdashery.
Some people had long since left their rural idyll for life in the town,in search of a job,a home and in some cases marriage and a family. Living in the city,you felt that it went on and on in all directions,whereas with Stornoway, you could define its limits - it had grown gradually around the harbour area over some time, in an easy and attractive way . Later,probably under Mathieson, Stornoway was rebuilt as a "model town" with its rectangular grid of streets. You couldn't lose yourself in Stornoway,unless your sat-nav was compromised by a few "halfs". Our reasons for "going across" to Stornoway were varied,and almost always pleasurable. Carloway Football Club played the different Stornoway teams at Goathill Park,and with 3 or 4 teams sharing that football pitch ( United,Athletic,Rovers and School? ),we were over in Stornoway many a night. Sheep dog trials in the Castle Grounds would also see us "in town". The mink farm required us to visit the slaughterhouse and the Broad Bay fish shop in Stornoway once a week for animal offal and fresh fish carcasses. I will return again to expand on "the mink" and the sheep dog trials.
My brother,Donald ,was a gifted football player and showed promise from an early age(primary school and secondary school teams). I remember that our Aunty Peigi took a great interest in Donald's career. When money was tight,after the war,she sent money to our mother(her sister)to buy Donald his first pair of football boots,and on another occasion a leather football.There was no Nike nor Adidas in 1948 ( perhaps the young Fritz Walter had heard of them ),but these boots were made entirely from a lightly tanned cow hide,and that included leather studs and leather boot laces. The boots had steel toe caps,presumably to allow one to "toe end" a long kick without the boot imploding. The toes,after a few games,pointed upwards and this could be useful in "punting the ball into the middle". The leather studs were hammered into the sole of the boot,which often resulted in the protruding nails piercing the soles of the foot. The leather football had an inner rubber tube (bladder) which was pushed through an opening in the leather panels. The bladder was inflated to the right pressure,the connector tied with string and the "tubey" laced up,boy's style.It was inevitable,that during a game, the lacing would ease a bit and stand proud of the ball. If one were to head this "tubey",the chances were that,more so on a wet day, your forehead was left with a nasty grase or worse. Goodness knows where this football gear was made,but it was the same for Willie Waddell,Billy Steel or "Bustling" Billy Houliston.Donald had this "state of the art" gear,but the difference was that the professionals were paid £5 per game. Coming up - The Stornoway Cup Final: United v Carloway,at Goathill Park around the year 1956?

Princes,Pictures and" Pogan"

There often was a reason for going to Stornoway. When we were young boys,we went with an adult, who would generally have some "business" there. Later on,as times changed,and we changed,we did not need a reason "to go to town".
I remember going over to town with my uncle Shonnie on his motorbike(I think it was 1956)to see the royal family,who were on a tour of the Western Isles aboard the Royal Yacht "Britannia". It wasn't that we were fervent royalists,it was just that like so many others, we were "making our way to Stornoway" to witness an event which doesn't come around too often. Actually,about 25/30 years later,I was the sole reception committee to greet Prince Charles who was aboard a large Wessex helicopter, as it hovered above the Callanish Stones.I think Charles had an appointment in Uig,and it was deemed quicker "by air".I happened to be there(a favourite place of mine)when the whole of the prince's party appeared above me. The door slid open to afford the prince a better view of the mighty megaliths. I waved and he waved back - it was as simple as that,just being friendly. Shonnie and I were stationed at the corner of Cromwell Street and North Beach Street when the royal motorcade approached. It's ironic that here at "Buth Hamish"(James Mackenzie's shop on Cromwell Street),the Royalists met a Roundhead head on, once more.It was a warm summer's day,and Prince Philip drove the Queen very slowly past us in an open Hillman car,and near enough for me to notice the deep tan on them both,which had not been acquired on the present tour of the Hebrides. It has to be said that they made a handsome couple,looking happy and relaxed. The crowd cheered as they turned right up past Woolworths(can't do that now).Other cars followed, but the only other royal I can truly remember is HRH Princess Margaret Rose, as she passed us in an open Land Rover. She was a very beautiful young woman,and her beauty was said to eclipse that of any of the debutantes or society ladies of her day.
As my school returned later than others,I often made the return journey back to Renfrew on my own,which I found exciting. The "steamer" left Stornoway around midnight,and I made sure I was in town for early evening. I might have coffee and cake in the Rendezvous Cafe.I could afford to play the toff with the money I'd earned from the various enterprises in Dalmore. After that,it would almost certainly be a visit to the Picture House(I liked that name - no need for a grand name,it was the only cinema in town.) I distinctly remember two films from those times in the Picture House. There was the film "Marnie" with Jack Hawkins,and a film which made a lasting impression on me,"The Man Who Never Was",how British naval intelligence duped the Germans in WW2 by placing the body of a young British seaman in the Mediterranean Sea,carrying secret documents. Strangely, I saw this film not so long ago, and I enjoyed it just as much.
When I was 15(going 16),I had gone to my first Cattle Show Dance in the Carloway Drill Hall with Donald,my brother(17 going 18). I had been there a few times previously to see the offerings of the Highland and Islands Film Guild.But a dance there, with music from accordion and fiddle, and a whole lot of lovely girls was altogether different. My eye was taken by this lovely girl from Carloway,and later that morning (the dances started at midnight)I "saw her home". I think I got a couple of kisses from this bonnie lass. I was leaving Stornoway the following week,and we arranged to meet in town that afternoon.I remember she wore a shiny black mackintosh style coat,the belt tied in the "French style". We may have had coffee and cake,but surprisingly we did not go to the Picture House. I cannot be sure,but I think there were plenty more kisses that day.
Note : "pog s. - pogan pl." = kiss,kisses

Bobbins and Bluebottles.

Previously,I told of the "Big Jobs" which my Uncle Shonnie Glass allocated us at the beginning of each summer vacation. Taking home the peats by horse and cart and picking out the thistles from a field of cut hay, were just two examples of Shonnie's Big Jobs,ensuring continuity of work for us,throughout the vacation,and at the same time reinforcing the much vaunted presbyterian work ethic. This work ethic seemed to travel with the emigrant Scot,but mostly with the dour presbyterian ones,of which I suppose there were many. The Shoudie boys eschewed the work,making the ethic redundant. With them,there were no "big jobs",only those required to keep body and soul together(perhaps not even the "soul"). My Shoudie uncles never gave me a job to do,because they never had jobs to give. This was an ongoing ceilidh house,and no one would have had it any other way.
In my early teenage years,the two main "occupations" for me in Dalmore were the "bobbins" and the "minks",and the latter will be dealt with in full,later on.
Shonnie was a weaver of Harris Tweed,as were most men,and some women,in these days. A good weaver could earn a pretty decent wage,and many would later marry and set up home on the strength of the security offered by the "tweeds". Harris Tweed was always subject to the vagaries of fashion,and the strength or otherwise of the US dollar. At that time(1954-1959),the industry was booming,and weavers would get as many tweeds as they could manage. The mills which I remember were K.Mackenzie("Sticky),Newall and Smith,all of Stornoway and Kenneth Macleod of Shawbost(Coinneach Rodd). There may have been others,which I can't now recall. The woollen warp,coiled in a large hank,and the large bobbins of "snath" (thread)were dropped off at the roadside next to the croft at 5 Dalmore,and finished tweeds uplifted by the same mill lorry. I would watch Shonnie setting up the loom("beart") for the weaving of a tweed,which involved "beaming",sorting out hundreds of threads,and setting the shuttle box, whose rotations were obedient to the punched holes on metal "cards",similar to the Hollerith computer cards of that time. You can see that engineering and its attendant terminology passed me by. The only aspect of weaving which concerned me was "filling the bobbins",and it was a paid job to ensure that Shonnie always had "iteachan" for his "spalan"(ie. bobbins filled with thread for the shuttles). The "boban" machine was driven by that monster JAP petrol engine(you will recall!)and any decent boban man could fill a large wooden box of "iteachan" in a couple of hours,which would keep the weaver in harness for the rest of the day. The trick was to keep every spindle of the machine "occupied",and this came with some practice.The window by the bobbin machine had a ghoulish fascination for me,and it has to be said now,a source of entertainment, as I went about my business. This window was host to 3or4 spiders and the glass pane was a Spaghetti Junction of the finest of silk webs. There always were a great number of flies and bluebottles around,and there were many who were attracted to that window. When a bluebottle became enmeshed in a web,the noise of vibration was loud,as the poor insect tried to free itself. There was no escape as the spider shimmied out to mummify its prey in a silken sarcophagus. There were many skeletal remains dotted about these webs. By the way,I was paid five bob for a tweed's worth of bobbins. To this day,I associate the sound of a bluebottle with these days in the weaving shed,but now I usher them safely out the window.

PS. In the early 1960s,Mrs Perrins,owner of the Garynahine estate,was responsible for the launch of Ceemo Tweeds. She hired the "very best" weavers and designers to produce lightweight tweeds that would appeal to the couture markets of London and Paris. The Ceemo Tweed was exquisitely designed,very soft and light and a feature of these was the beautiful way that silver and gold Lurex was woven through the cloth. Ceemo was a brave attempt at bringing the "clo`mor" out of the past,to engage with a very sophisticated market. Ceemo did especially well in the fashion houses of Paris,but events were to see its demise,some years later.

Am Bhaile Mor. Steornabhadh Mhor a' "Chaisteil".

When I was very young,the only time I would see Stornoway("am bhaile mor" - the big village ie.the town),was in the coming and going, during our summer holiday on Lewis. Very few people had cars in the years after WW2. The local doctor would have a car,but ministers and midwives would,I think,have had to make do with a sturdy Raleigh bicycle. You would see vans and lorries in Dalmore,of course,but motor cars were rare visitors. An exception to this was the visitation to the cemetery in Dalmore of a steady flow of hearses for committal services in "Cladh Dhail a'Mor". So,when we saw a "car" coming in the Mullach Mor,it was generally a hearse taking the departed for "tiodhlacadh" (burial). As stated elsewhere,my older brother,Donald(born 17.12.38)stayed for his first four years at 5 Dalmore,with my Grandpa Glass and Aunts Peigi and Dollag,speaking only Gaelic(he never lost it).He eventually returned to Renfrew in preparation for starting primary school,and of course learning the "new" language of this strange and hectic place. Our house in Inchinnan Road overlooked the large roundabout at St.Andrew's Cross ,which was always busy with all forms of transport,including "real cars". Donald was looking out on this scene from the kitchen window,when he noticed my mother behind him. Like a wise wee man,with a slight shake of his head,he said in Gaelic,of course." Mother,what an awful lot of funerals there are in this place!"
I have one early memory(although vague)of "going over to Stornoway"(as we Siareachs would say),and that involved a visit to the Lewis Hospital. I know that it was nothing serious(Mother wasn't with us),but I do not recall which of us (Donald or me) needed medical attention,or whether one,other or both was detained there,but I don't think so. What I do remember is that the van was blue,and its owner/driver was "Calum Aonghas Alasdair",a close cousin of ours and a gentleman through and through.Calum was one of the few in the district who owned a vehicle,and who most certainly would have done this "mercy mission" for anyone who might have asked,whether related to Calum or not. On the way across to town,we sat in the front,as this, was the only part which had windows. I do remember that we went via Callanish,and that the roads were "morgnan"(gravel) until we reached the outskirts of Stornoway. It would be some years to come before tarmacadam(no abbreviation here - credit to the Scot) appeared in the rural areas of Lewis. I recall that when I walked along a stretch of "unmade" road ie.morgnan,it was surprisingly easy on my bare feet. At Achmore,the main road to Stornoway went straight ahead through "airidh" territory to meet up with the Pentland Road from Carloway.This was and still is the A.858 to Stornoway. The road to Leurbost via Cliasgro was a sheep track, for all I know. When the sheep track was made up and tarmaced,the sheep wisely made way for man and the car,and a very fine road it is now. We will visit "the town" again in the future when there's a bit more tarmac on the roads.

Cha n' aigh' husa Cheos.

My Uncle Shonnie was planning to build a new house(taigh gheal) on one of his four crofts in Dalmore. I suppose that by the standards of the time,Shonnie could have passed for a "wee" farmer in Dalmore,while the same might have been said of his friend and relative,Murdo Macarthur in Dalbeg (Murchaidh Dhale Beag). They were not men to let the grass grow under their feet,and had good business minds. Shonnie felt that the croft on No.9 was best suited for his new house,which,if you knew him,would have to be the biggest and best around. Shonnie had always admired a large bungalow which was located on the Stornoway-Tarbert road,opposite the Leurbost road end. How he acquired the plan of this house from the owner,I know not,but suffice to say that when Shonnie had his house plan drawn up,it was the same,except that 3 feet was added to all the "Leurbost dimesions". I don't think the man from "ceann rathad Luirbost" was very happy,and frankly,one couldn't blame him.
With the plans approved and the mason/clerk of works taken on(Coinneach Dhomhnull Dubh,Doune Carloway),fortune favoured Shonnie at this very time in the parish of Lochs. It so happened that the church in the village of Keose had outlived its usefulness,and tenders were invited for its demolition. I do not know if a new church had been built,or if its congregation was being amalgamated with another. Shonnie's tender was accepted,and gradually the demolition got underway. The main interest in acquiring the old Keose church,was the great quantity of Ballachulish slate on the roof,and the vast amount of prime timber in the roof,and in the body of the kirk. The slate and wood from the old church in Keose are to this day still in place in "Shonnie's bungalow" at No. 9 Dalmore. The church had been built at the head of a little creek, abundant in large brown fronded seaweed. Many years later,I visited Keose in my car to visit the site of the old church by the sea. There was no trace of the church,but there was a modern factory producing alginates from the seaweed. Well,some would say that this was progress!
Shonnie told everyone in the village how beautiful was the spot in Keose where the old church was built,so much so that everyone in Dalmore began to talk about Keose,how nice it would be to visit Keose,as they had never been over there "in their life". They had been in Lerwick,Lossiemouth,Great Yarmouth,Glasgow and London but,true to form,they had never been to Keose. So,the idea grew that maybe a trip to Keose was called for,and it was arranged that the whole village(and that meant everyone)would be transported there for the biggest ever picnic this side of Beinn Bhragair(Padruig Mor's bus - driver the Magaran,who else). Parents or friends would tease their children,in way of admonition,or simply for fun "Cha n'aigh 'husa Cheos".The children would repeat the mantra "Cha n'aigh mise Cheos" ( trans: "You will not get to Keose"). Of course,they knew the would get to Keose,because every man jack of them was going to Keose. Victuals were prepared for maybe 40 people in the biggest picnic that Keose ever witnessed. Excitement grew as preparations went ahead. Mothers chanted "Cha n'aigh'husa Cheos",the children just laughed.
When the day arrived,no one could believe it. Rain,as no one could ever remember,had fallen during the night and was still falling heavily at breakfast time. Every allt and abhuinn were now raging torrents,the allt at our house was over the bridge and large parts of the village were under water. It was the same along the west coast,we were told. A picnic - you must be joking, and the initial feeling was that it be called off. The Magaran arrived with the bus,with great difficulty,I'd imagine and left the decision to picnic with us. A lot had been invested in this day,and it was now a case of "Who Dares Wins",or something like that! With every soul aboard,and food and drink to feed a multitude,the bus climbed out of Dalmore,and despite the devastation around us,there were the first signs that we were going to enjoy this jaunt,whatever else might happen. When we got to Callanish(or thereabouts) we noticed that the rainfall there had not been anything like what we had in Dalmore.As we travelled further east we realised that here they had no rainfall at all. In fact,the sun was out now and it was hard to believe that the weather on either side of the island could be so different. Since then,I have noticed that this difference in Lewis weather(east v west) is not unusual.
When we reached Keose.it was warm and sunny and quite unbelievable. The tablecloths were laid and the spread thereon was sumptious.The Keose picnic was long remembered in Dalmore.
You will remember from a previous post about the old Dalmore Church, how the Reverend Finlayson would come over from Keose around 1850, to take a service in Dalmore(we think). Now the sad reality was,that 100 years on,a man from Dalmore had come over to Lochs to demolish the old church at Keose.

Peigi Glass. My Lovely,Loving Aunt.

When I was home in Lewis in the 1940s and 1950s,it was noticeable the number of houses(mainly "taigean dubh")that were occupied by unmarried people,the majority of whom were spinster sisters. This was the case in the Carloway district,where one or more of these ladies would be "looking after" a brother and/or an elderly parent. Why this was the case,may lie in the carnage of the World Wars,and the loss of so many fine young men in the trenches and on the cruel seas. The "Iolaire" disaster of 1919,when 205 Lewis boys died within sight of the lights of Stornoway,was more than isles folk could ever have expected,and swept away a whole generation of potential sweethearts and husbands. The nature of crofting law and inheritance was later to be the main reason for some young men leaving the island. I have heard it said that in these wars,and based on the island's population,Lewis lost more people than any other area of Britain.
At that time,in our family home at 5 Dalmore,my grandfather("Glass")was attended on by two of his unmarried daughters,my Aunt Peigi(Margaret)and her younger sister, my Aunt Dollag(Dolly/Dolina/Donaldina). My Uncle Shonnie(John) was, at that time,employed as an able seaman on the River Clyde with the Caledonia Steam Packet Company,but would sometimes get leave to return home for the peats or the harvest,while we were in Dalmore.
My Aunt Peigi was unmarried and in her 40s when I was a small boy. Before Shonnie returned to Lewis for good,Peigi was the engine room of Taigh Glass. She was strong for a lady,and was involved in everything relating to the croft. She was also in a small minority of women at that time who were full time weavers of Harris Tweed. The Hattersley loom,with Peigi in charge,would turn out at least three tweeds a week,all of top quality. The mills would entrust her with new or complicated patterns. She was recognised as a weaver "premier class",and there was nothing about that Yorkshire loom that she didn't know. She was often called upon to sort out the problems encountered by fellow weavers in the district.No,she couldn't fix motorbikes nor cars, but with the Hattersley loom ,she was weaver/mechanic "summa cum laude". My auntie Peigi was a lovely,and better still,a loving person,and she was fun to be with.Each Sunday,with Dollag remaining behind to prepare dinner,Peigi,my brother Donald and I would go "cross country" for the 12.00 o'clock service at the Church of Scotland in Carloway. My brother and I were dressed in kilts and balmorals,which we all wore( including our two younger brothers)every Sunday back in Renfrew. All of us were decked out in MACGREGOR tartan because my mother thought it so nice and bright and red, . Anyway,we looked like little Highland men,and that's what mattered. We each had a different Scottish regimental badge in our hat,mine being the Cabar Feidh of the Seaforths. Shoes and stockings were removed to be carried "air a`mointeach" until we hit the road in Carloway. Our route was the obvious one,out the beinn, past Beinn Iain Ruadh,Cnoc a'Charnan,up to the head of Loch Langavat,skirting Sheaval,and coming out at the doctor's house,where we adjusted our dress and marched proudly to church with Peigi. I always remember Peigi handing each of us a packet of Macintosh Rollo to ease our journey. It made the church service that bit more attractive for us,but I'm sure that was not Peigi's intention.
It must have been 1950,when I was nine,that a picnic was arranged by the "aunties" for Donald and me(the two younger brothers were still in Renfrew with my mother). I can tell you that a picnic, back then, was a very unusual thing on the west side of the island(on any side for that matter). A picnic in the Castle Grounds or the Grimersta Estate for " na daoine gallda",one could understand,but in Dalmore,with our hard working aunts,and straight out of the blue,well----- ?
And so it was that,on a fine warm day,we set out for the Gearraidh with Peigi and Dolly and picnic goodies that equalled the best of Lewis "soirees". On a sward of short green grass,protected from any wind by a massive rock face,my aunts laid the picnic in Cnoc a' Ghearraidh overlooking the allt and the golden sands of that tiny beach at Geodha na Muilne. I can still recall almost every minute of that wonderful day - sunshine,laughter and all blessed with the love of two Christian ladies. There was a slightly sad event when a young rabbit appeared near us,and Donald and I tried to catch it . It eventually ran up this crevice in the rock face,wedging itself well out of our reach,try as we might. The tiny skeleton of this poor creature was perfectly preserved there for years to come.
A bit more serious was what happened down on the tiny beach,when Donald and Peigi were there doing some innocent bathing( not swimming). The viciously strong current swept Donald off his feet and was pulling him away from the shore. Piegi rushed to his aid,holding him firmly by his shirt. No doubt - Piegi saved my brother from drowning on that summer's day. Later,as the picnic was ending,my Aunt Peigi said a very strange thing to Donald and me.She said "This is the last picnic you will have with the aunties". I didn't understand what she meant,because,firstly,we didn't have that many picnics.
Of course,we were not to know that Peigi had been feeling very tired for some time now,and had undertaken all sorts of tests at the hospital. Peigi was diagnosed with leukaemia,which in these days was an illness for which little could be done. Peigi came to the Western Infirmary in Glasgow when the only "treatment" possible was a series of blood transfusions. After each stay in hospital,Peigi would feel well,and during such times she stayed with my Aunt Kate,another of my mother's sisters,in Renfrew. These periods of remission began to shorten, and more and more transfusions were needed.The family employed the services of a "private" physician,a well known consultant,but there was little he could do to halt the progress of her leukaemia. Peigi died in the summer of 1951,her death a blow to all of us who held her dear.

Dalmore's "Gang of One".

From an early age in Renfrew,I and others were fortunate to have access to the wonderful grounds of Blythswood Estate,located on the right bank of the River Cart,where it meets the Clyde(opposite the site of John Brown's famous shipyard). We spent happy times there,more so since my school pal's grandfather,old Mr.Stewart was the estate gamekeeper(the last as it happened),who lived with his wife in a cottage straight out of a fairy tale. Amongst other things,we were practised builders of the "gang hut",which every boy aspires to,but in which he spends as little time as possible. A gang hut is good in theory,but damned cold and damp in practice. To be honest,even the theory doesn't stand scrutiny.
My skills in building were to prove invaluable when I decided to build the ultimate in gang huts in Dalmore,where I would be spoiled for location and building materials. I chose a site with a commanding view,near the Allt Garbh(remember the blue clay!)on an outcrop of large rocks high above the traigh,with a clear views of Beinn Dhalemor,An Ghearraidh,the graveyard(only one at that time)and over in the direction of Dail Beag. Lord of all I survey! That was the idea,at any rate.
The walls were already in place,and was the result of a large stone having been separated about 4 feet from two other rocks,probably thousands of years back in prehistory. Essentially, I had a ready-made bolthole of three massive rock walls,and these amongst the oldest rock in the world. But the sheep,God bless'em,were the other residents during my absence. Wood and rope from the traigh were used to construct the "load bearing beams" on which large turfs would be laid to complete the roof. A "triangular lattice" of wooden beams was used to support the turfs. I only mention this for the technically minded. A wooden stucture at the entrance was my door,with enough gaps to allow in some light,and to persuade the sheep to toilet elsewhere. Talking of which,and digressing a moment,this brings to mind a time when my wife, Buntie, came to Dalmore with me on holiday. It has to be said that she was not fan of Lewis,and used to say that she could well understand that the rocks here were among the oldest in all the world,and it seemed nothing much had changed in the interim. Ouch! One day I caught her staring out of the window looking out across croft no.6 towards the Beinn.I asked her what she was looking at,to which she answered."Well,Iain,I have to say that there's nothing here but sheep shit and boulders". My wife was from Fife, and harboured some reserve about Lewis,probably due to the rough justice meeted out to the "Fife Adventurers" in Stornoway around 1598.
Even with some odd pieces of "traigh furniture",the gang hut was cold,dark and cramped, and the builder might well have learned something from the Skara Brae people. Anyhow,my duties thankfully were mainly extramural - digging a well(the water was oily and foul) and obtaining rations from 5 Dalmore(usually lettuce and tomatoes - you don't eat salt herring,even in a Lewis gang hut). No hut worth its salt(sorry!) is complete without a flag pole,and this was soon rectified by purloining Shonnie's "slat" (long bamboo fishing rod) from the long grass beside the weaving shed. He wasn't too happy with this,but my mother persuaded him that it was better stuck in a rock,drying in the wind, than rotting away in the grass. I had more fun raising and lowering the white flag(a pillowcase)accompanied by the "Last Post" or the "Heilan' Laddie", than I ever got from sitting inside the hut. If I were to revisit the past,I'd just have a flag pole,and forget about the gang hut(a gang of one,at that).
I remember two occasions in particular,involving me and my gang hut. The first of these occurred on a hot summer's afternoon. Replete after a huge lunch of lettuce and tomato,I had fallen asleep on a little creagan above the hut. After a little while,I felt that I was not alone.Shielding my eyes from the sun,and still hazy from sleep,I became aware of a tall girl standing over me saying,"I am your cousin,Mary-Ann and your Mom told me where I'd find you". This was no ordinary girl - this was a real Yankee girl,who spoke like they do in the movies. Her father,Tormod Mor was home on holiday from Detroit,with his Lewis born wife,his daughter"Merry-Enn", and the biggest Ford automobile I'd ever seen! My mother fairly landed me in it,to entertain a girl at my gang hut.Girls don't do gang huts,but I quite liked her, and gave her what was left of the lettuce and tomatoes.Just as well it wasn't salt herring.
The second occasion that comes to mind was the day of Domhnull Chalum's funeral in the cemetery at Dalmore. He was a good pal of old Glass,my grandfather. During the funeral,someone looked up towards the brae and noticed that Iain Maclennan's white flag was at half mast,it being what one does as a mark of respect for the dear departed. There were smiles and just a few chuckles in the cemetery that day.

Shelley: A' thocht ye waur deid! Good to hear from you again!
Mary Ann settled in Scotland(her parents then living in retirement in Lewis),married a Lewisman and worked in Glasgow. She regularly visited my parents in Renfrew.

Mince and Palm Toffee. Stornoway's Delights.

I always looked forward to going over to Stornoway with Shonnie on the motorbike. Let me rephrase that. I loved arriving in the town, grateful that I had once more survived Shonnie's manic motorcycle manoeuvres. As hair raising as his driving could be, I don't think Shonnie ever had an accident,which was just as well,since he only ever drove on a provisional licence. He never ever passed a test for a bike (to my knowledge),and complied with the law (he thought !) by having a very small homemade letter "L" attached to the bottom of the rear mud guard.Painted a very dark red,you would not know it was there unless it was pointed out to you. Of course,that was the whole idea. (Shonnie's pride would not allow otherwise),but he felt that the wee cardboard "L" kept him this side of the law. I'm sure the police knew,and turned a blind eye to this little"peacadh"(peccadillo).After all, there were serious criminals about,poaching his lordship's salmon.
Shonnie would have some errands in town,perhaps at Newall's mill or buying goods at Charles Morrison's in Point Street.Lunch was invariably at the "Seamans' Mission" (or was it the Sailors Society?)in North Beach Street. Being fed in Dalmore on mainly fish, mince and potatoes dominated our thinking,and that's what we ordered.With a nice sweet pudding and a mug of tea,we were now fit for a stroll about the town,often going our separate way,to meet up later. I found the harbour area fascinating,as in these days,there were many fishing boats,not just local boats,but boats from Mallaig,Wick,Buckie,boats of all sorts and all sizes. The smell of fish and tar, the cry of the gulls,nets being repaired,children getting a free bucket of small herring and the lilt of the Gaelic playing along the quays are forever imprinted on my memory. Shonnie and I would meet up, and head for the Rendezvous Cafe in Cromwell Street,a beautifully appointed Italian shop. Shonnie had a sweet tooth,so he bought chocolates and "candies" to fill the sweet drawer in Dalmore. A large ice cream cone each, and the piece de resistance would now be ordered at the counter. Palm Toffee.Does anyone else recall this mouth watering delectation. These were large bars of toffee in a three layer sandwich,in flavours of banana and strawberry( two of which come to mind). Outwith this one cafe,I never came across this delicious toffee anywhere else. Palm Toffee - a Prince among toffees!
Returning home,we didn't talk much,as our jaws were sore masticating. The ride back seemed so much the better, with panniers full of goodies.

P.S. If you google "palm toffee",you will see that I'm not alone in wondering what happened to this wonderful toffee.

Only the Best Will Do - "Well,Fancy"

Shonnie Glass, my uncle, was often first,always had to have the biggest or best,an innovator and entrepreneur, it was acknowledged, and a big businessman in the making. Shonnie was early on the road with his 250 cc BSA motorbike.He was probably the first to own a tractor and tipping trailer in the Carloway district. It was a grey Massey-Ferguson 315 which came all the way from Hamilton Brothers (Agricultural Engineers) in Paisley. As we lived close-by in Renfrew,many's the time one of us would arrange for some spare part to be ordered and dispatched to Lewis. The grass cutter and plough attachments constituted a revolution in local crofting,just as the tractor/trailer changed "the peats" forever. Shonnie's right hand man in this venture was Aonghas Iain a` Mhinisteir from Carloway. Angus,as he was otherwise and unsurprisingly called,was a great worker and held in high esteem by Shonnie,and with all he came in contact. Examples of biggest or best? The petrol engine used to drive the "bobbins machine" and favoured by many weavers was a small JAP engine,completely adequate for the purpose. Shonnie also had a JAP engine,but this was a monster(more like a jet engine), mounted on a very substantial base of cement blocks. The exhaust noise might waken the dead,and in Dalmore, that was not a good idea. When "the electric" came in 1951,you will remember that Shonnie bought this huge 13- valve radio with which it might have been possible to listen in on the conversations of Marshal Bulganin and Nikita Khruschev in the Kremlin in Moscow!
Fancy,the sheepdog,was a regular pillion passenger on Shonnie's motorbike,and got very excited at the prospect of an outing. Years before,if Shonnie needed the bike to seek out a sheep or lamb some miles away,he would tie an orange box onto the pillion, and stick Fancy in it,to use her on the moor. In time the box was removed,and Fancy would manage the pillion seat,by hitching her front "spogs" over Shonnie's shoulders. Latterly, with four feet on the seat,she "scratched the leather" to stay aboard during acceleration and violent cornering,such was Shonnie's driving. She was a little beaut! Sometimes Shonnie would say aloud that he had to go down to Carloway on the motorbike,but Fancy wasn't needed.Her head would go down between her spogs and her face would come over all sad (a consummate actress) until she heard the engine starting and Shonnie shouting "Where is my Fancy?".In two ticks,she was right behind him,her face aglow,giving a little yelp of excitement.
Shonnie and Fancy will be featured more in the future.

Beachcombing in Dalmore..

Some might think that with all the various tasks entrusted to us,the cows,the peats,the harvest and some others(more of this later),we had little time of our own - not so! Like any child living next to the sea,I spent long periods on the beach at Dalmore("traigh") or down in the creeks and coves("geodha"),sometimes in the Ghearraidh,but more often on the bit of coast between Dalmore and Dalbeg.Here the surge of the waves was easier to deal with than in the Ghearraidh,which was/is a very dangerous place. On a calm day,nothing could be more exciting than seeing what might have been washed up along that golden strand.I was the sole beachcomber,and a strange shaped bottle,a dark dense wooden block or just a simple fish box would spark my imagination. I recall the time when, for no reasons that one could fathom, a great many dead puffins were washed up on our beach,with no obvious injuries and still looking very beautiful with their multicoloured beak,which conferred on them the acronym "sea parrot". For weeks they kept being washed up,and I can tell you it made me sad to think, that the first time I had seen this bird,it was dead. However,I was fortunate to see the puffins( Tammie Norrie ) at close quarters when in 1983 I spent 2 weeks on St.Kilda with the National Trust for Scotland in one of their work parties.Beautiful St.Kilda and its beautiful puffins!
What was of great interest to me at that time,and mammon too was involved,was the large number of metal floats coming ashore on the beach,or found bobbing about in some "geodha"(creek)nearby. These were the floats from the fishing nets,used by the boats out at sea. They were a dull silver in colour, perfectly spherical,diameter about 10 inches and made from anodised steel (I think). I could harvest maybe 60 of them within a couple of weeks, and the town tinker called to buy them from me at a shilling each.He sold them on to the Stornoway fishermen,at a profit,of course. This was a lucrative "sideline",as the floats kept coming ashore.
I have a large scale map of the Carloway area,surveyed in 1852 by two officers of the Royal Engineers.It is a great achievement in map making,very detailed and with every feature named in Gaelic. With the help of this map and Dwelly's Gaelic dictionary(what a man he was!),I noted that there were six named "geothan"from Dalmore round to Dalbeg,and strange and interesting are some of their names.Back then I didn't know what they were called,and I'm pretty damned sure that there is no one today who knows, or cares
"Geodha an Uillt" is the cove of the burn.
"Geodh'an t-Siliche" - the meagre(small)creek.
"Geodha Sporain" - the purse cove.
"Geodh'a' Gharaidh" - the garden cove.
"Geodha na Mna" - the wife's cove.
"Geodh'na Muic" - the seal's creek.
You must admit that a couple of these are interesting "coves",and one wonders how they came by their names. Just behind this short bit of coastline lies Cnoc na Moine (the little hill of the peats) My uncle Murchaidh Shoudie used to say to us (and later my daughter,Carolyn) that it was at Cnoc na Moine that the cattle could find shelter ("fasgath"). He would say,"Cnoc na Moine,Cnoc na Moine - far a`faigh a bho fasgath".
One day I was doing a patrol of the "geodhan",and thinking how finding a couple of metal floats would reward my efforts,when,as I looked down into this narrow cove,I glimpsed a large yellow object being battered about in the surf. There was a tube attached to the "thing ", with a red or orange light flashing away at its top. Closer inspection of this strange Quatermass inspired object revealed that this was some kind of inflatable craft,made of rubber or canvas.There was a "little igloo" on top which maybe a couple of people could crawl into. I was very excited at this my greatest find of jetsom. By reading the various writings on the craft,I came to realise that I had found something of national importance.It was an RAF survival dingy,big,yellow and lights a-flashing.I dragged it out of the "geodha" (a bloody heavy beast,if I remember rightly)and deposited it above the high water mark, There was a telephone number engraved on a brass plate on its side. Shonnie and I went down to the Carloway PO and Shonnie made the call. This was an RAF exercise that had gone a wee bit wrong, but no one was injured . A large RAF lorry came over from Uig to pick up their dingy(following my directions,I may say),and later on I received my £10 reward. Beachcombing was proving so good that I caught Shonnie at Geodha Sporain,but he said that he was just looking for a lamb.

Angie an Dhomhnullaich's Heifer.

It must have been 1954/1955 when the name Macleod,5 Dalmore was announced to the expectant throng in the playground of Carloway Primary School. This was not a prize giving for the "scholars" of the school,but was one for exhibitors at the Carloway Agricultural Show,everything from "6 matching first crop potatoes" to " a mare or gelding over 16 hands". "Cattle shows" were big in these days,important people officiated at their opening,and this must have been due to the fact that there existed real crofters in these days, with real cattle,real horses, crofters who grew their own potatoes in really long feannags(a ridge of ground).This was a bonanza year for us (quite unusual),and we picked up a number of 1st prizes including one for Daisy,our beautiful Ayrshire cow,and another for our superb Shorthorn heifer. The 1st prize for the best collection of wild flowers went to me!
The prize winning heifer was a perfect specimen ,who would have triumphed at any of the mainland shows. She had attracted the attention,some time previously of Mr. Angus Macdonald,farmer,auctioneer and butcher,a Stornoway "Big Wheel". Well before the cattle show,my uncle Shonnie Glass sold the heifer to Angie an Dhomhnullaich,as the big farmer was better known,for the princely sum of £96(that was a huge price in those days). Angie stipulated that, since he now owned the beast,any prize money won by the heifer at show,should fall to him. Shonnie said that he had promised "the boys"(me and my brother)that they would show the heifer,and collect any prize money it won.(1st prize,I think,was £7,and the wild flowers came in at 7/6d). "Angie,if that's not to your liking,you had better take the £96 back again." Mr. Macdonald did not push his argument,but suggested he would be around a few weeks after the "show" to collect his prize animal.
For the weeks that followed,the heifer grazed with our two cows over the beinn,on the Garenin side. That is not strictly accurate, because one evening the "buachaile" arrived home with the cows,but no heifer! That "buachaile"(cow-herd)was not me. That night,and many times during the ensuing days,various people scoured the hills,the moor and even the cliff tops,but there was no sign of the young shorthorn. The area involved was actually quite small,which made the animal's disappearance very strange indeed. My uncle had been very proud of his heifer,and pleased with his deal with Angie an Dhomhnullaich. But now he had all but given hope of seeing it again.
It was after lunch and I was stretched out on the being. I announced to my mother and Aunt Dolly that I was going up the beinn to find the heifer. "Well,go on a'ghraidh and tell Shonnie",said my mother with a wan smile. Shonnie was in the weaving shed and simply reminded me of how many had searched.and how long it had been missing(7 days)."But go ahead if you must". Now,it must be remembered that it was I who took the cows out most mornings,and consequently I had a fair idea of the cows favoured grazing "routes". I decided to search the ridge of the beinn, not so obvious to others.As I searched carefully,I came to a point on the edge of the beinn directly opposite Cnoc a' Choin,and there on a steep grassy slope were long wet marks,caused by an animal sliding. A few feet below,there was our heifer firmly wedged between two immense rocks,looking very thin and sorry for herself. I think she was glad to see me!
Entering the weaving shed,Shonnie said what I had expected."Well,Iain,did you find her?" "Yes,I did find her" and moved fast to tell the folk in the house,with my uncle in pursuit.
Men from Dalmore and Garenin carefully extracted the heifer, from what might have been its sarcophagus, with ropes,crowbars etc. She was very thin but uninjured. She immediately started eating the grass nearby,and in time filled out well,before Angie Macdonald came to collect her. Shonnie never said a word,and I never "let on."

Fainge Dhal a' Mor. The Dalmore Sheep Fank.

A "fank" is a sheep pen,an enclosure where the animals are temporarily corralled, offering the shepherd close access to his sheep. "Fank" is not a word you often hear,and I'm not sure if it's used at all outside the Highlands and Islands of Scotland. The Gaelic for "fank" is "fang" ( no, not a wolf's tooth ),but pronounced "fing-e",the "i" pron.as "eye". I used to think that "fang" derived from the English "fank",but it is in fact the other way about.
Let us clear up a couple of ovine facts,if we must. LAMB in Britain is called "lamb",if it is sold within one year of its birth.After this it is known as a "hogget" (or an old season lamb ),but the meat is still called lamb. Only when the animal has its first incisor tooth (forget about wolves),around 1 year to 18 months,will the meat become MUTTON. Although lamb is tender,it lacks the flavour of mutton,especially the Lewis variety. They say that it's the young heather shoots favoured by the sheep, which makes the meat so sweet. But,I was talking about fanks.
During July and August each year,various fanks took place in our district.Of course,the Dalmore fanks were the ones that interested me most,as it concerned our own villagers, although there were some interested parties from nearby townships. Our fank was " at the back of Dalmore",by the road to Dalbeg,and utilised a small gravel quarry,used a long time ago to build the road. Stone walls were built to complete the circular enclosure. The lands around the fank, and especially far out on the moors was where our sheep were to be found,and this took the concerted efforts of the men and their magnificent sheep dogs. There would be perhaps twelve dogs,each obedient to the commands of its own master, who used the voice,the whistle or even arm gestures.From a small hillock,you could witness the outrun of of all twelve dogs,going as far out as one or one and a half miles on the moors towards Beinn Bhragair. Working in concert,and moving right and left behind the sheep,these dogs demonstrated their instinctive skills,all on the single command of "Way Out" or "Mach a'seo",given a long while back. Hundreds of sheep and lambs were coaxed into a large group,inexorably moving towards the fank. Often sheep and lamb would attempt an escape but would be quickly brought into line. Close quarter shepherding saw the large flock enter the fank,and the "gate" closed behind them.
The men would start moving among the sheep and lambs,identifying their own,and passing them up to their people at the fank's side. Identification was possible using coloured markings on the fleece,or having your name or address burned into a horn (ours was GLASS). The ear markings on the sheep,cut into them as lambs,were the definitive identification of one's ownership. Each house had a unique set of ear markings ( holes.slices,cuts etc. ),which were centrally registered. The sheep were sheared ,the lambs set aside and sheep from distant climes held,and their owner contacted.The conversations were light hearted,the banter playful and the laughter infectious.Sometimes there was a bit of sexual innuendo,but it was never taken seriously. Sometimes the less responsible young men would release their dog to fight with another's dog (male machismo?),but the hue and cry of the womenfolk put an end to that. If they were anything like my mother,Anna Glass(and they were!),these young men had no option.
All the Dalmore sheep were brought across to the village's "common grazing" through the Board of Trade's "iron gate",a gift of yester year.If it were the season for separating the sheep and their lambs,the latter were taken into the village,proper. The bleating of these lambs for their mothers,and the ewes calling for their "little ones" was constant,and to me,quite upsetting.Day and night for 2/3 days these sad cries filled the valley of Dalmore,but in sheep and in crofting, there is no room for sentiment.I could ,even then,understand that argument,but I knew that I loved the crofting life, only at a distance (ie. from Renfrew ).

Ag Iasgaich air a Chuan. Fishing at Sea.

In the early 1950s(I'd be 12/13 years old),my Uncle Shonnie bought a boat which he and his friends in Dalmore could use to fish the waters of Loch Roag,and in fair weather,the fringes of the Atlantic itself. The boat was an open "clinker-built" vessel,14 feet long,built of wood and made by a man from Ness,a parish at the very north of Lewis,renowned for its great seamen and for the boats they built. It was a lovely little boat,painted white on its hull and blue on the super structure,and it looked so important bearing its registration, painted black at the prow, SY 92. This was not a fishing boat,but a boat for fishing (if you understand the distinction).
Fishing in the sea lochs and close to shore,where the sea was less deep,people used "small line" fishing.In the 19th century,the larger fishing boats,then under sail,used the "large line" and operated 3 miles out,fishing for the larger species eg. ling. The small line carried 250 medium sized hooks baited with herring and contained in an open wooden box,and the line of baited hooks arranged very carefully in rows,so that they could be played out without tangling. Preparing the small line for fishing would be an afternoon's work for someone,who knew what they were doing. One or two others joined Shonnie in these fishing trips,usually Seorais(George)and my Maclennan uncle,Iain Shoudie,while I was "elected" as helmsman,in charge of the 4HP British Seagull outboard engine. We would leave the Dunan pier about 6.00pm and sail out of Loch Carloway until we reached the "caolas"(the sound)of open sea between the islands of Bernera and Little Bernera and the Lewis mainland.These two islands were where we Maclennans first settled in Lewis in the early 1700s. There were some small islands like Creagam and Dubh Sgeir in the vicinity,whose dangers a young helmsman was made aware of. Each of the fishermen had their own small line,and as one line was played out,other small lines were attached. That made for a lot of baited "hyooks",as Iain Shoudie pronounced them,lying perhaps 20-30 feet down on the white sandy bottom. The combined lines of say 500 or 750 "hyooks" were laid out in a straight line of several hundred yards,using well known landmarks as markers, such as the golden sands of Croir on Bernera,the light at Laimishadair or the imposing island called "Sean Bheinn",the Old Hill. The decision on where to set the lines was taken by the experienced crew members who suddenly were blessed with the "second sight",but actually, any course chosen was pretentious fish finding and a large dollop of luck,which no fisherman ever admits. A buoy was placed at either end;we would slowly make our way back and sit bobbing about in "eithear Shonnie" (John's boat)for about 20 minutes. Time for small talk and a smoke of the pipe.One should mention that during the laying and raising of the lines only the oars were used.The helmsman sat back,eating his Highland Toffee - he didn't smoke a pipe,yet.
In those days,before the super trawlers came and raped our fishing grounds,small boats like ours would normally expect to catch something - possibly 40 or 50 fish per small line,giving us fresh fish for a couple of days,some for the elderly villagers and the rest for salting/drying. However, there was one fishing trip "air eithear Shonnie"(SY 92) which exceeded anyone's expectations and was renowned among the Dunan fishermen for years after. And this wee fella' was there! On this occasion in the boat were Shonnie,Iain Shoudie,Seoras "Lipton",Archie "Bones" Maciver and of course,myself. That was four small lines and 1000 baited hooks. The entrails were examined,the chicken bones thrown and "Coinneach Odhar" Shoudie chose our course. It was a busy night out there on Loch Roag,with about another 6/7 Carloway boats in attendance. After casting the lines,and waiting the alloted time,it was time to see how we'd fared. Right from "hyook no.1" it was obvious that we had struck piscine gold(more like silver). Iain Shoudie began shouting "Sight below,sight and sight below!!".As we hauled,we could see deep into the sea,the white bellies of fish upon fish coming to the surface. There was a fish on EVERY hook: it was unbelievable.The great majority of fish were beautiful large haddock(No.1 fish for us) with whiting,sole,skate,gurnard and some dogfish making up the rest. It took some pulling to bring in this harvest,and soon the boat was filling with fish. We had to decide to tie off the line,attach it to a float and sail back to the Dunan to empty the boat.By the time we returned with the rest of the catch we were tired,it was late and we were elated.After all, it's not every day a small "eithear" from Carloway brings home 1000 fish.Whatever happened on that summer evening,it was never to be repeated again. I can still hear my uncle,Iain Shoudie(him of the "hyooks")with a "Capstan" cigarette in one hand,pulling in the line with the other,and leading the chorus of "Sight below,sight and sight below".
P.S. Athough there were 4 fishermen,the catch was divided into 5 shares. The boat always had a single share,entitling the owner to 2 shares.

Ag Iasgaich. Fishing the Rivers and Lochs.

When we were young,we messed about in the rock pools on the traigh - we caught tiny silver fish, and little green crabs which could be kept alive among peats drenched in sea water.This was the received wisdom at the time. I don't think the crabs appreciated our efforts,as they invariably disappeared.
Later we tried our skills at "fly fishing" for trout in Allt na Muilne(The River of the Mills),but known to us as Allt a' Ghearraidh.The rods belonged to London John,who was very rich(we thought).We caught a few tiddlers,but,thinking back,the allt was not blessed with many "breac".But there was one,and John Maciver was the one to land a monster brown trout,all of half a pound. We were amazed at this,but none of us could repeat the feat again. I believe his old grandfather,"Na Cnamhean" (Bones)had the trout fried in oatmeal, for his lunch.
My Uncle Shonnie decided to inject a little excitement into our piscatorial endeavours,being a "wee devil" himself,and a boy at heart.He fashioned something which was unknown previously to us,and totally illegal. He made us an "otter board". It consists basically of a plank of stout wood,about 18in. long,12in high and 1.5in. thick. The leading and trailing edges of the board are cut at 45 degrees to the board's plane,but opposing each other. A piece of lead pipe is nailed to the board's base so that the "otter" sits vertically in the water,with about half the board submerged. The line is attached to the board by a ring which slides along a wire. At this end of the line there is a caste of 7 flies. When the board is placed in the water,the "otter-trawler" starts to walk along the lochside,and glory to behold,the otter moves diagonally out into the loch in the same direction, as the line is played out. One can see why it's called an otter and why it is an illegal method of fishing. If and when a trout takes on one of the flies,invariably some others are attracted to the caste by the thrashing of the water,and it was not unknown to have 3,4 or 5 fish on at the same time. Now,to bring in the otter and its catch,you must pull on the line in the opposite direction and the board begins to cut back in towards the side of the loch. That's the theory of the otter board,but for any conservationists out there,practice is another thing. We did not empty Loch Neadabhat of all its trout. Anyway, Uncle Shonnie told us it was illegal and we were not to do it very often.

Shelley. Loch Neadabhat only had small brown trout ( a beautiful native species ).The otter board does not discriminate between small and large fish. In theory,and in practice,the otter board would remove many more fish than the legal rod and line. It is considered as "unsporting",and as such is proscribed as a method of fishing by a UK Act of Parliament - The Salmon and Freshwater Fisheries Act (1975)
Still an intelligent conjecture. Keep 'em coming. D.J.M.

Domhnull Lamont wins the Military Medal (M.M.)

Domhnull Lamont came to stay in Dalmore with my aunt and uncle,but even in this small village,he did little in the way of "ceilidh"(visit/parley). He preferred to roam the moors and glens,he helped out with the animals but,more than anything,he loved sea fishing off the tall rocks at Bandaberie. Infrequently he would drop in to his cousins' houses,and I was there in Taigh Glass(No.5)when this giant of a man stooped under the lintel to enter,sitting on the being(bench),resting his enormous hands on his dungaree trousers. I was primed to question Donald,and thinking he would be responsive to my innocent enquiry,with a beatific smile on my face,which I'd borrowed for that moment,I said."Donald,could you tell me how you won your medal?" Donald put down his scone and tea cup,turned round to face me as I sat on grandpa's chair by the fire,and replied in a sort of strangled bellow,"Medals?,medals? What good are medals? - they're only scraps of metal,scraps of metal!" I felt he had nothing to add to this statement,and my mother's headshake confirmed as such. And so my first interview with a war hero was brief,but I got the impression that he thought of this as something that happened a long time ago, on which he had nothing to say. Or so I thought.
My Shoudie uncles(Maclennans)were as friendly with Domhnull Lamont as anybody could be,and Iain Shoudie could be quite persuasive,armed with a good bottle of whisky. It would have been around 1968 when my 4 year old daughter,Carolyn came running over to No.5 saying excitedly, " Dad,Uncle Iain says,that you had better hurry across to Taigh Shoudie,because Domhnull Lamont is there".When I arrived I might as well have been invisible.Talk was of old times,and with a few more drams,Iain gestured that I say nothing while he steered Donald round to a certain night in France,a long time ago. I could not believe that nearly 15 years on,I was about to hear of "Donald's medal" from the man himself.
It was dark, and Donald and "a small man from Glasgow" were on guard duty. A river separated the German troops from their erstwhile combatants,the British. Everything was quiet,the night was clear and Donald and his wee pal could see the camp fires burning on the German side,as well as on their own. There was no artillery or rifle fire, as calculating range and trajectory in the dark,was a waste of time and munitions. Donald and his buddy were positioned on a high prominence overlooking the river,and as they watched,they could just make out some movement on the farther bank of the river,but in total silence. As they continued to watch,they quickly realised what the Germans were preparing to do. They were launching pontoons,securing them together with ropes,and gradually a bridge was advancing towards the British side. "We'd better get the hell out of here and back to camp,Donald",said the wee Glasgow man, "and tell our men what's happening". Seems to me the wee man had it right. "Stay where you are",intoned Donald,whose intonation sounded very like an order. Under the very nose of our two intrepid guards(well,one at least) the German pontoon bridge was nearing completion,and German units were lining up,ready to cross. The wee man made a final plea to Donald to get the hell out of there. Donald pointed to the full box of hand grenades lying beside them,and suggested what use might be made of them. " If you won't throw the grenades,then at least you can pull the pins." There was no time now but to fall in with Donald's "plan".The German soldiers,perhaps a many as 150,were silently advancing across the pontoons,and when the bridge was full,the wee man started pulling the pins,and Donald hurled one grenade after the other onto the unsuspecting German soldiers, " I could see heads being blown off,arms and legs going sky high and falling back into the river.I think that those who weren't killed by the grenades,probably drowned in the water." Although this was a terrible carnage,Donald and his fellow soldier probably saved the British camp from an equally dire fate.Donald was recommended for the Victoria Cross(it was said),but in the end he was awarded the Military Medal(M.M.). Two postscripts to this story :-
1. The medal was to be presented to Donald at Carloway school,in front of a large gathering. Mr Ronald Macdonald,the headmaster,went across to Stornoway to meet the Seaforth Highlander's officer designated to make the presentation of the M.M. to Donald. After a little discussion and discreet enquiry,the officer realised that,of all the Donald Macleods in the Seaforths,he had reason to remember this particular Donald Macleod. He related the story to Ranald Macdonald,how as a sergeant major,before the war at Fort George,he had unwittingly insulted this man,and had paid the price. He asked Ranald to turn his horse and trap around,and to present the medal to Donald in his stead,which he duly did.
2. Donald's brother, Angus Macleod,also won the Military Medal in a completely different action. These brothers certainly served their country beyond the call of duty.

Domhnull Lamont. Donald Macleod M.M.

Domhnull "Lamont"(or is it "Lamonn"?)was a cousin of my mother and of my father(remember they were themselves second cousins),and was a living legend in his day. As usual,the origin of the acronym of "Lamont" is long forgotten,if it were ever understood,but as Donald Macleod(yes,another one),he needed another handle to his name. When Donald's name was first mentioned in my presence,I was still a young lad,but the stories of his exploits,his great strength and his unquestionable courage were known throughout the west coast of Lewis,and beyond. When I first recall hearing of Domhnull Lamont,he had been "missing" for a great number of years(ie. neither his relatives nor anyone else knew much,if anything at all,about his whereabouts or his situation).When he was a young man in Borriston(Carloway),he was tall and gangly,possessing phenomenal strength,especially in his upper arms and hands. His wrists were thin and sinewy,and the width of hands was double that of another man. He appeared quiet,a loner who did not easily relate to other people. I'm sure in the jargon of today,Donald might have been placed somewhere at the U.V.end of the "spectrum",but I would not envy the professional who had to explain this to the young Donald.
It was said that Donald had a deep love of his mother,and that no one ever commanded his affections,except her. This tall,awkward young lad was called up by the army in 1914 to take on the Kaiser's army(not on his own,of course).He reported to Fort George garrison,the massive barracks of the Seaforth Highlanders,near Inverness. Donald found the first weeks of drill and marching very difficult,principally because he could not understand the clipped orders of the sergeant major on the parade ground.It did not seem to bear any resemblance to the King's English his teachers back in Carloway were so keen to inculcate. Donald's drilling was shambolic and the sergeant major's patience was exhausted. Walking up to Donald,and standing a few feet in front of him,the drill sergeant uttered these words,which would often have been used on parade grounds the length and breadth of Britain."Macleod,You may have broken your mother's heart,but you won't break mine". The words were hardly out of the poor man's mouth,before he lay unconscious on the parade ground in front of hundreds of raw recruits. Donald had taken these words to heart,and had flattened the sergeant with one punch. Later,after some time in the "glass house",Donald was ordered to run round the perimeter of Fort George four times carrying full pack.Donald put this little contretemps behind him, to emerge from training a highly trained marksman. He was to perform as a sniper in many parts of France during the First World War.
In the late 1960s or early 1970s,Domhnull arrived back in Lewis after a lifetime "somewhere else". It seems that, during his long absence,he had spent these years in the merchant navy,choosing Cardiff in Wales as his home port.Donald must have been close to 70 years old when he came to stay with some relatives in Carloway. Donald was not an easy man,but for some reason he had loved Dalmore as a boy. My Uncle Norman,then living at 9 Dalmore with his wife Jessie, offered to put Donald up for "a week or so". In fact, he was to see out the rest of his days here in Dalmore in contentment,with people who cared for him.

Thistles and Peats - Very Big Jobs.

When we, Glasgow Highlanders(well,actually Renfrew Highlanders)travelled to Lewis on our long summer vacation,"a`dol dhachaidh"(going home)was what we believed. Given that only 8 weeks out of 52 were spent in Lewis,why did we look on this island of moor and heather as our "home",when in reality, the city,with its slickness and "otherworldliness",was where we were raised? It was,as they say,The Land of Our Fathers,and that is not something you can easily shake off.Being back home,we sort of metamorphosed into "little islanders" almost entirely. A well known saying in Lewis ,according to my Uncle Shonnie,was that "all play and no work is fine if you live in Stornoway". I never grasped this aphorism,and suspect he just invented it for us. These long summer days offered young hands many job opportunities,and on a croft at that time of year,work could be varied and interesting. Anyway, that's what Shonnie always maintained. Actually,he was correct,and being, even then the budding businessman,he always paid us an agreed rate for the job. Tending the cattle,for example,or helping with the harvest involved every member of the family from 9 years to 90. These were not looked upon as "jobs" by us. These were essential to the life of every crofting family. When my brother Donald and I had attained the "age of responsibility",my uncle,being the sole judge of when that was,would allocate us a large task,which,spending 3 or 4 hours per day on it,would take up a good part of the vacation. For this kind of "job",a price was agreed between my uncle and us. The tools of the job were always provided by the employer,my uncle. Two of these "Big Jobs" stick in my mind. My uncle had a half acre down by the machair which produced that year a bumper crop of hay,but unfortunately mixed in with the hay there was a bumper crop of thistles. He had scythed the hay and our Big Job was to remove all the nasty thistles,because cows and sheep are not too keen on them.But you couldn't fault Shonnie,even then, on health and safety grounds. He had purchased two pairs of huge leather/padded gloves,just for us,and these he presented to us in the middle of the thistle field. Our wee hearts sank at the enormity of the task,but ,as it happens(especially when you're young),we had lots of laughs,lots of sun and the gratitude of my uncle,when the job was done. But ,honestly,I can think of better ways of getting a laugh.
The biggest "Big Job" we were ever given was when I would be about 12 and Donald my brother was 15 years old. The peat which is burned in these island is a fossil fuel "half way" to being coal. It is cut,dried and stacked, and in these days(early 1950s)one needed a lorry to carry the peats home from the peat bogs,which might be a few miles distant. Over and above the cost of the lorry and driver,you would need perhaps 12-15 people to lend a hand for the day,providing lunch and dinner for them,and when it came to their turn "for the lorry",you were obliged to reciprocate by turning to,on that day. All in all,it could be a costly business! Now,if two willing souls were engaged and were provided with a good strong horse and a suitable cart,and if time was available,well,would that not save a lot of money,and provide two young men with the best ever opportunity of demonstrating the presbyterian work ethic.Shonnie had made extra high sides for the cart to eliminate "steidhich" ie. building the outside of the peat stack on the cart,using peats as interlocking "bricks" to hold a greater load. "Steidhich" was beyond us anyway(an art in itself),and all we required to do was to throw hundreds of peats into this voluminous cart,and Jimmy, our beautiful horse, would do the rest. Of course, this the biggest of the Big Jobs would have to be agreed upon,and an appropriate fee set through negotiation. Shonnie sent us outside to discuss a price for the job,and then to put it to him. Donald(aged15) suggested ten shillings(50p). "Are you crazy?", I(aged12) said."We are not doing it for anything less than a pound(100p)each.Donald's eyes lit up and suggested we return to the negogiating table immediately. I ,of course as head honcho, told Shonnie that we would not take on this project for anything less than £1. "Well,well" he said "you drive a hard bargain,but I agree - £1 each." I wondered many times afterwards why, in agreeing to our stiff terms,a faint smile played on his lips. It took many trips, many miles and many weeks before Jimmy,Donald and I got all the peats "home" to 5 Dalmore. The strange thing was that we each got a bonus of £9. Imagine!

Iain Shoudie. Dalmore's Doctor Dolitlle.

I would be sitting on the "being" (pron. baen-ke)in my uncles'house "suas a'leathad",as folks referred to Taigh Shoudie (Gael. up the slope). The "being" could be found in all black houses of this vintage. It was a long sturdy wooden bench that ran down half the length of the living room wall. It was where visitors on ceilidh would find a seat(6-8 persons).It was also where you would find two adults,toe-to-toe,enjoying a well earned "forty winks". Sitting on the end of the being nearest the door,the picture in front of me was one of warmth,mutual trust and happiness.You don't see a picture like this very often.On either side of the peat fire sat my uncles,one reading a book by the Tilley lamp,the other humming a pipe tune,his fingers playing an imaginary chanter. Lying or sitting in front of the fire,you would often see the three house cats, and Julia the "sheepdog". You might think that Julia was a strange name for a "Gaelic speaking" dog,and you would be right. To call Julia a sheepdog was truly a misnomer - she looked the part,but showed little aptitude in doing what was laid down in her genes. To be fair to Julia,a working dog usually has a name of one syllable( Sweep,Ben,Toss). Julia,with three syllables,would have been handicapped from the outset,other things being equal. Anyhow, Julia looked on herself as "cu`daonna"(a human dog). Sitting beside her pal Iain, was Kenny(Coinneach)Iceland,who would appear if the weather was rough or the rabbits scarce. He was a big grey tabby cat,whose boxer's nose and "moth-eaten" ears were testament to his past scrapes in the rabbit warrens.Iain would give him warm milk and bits of fish and would seat him in front of the fire,beside his leg. Iain would call his name "A' Choinneach!" and Kenny would respond with prolonged purring that simply said "Thanks". After a day or two,Kenny would leave and might not return again for some weeks. We called him Kenny Iceland,"the cat who came in from the cold" A good cat was Kenny! The second cat was Rupert(but always called Rupie),a thin black female with a splash of white on her nose,and four matching white "spogs"(Gael. paws). I like that word "spog" - more evocative than "paw". Stroking Rupie's back caused her to arch it in a high and unbelievable curve. She longed to talk and Iain knew what she was saying. The stories that Rupie and Iain shared - incredible! For those thinking that Rupert is not a familiar name in Gaeldom,I should point out that Iain Shoudie was wont to giving his animals strange and exotic names. The name "Rupert" came straight from the pages of the "Daily Express" newspaper,in which there was, at that time, a cartoon strip of "Rupert the Bear". The Boss,the "Springsteen"in this taigh dubh was a wee thin jet black feline called variously So-sally,Soho and Killy-soho. I have no idea in this case how she came by these names,or what inspired them. The other two cats and Julia had no problem with Soho as numero uno.She had been mother to many kittens in her time and was fiercely protective of them. She was unbelievably territorial,not merely in and around the house,but across the whole croft,and I do believe across the whole of this side of the village. If a dog,minding its own business,happened to walk past the gate at the bottom of the croft,Killy-Soho would take off,tail poker stiff in the air,and land on the poor dog, screaming and clawing like the legendary Kilkenny cat. This proved embarrassing if another villager,who was minded to gather in some sheep,saw his trophy dog disappear out the road at a rate of knots.
Iain Shoudie really did speak to the animals,and they to him. Iain loved to play around with words and names eg. water waffer or Bar Mars,and he had plenty of time to devote to his unique lexicon. He'd be looking into the flickering blue flame of the peat fire, smoking a roll-up,and mulling over a word or name. He would try all sorts of "variations on the same theme". To illustrate this,Julia the dog was rarely,if ever called by that name. She was always called "Stowlia"(pron. Stow(as in "vow")-li-a). Other variations,but on a different theme,were "Dullita" or "Gullita",but Stowlia was not so keen on these names,which sounded as if they had the ring of Johnnie Walker about them. I've seen Iain sitting on a bench outside,beside the pails of spring water,and calling "caora-caora" to a ewe and its lamb,beckoning them over to him(caora-caora means "sheep-sheep"). Granted,this was a bottle fed lamb of a previous year,and he was offering the ewe a piece of bread.The sheep would come right up to Iain accept the bread,give a little bleat,as if to say "It's OK,kid,this is an old friend of your mum".
Yes,Iain Shoudie was a bit of a Dolittle,with more than a touch of Peter Pan. Actually "Dolittle",when I think of it,was a very apt name for my uncle Iain Shoudie,but he was a tonic for many,and we would not have had him any other way.

Iain Mac Shoudie.

Iain Shoudie(Murdo's brother,and younger by two years),you will remember had sent his brother's paramour,back home to Breasclete,together with the calf. The war had ended,and no one would ever again come between the brothers,neither Hitler nor Hitler's wife. It could be quickly ascertained that Iain( John) was the dominant in this menage a`deux. The "big decisions" were always Iain's,and the "Red One" never demurred. Iain had a kind of savoir faire,which Murdo acknowledged. Iain was gregarious and possessed of a well-honed sense of humour."He had been around",and having served in the navy during the war,"had seen a bit of action".Murdo admired his younger brother,and was happy that he be the boss.
Iain could find the humour in most situations and run with it. He came up with sayings and composed ditties which others adopted. The taigh dubh,high up under the beinn,was a favoured house for ceilidh( Dwelly's dict."gossiping,visiting" ). There would always be tea,as black as Satan's waistcoat,some Dundee cake,"water waffers"(Jacob's Cream Crackers) or, if Iain had been rock fishing with the "slat"(long bamboo rod),there might be saithe, fried in the morning's bacon fat.This was excellent for dealing with the drams of whisky that were passed around. There were always people dropping in for a chat,and leaving with a smile on their face. Being a bachelor's house,it has to be said that, in the main, the visitors to Taigh Shoudie were men,but not exclusively.For many years their black house was the only one in Dalmore,and one of the last on the island. People from different countries(USA,France,Scandinavia,Germany),usually those who could afford the expensive ferry fare to the Hebrides,would pass through the village on their way to the well publicised beach at Dalmore. They couldn't help noticing the "authentic" black house with blue peat smoke licking the hillside. They were "just dying" to see inside the taigh dubh,and who could blame them. Murdo and John would always welcome these people who often showed their thanks in the form of a postcard,a letter or even a bottle or two, from various foreign parts.If it was entertainment you craved,then No.4 Dalmore was the taigh ceilidh,bar none. It is nearly 30 years since the roof fell in on the floor of taigh Shoudie,but people of a certain age, including myself,still remember that house with great affection.These were happy days. Iain had a way with animals which I'll mention in the next post.

The Wedding of Mary and George in Dalmore.

I would be about 6/7 years old (1947/1948),and my two month summer idyll was just beginning in Dalmore. There was going to be the grandest of weddings ever held in this village, at any time in the past. Problem was that my sweetheart,Mairi Long (Mary Macleod from Borriston)had decided to marry Seoras Dhomhnull Chalum (George Macleod from No. 8 Dalmore). I had mentioned to "my Mary" that consanguinity could be a problem,but she assured me that they came from different "branches" of the clan . There's a lot of Macleods in Lewis. My mother was a Macleod who married a Maclennan,and they were second cousins! I should have read the signs during previous summers as I watched the most beautiful stone house rising beside the old black house at No.8,under Seorais' supervision.The stone came from the hill above the house,transported downhill by horse and dry sled to be fashioned by the stonemasons.I can still picture perhaps half a dozen fires burning on the hillside and can still smell the sweet smell of peat smoke.They built those fires around the larger stones,where the heat and the deft use of a crowbar would split the stone along the desired line. Even back then,I realised that George had more to offer Mary, and so I gave them my blessing!
Mary and George were a popular couple in the district, and their wedding would be on the grand scale. The wedding in these days was a three day affair. Firstly there was the "village wedding"(Gael. banais a' bhaile),the following day,the wedding proper(in church,never a civil ceremony),and finally on day 3,the wedding honouring the relatives of both sides(Gael. banais na cairdean). Of course,the evening of the church wedding was a massive affair which could cater for hundreds of guests.A person would be sent out to issue an invitation to a whole village,simply by word of mouth. That person issued the invitation to those in the first house he came to,and the good news spread from there. It was possible that perhaps four or five villages would descend on Dalmore for the marriage of Mary and George. This was a form of "firey cross",with love taking the place of war. Another attractive custom was, that every house on the route between the wedding house and the church,flew a white flag(sheet,pillowcase) by the road. This was an emblem of purity,and not ,as some cynics suggested,one of surrender.
People attending the wedding would hand in a chicken,some would bring a wedder(near relatives or close friends). These gifts of food were essential if the multitudes were to be fed,and were usually handed over,a day or two in advance of the nuptial feasts. The chickens were dispatched by women sittng in the open - feathers plucked,gutted and washed ready for the large steaming cauldrons,placed here and there on the hillside. Men dealt with the sheep. A great many sittings were required to feed the large number of people,and the barn in the old house is where the bride and groom entertained their many guests. The barn was transformed into a long white "cocoon" with the stone walls and roof completely covered with white sheets. Lit by oil lamps and storm lanterns,it was a truly beautiful venue. Each sitting could accommodate perhaps 30 guests and Mary and George would be present at the top of the table. It was also the custom then for people to place money in front of the bride,perhaps a one pound note,which was a decent sum in 1947/48.
The guests would be served a tasty chicken broth,chicken and mutton with potatoes and some vegetables,and "pudding". Scones,pancakes and cake were then served with tea. A whisky and a glass of beer were given to all at the table to toast the newlyweds.There would be many more sittings and a great many more "drams" before the night would end. There would be music and dancing in another part of the old "taigh dubh",eased along with some barrels of ale, and whisky, that had escaped the wives' notice. Even some ministers were known to have a "wee sensation" on a night like this.
That was certainly a wedding to remember, and what passes now for a wedding, is but a pale imitation of one of the great Highland celebrations of the past.

Murdo in America.

Murdo was in America for a spell,but when, and how he got there I do not know. Isn't it strange that I can give the dates of my great-great uncle,John Macleod in America(1830s-1905),yet I cannot state,for sure,when my uncle Murdo was in the USA,but,from the stories I was told by him and others,it was around 1930.The people of the isles were well acquainted with emigration,and in the 1920s and 1930s,there were sizable emigrations from Lewis to Canada,USA and to a lesser extent Australia.Most of these young men and women would arrive in Canada.The men would work mainly on the prairie farms,the women would work in service,as maids. Ontario was where many of them finally settled. Others made their way across the Canadian/US border and found employment in Detroit's car industry.Others stuck to what they knew best and found themselves jobs in the sheep farms of Montana. A family from Carloway went to Patagonia in Argentina where the father managed a large sheep farm.When they finally returned,the children could only speak Spanish,but in a short time they were fluent in English(and Gaelic).A lot more Welsh people settled in Patagonia. I know that a cousin of my mother,who was established in a Ford plant in Detroit,had a job lined up for Murdo,"but you couldn't shift the bugger from his bed".Murdo was taken with the boxing scene in the States and I remember him mentioning the heavyweight boxers of that era - Primo Carnera,Max Baer and Jack Sharkey.This places Murdo in the USA in the early 1930s,the beginning of the Great Depression. I believe he got around in the railway boxcars,and I believe he saw Primo Carnera fight.I know he stayed in a working man's boarding house,when he couldn't pay for his lodgings. But the lady who owned the house "had a soft spot for Murdo" and would invite him to dinner by stating in front of all the other men,"Would Mr.Maclennan please sit up at the table?" I believe Murdo initially wrote home to his parents in Dalmore,and then for seven years no one on this side of the Atlantic heard anymore about him. One day,a gaunt figure was seen passing the houses in Dalmore,and someone said "I think that man is Murchadh Shoudie",more in disbelief.One can only guess how his rap at the door would affect his old parents.I think this would be around 1936-38,because Murdo was back in Lewis before the outbreak of the Second World War. I would guess that Murdo entered the USA in 1927/28. My father and his brother John were in the Royal Navy during the war,while Murdo was exempt,looking after the croft and his old parents,who both passed away during these war years. It seems that Murdo was seeing a lady from Breasclete and they were planning to marry.The lady was even bringing a calf,in way of a dowry, In 1945/46 when John was returning home after the war,someone button- holed him in Stornoway,and informed John of the forthcoming nuptials in Breasclete. John made haste over to Dalmore and told his older brother Murdo that there would no wedding,and the calf would be returning whence it came. Murdo meekly accepted the advice of his brother,and the two brothers lived happily ever after.

Murdo the Memory Man.

Murdo had received only a basic education at Carloway School,as he would often be called on to help with essential work on the croft. Despite this,he was competent in the 3Rs. He was however a voracious reader,which his "relaxed" lifestyle permitted. One would often find Murdo on a hard upright wooden chair,back to the dresser,right shoulder propped against the wall,warmed by the peat fire. Tiny round spectacles perched low down his nose,you were likely to see Murdo holding a weighty tome on history or a copy of "Ring Magazine" or "National Geographic". Despite his fragmented schooling,Murdo had an exceptional memory,which is identified as"eidetic" today. He was able to reproduce a clear image of any page he had read,be it pages on the Schmelling/Louis fight or the order of battle at Waterloo. I remember once discussing the Crimean War with Murdo and a friend of mine,an historian, and the conversation finally centred on the "Charge of the Light Brigade",with the decisions of Lords Raglan and Cardigan coming under scrutiny.Murdo asked my friend which officer had handed Captain Nolan the order to charge.Not knowing,Murdo supplied him with the answer. My friend was impressed. Although he was bald,Murdo had sported red hair in his youth,as had his mother before him. Some referred to him as "a fear ruadh",the "red one". I could never see my uncle Murdo as a young boy with or without his red hair,until my mother shared with me this story, which has two combatants - A nine year old Murdo and a married man of the district,whose relations with some other women were common knowledge. It was a winter's day with a good covering of snow on the ground,and Murdo and his pals were sledging down a hill,across the road and down the other side. As "Calla",the district lothario approached the "Cresta Run",wee Murdo took off at great speed downhill, only to collide with the unfortunate Calla,precipitating the man head-first into a deep snow drift. To say Calla was in a blue rage is an understatement,and the invective directed at young Murchadh Shoudie was equally as blue. Murdo wisely put some distance between himself and the abominable snowman and addressed him as follows.
"Calla.Calla magairlean iarunn" which translates as "Calla,Calla testicles of iron". Not bad for a wee 9 year old. Calla probably took some kudos from this remark, after his rage subsided. You might say that honours were shared that day.

Balaich Shoudie. Murchadh am Phost.

On the morning after our arrival in Dalmore,our first visit was always to our Maclennan uncles whose house nestled underneath the "beinn"(hill) on the other side of the valley,where in years past(you'll remember),a lady had been miraculously cured by midges.Murchadh and Iain Shoudie(Murdo and John) were my father Alasdair's two brothers,who lived happily in their blackhouse on No.4 Dalmore.Murdo was the eldest(b.1900),John(b.1902)and my father Alexander(Gael.Alasdair)(b.1904) - nicely spaced,don't you think? Alexander is a common Christian name found among Maclennans as far back as 1704 when the first of them arrived in Lewis to settle the tack of Little Bernera. My two uncles were bachelors,and were known far and wide as "Balaich Shoudie" (The Shoudie Boys). They took things very easy and work was only entered into when absolutely necessary. They did what they thought had to be done,and no more. They certainly were not ambitious,nor smitten with avarice, and in a way,were content to live as their people had in the past.They made no concessions to modernity,with the exception of the electric light. They had no power points in their home, and to be frank,there would never be any need for any electrical appliances or those shiny new white goods that others were so keen to have. They did cut their peats and so the fire was always there for a cup of tea or some fried bacon.When they got a radio(which they loved),it was powered by batteries. No need for "electricity" you see. When mains water finally arrived in the village,the workmen brought the water pipe all the way up to just outside their house and even fitted a tap. The "Boys" never used it, and continued to use the old spring well above the house,and which was by general consent the coldest,sweetest water you ever would taste. Murdo was employed for many years as the postman for Dalmore and its neighbour,Dalbeg. Each morning(Sunday except)Murdo would don his PO uniform and cap,and leaving the house about 7.00am,he would walk the mile out the Dalmore road to its end,where he'd be picked up by the Royal Mail van,travelling north through the various villages. In the 10 minutes it took to reach Dalbeg road end,Murdo would sort the mail for both villages and safely entrust these to his copious mail sack. Murdo had around 5 or 6 deliveries in Dalbeg,and leaving there, he skirted the beautiful little loch,full of water lilies and trout,before climbing the "Cleit" to reach the top of the hill. A thirty minute walk would see Murdo pass through very familiar territory. These were the hills,lochs and moors far behind his family home,which he knew and loved so well,where they kept their sheep and tended their cows.Murdo knew the name of every hill and lochan as old friends. He often would sit with his cattle by the side of Loch Dubh na Cleit of a summer's evening, smoking a Senior Service cigarette. About 8.45 am you would see Murchaid am Phost descend the hill into Dalmore. It must be remembered that Murdo didn't just deliver letters and parcels. Murdo passed on the news and gossip he had gleaned from the mail van driver(world news and weather!) but also from his "clients" in both villages.They would hear that one of their sheep was being held for its collection in a village on the other side of the island.Notice of births,deaths and marriages never needed an insertion in the newspaper. Murdo had a great memory and was up to speed on all the local news,and was rightly proud of his reputation. However,one morning when he entered our house,my mother,his sister-in law, asked if he had any news. Apart from giving the weather for that day,he said that he had no news. My mother who enjoyed a laugh,said "Well,Murdo,I have some news for you.Did you hear that the "Brandy" died last night in Shawbost?" Murdo dwelt on the information for a moment before replying "No,Annie,I didn't hear that,but didn't he have such a sweet,sweet name".

Dalmore's Own Delicatessan.

Along the way,there were some interesting variations to the diet,and some welcome treats. The Co-op van was good for a limited selection of fruit,usually oranges and bruised apples of a questionable age. Some sweets were on offer,but as long as we got our "Creamola foam"(the next best drink to Murray's mineral waters),then we were "well happy". When Iain Mor na Chnaimhan ( John Maciver,Detective Superintendent,Met.Police)was up in Dalmore on holiday with his parents at No.10,he went out fishing almost nightly on Loch Roag with his relatives from Doune. They seemed to catch a lot of large crabs,in addition to the fish. For all I know, they might have set some baited pots on the way out.Being a close friend of my mother,he would arrive in our house with a bag of giant crabs' claws. Our favourite way of cooking these was to turn a burning peat over to expose the red-hot surface,placing a couple of claws on top,and allowing them to cook in their own juices. Removing them with the "clobha" (fireside tongs),and cracking open the shells,the juicy white crab meat was food "fit for the gods". Even today,I prefer crab to lobster,not that I'm often put to the test.
We had an aunt(through marriage)who was often ill, and of a delicate constitution,and we were made aware that she required a special diet of white meat and fish. Fish was no problem at this time of year,but chickens were not for eating,chickens were for laying. My Uncle Shonnie was resourceful and bought a ferret which we learned to use to catch rabbits on the grassy slopes overlooking the beach.In quarter of an hour,we could easily trap 6-8 rabbits,which my mother would gut and skin, and these with a few chopped onions gave a delicate sweet stew.
An unusual happening was what the locals called "a road".This was an extremely low tide,where the sun and moon conspired to pull the seas away from the land. With the seas so far out,we could access whole areas of the beach and the rocks for some "fruits de mer". Mussels,limpets and red dulse were collected,but the harvesting of sandeels was our main priority. A sandeel is actually a fish,silver bodied.long and thin with a pointed head,which it uses to burrow down into the sand at the approach of danger. In the beautiful photos of puffins,it is sandeels you see arranged along their beaks. We used a sickle to catch the sandeels.The sickle would be drawn through the wet sand at a depth of 3-6 inches,and when resistance was met,you thrust your hand down,fingers down,palm open and grabbed the fish. We would fill a couple of buckets of fish in this way,and great sport it seemed to us. The "road" would last 3/4 days. A very tasty fish soup was made with milk,onion and a small bit of butter - as good as any you might taste on the Brittany coast.

Grey Soup,Scones and the "Striolla"

The big feast of the week was Sunday Lunch and fish,eggs and porridge were off menu that day,porridge, because the great big pot it was made in,was needed to make the soup on the Sunday. This black caste-iron pot was huge and hung from what we called a "striolla"(Sp?). This was a stout chain attached to a transverse metal bar which had been embedded half way up the chimney,probably from day one. Into this pot went water(of course),2 pounds of salt mutton,an equal amount of fresh mutton,pearl barley,onions and green cabbage(if available). Some flour was added later to thicken the soup a little. It has to be said that the large piece of dry salt meat was steeped in water overnight to remove some of the salt. We city lads christened the resulting potage "Grey Soup". The meats were placed on a large salver,the soup was ladled onto plates,and a large terrine of "first crop" potatoes took centre stage on the table. Apart from the soup spoons,there was no need for cutlery here. Who could ever forget the flavour of the meats,the wonderful taste of that soup,and the freshness of the Kerr's Pinks? This was truly "a finger-lickin'" feast; after all,it was only our fingers we used.
One cannot talk of food here without mentioning the Stornoway bread,to be exact their "plain loaf". This was(and still is)a tall white loaf of exquisite taste whose crust,top and bottom,is best kept to the last. Even after 2 or 3 days it's as flavoursome as ever. My favourite is still a thick slice of this loaf,buttered and crowned with a grilled slice of black pudding.
Every afternoon,when the lunch dishes were washed and put away, my mother and Aunt Dolly would set up the large baking board on the table. I remember that the board had "gates" at each of the four corners through which the flour could be brushed out. The brush was a bunch of seagull feathers tied with some Harris wool. The brush was used also to wipe clean the girdle(griddle). Mother made the scones and Aunt Dolly the oatcakes - and I can still taste them,but sadly only in my memory. Occasionally we were treated to pancakes.
One might understandably think that I have a fixation on the foods of a bygone age,but not so. I only want to put on record the food the people ate and how they prepared it. This was 60 years ago and in only a few years the blackhouses were abandoned,overtaken by modernity. The way of life over hundreds of years would change,but this was to exact a high price within the Lewis communities.

The Milky Way To Heavenly Delights.

My aunts had various enamel pails and basins used only for handling milk ,and these were kept scrupulously clean,and out of reach of children and animals. The various basins were kept in a tall,deep cupboard in the coolest part of the house,which we called the "closet". In the different basins,you would find milk undergoing all the stages of change,giving us single,then double cream( cream - "barr" or ""uachdar" )and finally resulting in large basins of natural yoghurt,thick and sour(we called this "bainne tiugh" - thick milk). Slabs of "bainne tiugh" would be lifted from the basin using a saucer,and we would have a bowl of this with salt herring and potatoes. Another way of taking this thick milk,was as "lamb's feed",where a handful of oatmeal was added and the whole thing stirred vigourously with a fork. Bainne tiugh was delicious any old way,except with porridge,of course. Most of the thick milk was boiled in a large pot over the peat fire,giving curds("gruth") and whey. The curds could be used to make cheese,but not in my time. We were a little modern now,and got our cheese from the Co-op van. The cream was sometimes used to make butter,in a plunger- type churn. Some of it was preserved with the ubiquitous salt. It was fine if you did not mind crunching through large rock salt crystals. But the crowdie(curds) was mixed with the blend of creams to give the ever popular "gruth agus barr". Crowdie and cream spread thickly on buttered bread or on a fresh girdle scone - Heaven ! So,you can see just how important the cows were to us,especially Daisy,our beautiful,brown and white Ayrshire. Here endeth the lesson on "Milk".

On Homely Fare We Dined.

As for meat,it was exclusively mutton we ate, fresh or salted. Lamb, being under one year old was never slaughtered, since there would a better return as a ewe,ram or wether(or wedder). The young tups were castrated to give us the wedders which provided us with the meat. Lewis mutton has a distinctively sweet taste,which,they say,is due to the young heather shoots they eat amongst the grass. The carcass is cut up into manageable size pieces for salting. The intestines are used to make "maragan" (like a sausage,but no meat)whose contents are oatmeal,mutton fat and onion. These are forced into the intestine to give the white puddings,so called in the rest of Britain. "Marag gheal" we called them(geal - white). If sheep's blood is added to the mix,we get the famous black pudding (marag dubh),which has for many years been exported far and wide by two Stornoway butchers. Sheep's head and trotters,I saw prepared only once. It is time consuming as all of the wool has to burnt off,using red-hot irons. A soup is made with these and the flesh on the cheeks is most tender. My mother said that it was very popular in the exclusive gentlemen's club where she worked in Glasgow. Eggs we had in abundance. They would,I believe, qualify today as "organic" eggs,as the hens and cockerel were free to roam in the fields at will. They ate only seed corn,cold cooked potato and any porridge left over from morning. The empty egg-shells were never discarded,and these were crushed and added to their feed. They were happy hens! The eggs had shells as hard as porcelain.
Milk was very important in the Lewis home,and because of the numbers in the family home during school holidays,there were always two milking cows,usually Ayrshires. Hand milking is an art,and cows appreciate the gentle touch . Their response is seen in a greater milk yield. Cattle in Lewis were not tuberculin tested until 1951,and the milk was never pasteurised while it was a "cottage industry". Two large white enamelled pails would arrive full of milk on the kitchen table,and my aunts and my mother were transformed into three experienced dairy maids. The "cop" (foam) was removed and offered to our three demented cats. Fancy got some hot milk in her bowl,as we did(but at the table,of course). A bowl of warm milk straight from the cow - just what the doctor ordered. When I was tested for tuberculosis years later in school,the scratch resulted in a reaction the size of an old penny. I wonder why ! We liked it then,but I cannot abide hot milk now. No latte nor cafe au lait - just strong and black for me. Believe me,there's much more to say about milk. We'll do more on milk in the next blog - fresh milk,sour milk,thick milk,single cream,double cream,crowdie(curds)and butter.I did say that milk was important in the Lewis home.

Herring,Haddock - Haute Cuisine.

It may not have been fancy-nancy cooking,but the food we had in Dalmore,as in other parts of Lewis,was tasty and nourishing. This was "organic food",50 years before the word "organic" came into common parlance. What carries that label now is a pale imitation of the foods we enjoyed back then . People were strong, and healthy and fit for quite demanding physical work, men and women alike. Then,no one had an allergy to food,except for me and the cats with porridge. Apart from certain essentials,everything which was consumed on the croft came from the croft, or from "the town" (Stornoway). Salt(rock salt crystals)was a very important item, and like flour and oatmeal it came in large sacks. Without electricity,there was no refrigeration,and the only recourse to preserving fresh food was salting(curing)or smoking (kippering). When, for example,a lot of fish had been caught,you would have fresh fish(boiled or fried) three times daily,then the remainder of the "catch" would be salted in large wooden tubs for a couple of days,and then dried indoors near the fire,or in sunny weather,draped over the fence outside the house,with someone sitting seagull watch. Fancy was a keen birdwatcher,but we would turn a blind eye to Phylax,or her kittens pinching a wee haddie. The fish(haddock was favourite) could then be stored dry,and could be boiled at a later date,and ,believe me,you would think you were eating a fresh haddock,albeit slightly salty. When we went fishing on my Uncle Shonnie's boat,there were plenty of fish in the seas then,and we could expect to catch a large variety,including haddock,whiting,mackerel,saith,sole,skate,gurnard and dogfish(rock salmon).We will go fishing another time !
But the main source of Omega 3( 'twas exuding from every pore)was the herring,referred to in song as the "Silver Darlings". The herring,of course,was caught well out to sea and unloaded at Stornoway,then a famous herring port. The herring was gutted,washed and packed into large wooden barrels,with alternate layers of herring and rock salt.After a time the herring would settle,and this allowed a few more layers to be added before the lid was secured. Too little salt caused the herring to "rust", where the salt had not reached the backbone. This was a terrible waste of good fish,and all for the sake of a few shillings worth of salt. "Glass", my grandfather,cured his own herring. He and another man would go over with his horse and cart to meet the herring fleet arriving in Stornoway in the "wee sma'hours" (a 50 mile round trip). They purchased a cart load of fish and cured the herring themselves. My grandpa's "sgadan sailte" was the sweetest you would ever taste.
My mother told me of a beauty contest organised by Neptune, King of the Seas, eons ago,in which " all the beautiful fish" were entered.After various eliminating rounds,the contest came down to one between the silver herring(A'Sgadan) and the beautiful sole, with its bright red spots on top,and its pure white skin on the underside.The sole expected to win,but when Neptune named the Herring the "Queen of the Seas",the sole, in bad grace and with utter contempt for the verdict exclaimed "A' Sgadan"(The Herring),twisting her mouth to emphasise her disgust.In that instant,her mouth froze in a terrible rictus,twisted for all eternity.

Shelley. Always good to hear from you !

Ever Seen Porridge in a Drawer?

In most houses in Lewis at that time,there was no need to second guess what was for "brekkers". There was no grapefruit,orange juice,toast,marmalade. Yes,you've got it - porridge - a massive cauldron of the stuff which everyone enjoyed - man,woman child,dog and even the hens. There were two exceptions to the porridge fan club, me and our discerning felines. We could not stomach the stuff,and personally I could not even bear to watch it being consumed. The cats and I had negotiated ourselves out of the porridge contract,and instead, this likely lad was offered a large triangular girdle scone,topped with crowdie and cream. The cats purred over their milk or cream. It was tough going. I used to think that "Philax the Piseag" gave me a knowing wink.( piseag - kitten,young cat )
Before anyone,including the tourist,starts asserting how wonderful is porridge( or porage if you wear a kilt up a ladder ),let me tell you that "lite" (pronouced "leet-ch")as it is called in Gaelic is made from rough oatmeal,and it comes in very large hessian sacks,with the mill's name front and back.
Making "real" porridge is an art,I'm told - blending the raw oatmeal with the hot water,deft use of the spurtle and knowing how much salt to add. All I took in was when the large ladle of spluttering porridge hit the soup plate(no fancy porridge bowls here),there was an immediate phase change from liquid to solid state. Instantaneous,amazing,solid but wobbly "homely fare". Because it is solid,every porridge aficionado must, with their spoon, excavate a hole in the middle of this mass. From here on in, the variety of fillers used would amaze you,or turn you green. I have seen porridge with treacle,golden syrup,fresh milk,thick sour milk and cream,but never sugar.
When people,in times past,were strictly sabbatarian,even preparing food on the Lord's Day was looked on as work,which went against the Commandment forbidding man,oxen and asses from any work at all on that day. So a large batch of porridge would be prepared on the Saturday evening and poured into the "porridge drawer" in the dresser. After church,three times on Sunday,you would be given a large slab of cold porridge,with treacle,if that was your thing. The cats and I might have had a wee problem, in these "good old days".

Harris Tweed Blankets and a Beautiful Beach.

Try moving your body or a wee pair of legs with as many as as six Harris Tweed blankets on top of you. That was the norm in the "black house bed",no sheets or fancy bed cover, but thankfully we had pillows with pillow cases as the feathers from long departed hens would have been too much to bear. Whatever position you finally adopted under the blankets(and that wasn't easy),that was you for the duration.The formula used in calculating the number of blankets was conceived over many years and reflected the ambient temperatures. This was summer, so God knows how one survived the weight of the winter issue. Still,it was cosy,even though you were immobilised for up to eight hours. When you managed to extricate yourself from the bed in the morning,you were not entirely free from the rough feel of the "Harris". There was the Harris guernsey and the Harris stockings,standard issue with wellies on the occasional rainy day(occasional? - am using a bit of licence here). A quick cup of tea and a scone and butter and we were "out with the cows",which consisted of two milking cows and a heifer. Taking them up and over two hills to the best pastures,they were watered at the allt(stream) and led through two gated fences and down to the Gearraidh. "Fancy",our collie,was good at keeping the cattle on the move. With the cows contentedly grazing,we would leave them to roam freely and would not see them again until the evening hours. For us(my older brother Donald would be with me) and of course our "faithful tyke" Fancy,it was over the cliff paths to the beautiful beach at Dalmore Bay. This was the most special place on earth for two little city lads like us. Here was half a mile of golden sand,an azure blue sea and white rollers crashing against the beach. It was so wonderful here with not another soul in sight. Fancy loved to circle us at speed,and finally to head straight at us,but always evading our grasp by inches .She could keep this up "for ever",or until we started hectically digging for imaginary rabbits on the beach with our hands. Fancy would join in,this being an acknowledged skill of coastal collies. Within a short time,she would disappear into a deep hole from which sand was being furiously expelled.At times,her wee face would appear above the parapet,totally covered in sand,to check if we had caught a rabbit. At last,it was time for breakfast. After all, it was two hours since I had that scone.

Grandpa Glass Takes The Book.

At that age(perhaps 7/8 years),I slept in the same bed as my grandad(we called him "Grandpa"),with him on the outside of the bed,and me at his back.beside the wall.My grandpa was a good man,an elder of the church(when it meant something)and a Christian in thought and deed.He was wise,and yet a tolerant man.He was no "Holy Wullie"Fisher,as portrayed by Burns,but walked quietly with his Lord.As in Burns' "A Cotter's Saturday Night","The Book would be taken" every night before retiring.Grandpa would select and read a passage from the large Gaelic Bible,after which everyone went down on their knees for prayer,again led by Old Glass.It was not required of the adults to retire at this hour,but this wee soul dutifully followed his gramps "up to the room" for bed.The heavyweight religious session was only just beginning for me as Grandpa's private prayers,whispered but still audible,could last another 20 to 30 minutes.I did not mind,as the language of prayer is not what one hears in every day Gaelic about the house.I enjoyed listening to Grandpa whose only language was A'Ghaidhlig,the first language of the Garden of Eden. His prayer was replete with words like "Tighearna","mathanas","anam"(Lord,forgiveness,soul)which took me some time to fathom.In my papa's time they received their education wholly in Gaelic,and they only attended school in Carloway when they were not needed at home,on the croft. Still, he was able to read and write with ease. In my mother's time at school,children were taught only in English,and their native tongue,Gaelic,was wholly proscribed.If a pupil was caught speaking Gaelic,even outside in the playground.they were given "the strap" with the leather "Lochgelly".My mother greatly resented not being taught her own language along with English.There is now a bilingual approach to teaching in Highland schools.
Note.1. The only English my grandad claimed to know,and which he used to call bedtime was "Clear lower decks",heard no doubt at sea.
Note.2.The "room" in a black house was built slightly above the level of the kitchen/living room and was the "grandest" of rooms.Ours was frankly like a large bedroom you would find in the city.There were two double beds,end to end,a large double wardrobe,with mirrors which contained every one's Sunday best,and dozens of mothballs.The walls were covered in a very pretty paper,the floor in linoleum,with a scattering of "rugs"(actually the cured skins of young calves).A beautiful settee and various basket chairs completed our boudoir.There were lace curtains on the only true window to be found in any black house.The only ones who might peek through the window were the hens,from next door.

In The Bosom of Our People

As we left the bus,and headed over the"stairean" (path from road to house),they were all there,with their arms extended ready to wrap you in their embrace.My grandfather,Donald Macleod (Glass),now nearly 90 years gave me a big hug and a kiss and none of this two cheek caper.His navy blue crew necked sweater smelled of wool oil,herring and peat smoke - magnificent! He was the image of the old king,George the Fifth, as any coin of the realm might bear witness.His bald pate and neatly trimmed white beard bore a very strong resemblance to the old king.My Auntie Peggy and Auntie Dolly were there to smother us in hugs and kisses,and I swear that our lovely collie,Fancy,got in on the act.The two cats and the kitten sat at the doorway in no way exercised by our arrival,waiting for their tin plate of hot milk,straight from the cows. Inside everything was as I imagined it to be,cosy,clean and warm.My aunts kept what was recognised as the most beautiful "black house" in the district.It was more like one these old English cottages you see on calenders.The white-washed stacks on either side of the peat burning fire supported a couple of kettles brimming with hot water. The two large dressers displayed colourful table-ware,sailing boats in bottles,a highly polished Howitzer shell case and various photographs.A long bench lay opposite,running about two-thirds of the length of the room and the bed my aunts occupied was located at the top.Placed centrally in the room and directly below a large Tilley lamp was the "kitchen table",a huge rectangular affair which I once saw accommodate 17 people for lunch.Various chairs,chests and stools made up the rest of the furniture.There were "wally dugs" and Chinese bowls on the mantlepiece, and above one of the dressers, a beautiful brass timepiece enclosed in its polished wooden case.Only Old Bodach Glass saw to the clock,and no one else.
After a supper of girdle scones,crowdie and cream,fresh milk and perhaps pancakes and rhubarb jam,we were ready for bed.Tomorrow would be the beginning of something new.

The Magaran's Bus.

In the late evening of a glorious summer's day,as the sun sets over the west coast of Lewis,you will witness the most wonderful sight anywhere on earth. The sky and sea glow in shades of gold,orange,yellow and red,throwing the hills and islands into dark relief. There is a beautiful Gaelic saying which does real credit to such a Hebredian sunset. Seeing,let me assure you,is believing
As we passed through the villages in the Magaran's bus(a step up from a charabanc),we drank in the sights of home.The "feannagan" of corn,potatoes and hay could be seen running away from the road into the middle distance. Two points of information. 1. A schoolmistress asked me if the "Magaran" was the name of the bus.No,the "Magaran" was the nickname of the driver of the bus. Remember everyone from here needs his/her unique name as there may be 30 Macleods in just a few houses.
2. A "feannag" is a long narrow strip of cultivated land,with drainage trenches dug along the sides. Edward Dwelly,an ENGLISHMAN,in 1901 published the most complete dictionary of Gaelic in existence.He says that the term "lazybed" applied to "feannag" in English "is merely a southern odium on the system of farming in Gaeldom,where soil was scarce,and where bog-land could not be cultivated in any other way".Well said,Mr.Dwelly ! The bus would slow as we passed cows on their way home for milking. The lambs could be heard answering the call of their mothers.As that large orange sphere sank towards the horizon,we would see here and there the warm yellow light through the windows of some houses.The favoured source of light was the "Tilley Lamp",which came in all shapes and sizes. There were still in these years(late 1940s) a good number of the traditional "black houses",long, low and thatched. With walls six feet thick,and built without mortar from local stone,these were the houses that sheltered the people and their animals for centuries,but which were slowly giving way to the "taigh geal",the "white houses".
Coming along the road at the back of Dalmore,my mother,called"The Commander" but never to her face,would start negotiating with her erstwhile school chum,the Magaran, about taking the bus the one mile into Dalmore with herself, "her exhausted wee bairns" and some very heavy Kellogg's Cornflakes boxes."Annie,this is not the approved route,and it's more than my job's worth".This was where the half-crowns would make their last appearance of the journey.I knew that even without the "tip", the Magaran was going to pull his bus off the Carloway road and head into Dalmore,God's Little Acre.

Home At Last In Lewis,The Island Of Heather.

I should have mentioned that on the train journey north,quite a few people alighted at Glenfinnan Station,on their forward journey to Ardnamurchan ,to villages like Acharchle,Kilchoan and Strontian. Acharchle,means "the field of Haakon",where the Vikings were engaged in a large battle. Strontian gave its name to the chemical element strontium,first isolated in an ore found there. It was a beautiful sight to see the steamer down on Loch Shiel,tied up to the pier at the head of the loch. It awaited the passengers off the train. The romantics will know that it was at Glenfinnan that Charles Edward Stuart raised the Jacobite standard in the ill-fated rebellion of 1745-46. The voyage on the Loch Nevis was the last leg of a long,exhausting journey that began at 5.00 am and would end around 10.00 pm that same day - like a day's journey with the Israelites of yore. A good hour or more out of Kyle of Lochalsh,you would hear the ship's engines coming to a halt. Looking down over the starboard side of the ship,you would see a large boat manned by 4 to 6 strong men on the oars pulling alongside a hatch on our ship's side. This was the boat to meet passengers and cargo bound for Applecross(usually no more than 3/4 people and some goods from Glasgow). When I was young,the minister of the Gaelic Church in Partick,Glasgow was the Reverend Kenneth Gillies,a fine gentleman,and he was from Applecross. He officiated at my parents'wedding and at mine. I always wanted to visit Applecross,and this year I managed it, over that crazy zig-zag road which must be an old drove road. The crest is called "Bealach na Bo"( the pass of the cows). This was an unforgetable journey to an area of outstanding beauty. How the English sounding name Applecross came about,I've always found strange,when its proper name,in Gaelic of course,is "Am Chomraich" which means "sanctuary", altogether more apt than that other curious appelation,Applecross.
A few miles out from Stornoway,the poor people in the saloon would have heard that their travails were nearly over,and began to ready themselves and their children for disembarkation. Those on deck,even this far out,would smell the wonderful "reek" of the peat fires of the town,because in the late 1940s,even the "townies" had their peat cuttings on the bogs outside Stornoway. Sailing into Stornoway harbour,our excitement was palpable. We were "home",or very nearly so. The dockers helping us down the gangway all spoke to us in Gaelic, and appeared to me at any rate, as tall, strong and very weather beaten(but certainly not tanned). They all looked like elders of the Free Church,and probably were. Carrying our luggage and ourselves onto South Beach Street,we would be confronted with more buses than one would normally see in Lewis standing side by side, each with a different destination,but each spelling "home" for some of those from the "steamer". The names of the destinations on the front of each bus had a magic ring to them - Lemreway,Ness,Bernera,Lochs,Portnaguran,Harris,Uig and on and on. We quickly found our bus,the one for Carloway via Barvas and Shawbost and points west. As usual,our driver was "The Magaran",who had been through Carloway school in the same class as my mother. Contacts are important,even in Carloway,and a couple of half-crowns can, even here, make a hell of a difference.

Going Home. An Arduous Affair.

The evening before going "home" to Lewis,our house in Renfrew was a hive of activity - suitcases and cardboard boxes being packed and secured with nearly every stitch of clothing we had. When I say suitcases,I shouldn't use the plural. We only had the one,a large case that belonged to my father from his days in the navy. People from Goathill or Matheson Road had suitcases,we used large cardboard boxes with "Kelloggs" imprinted all over. Ah,but were they not expertly tied with special rope,using special knots by a very special seaman and helmsman,my dad,Big Alex Maclennan RNR? Walter Johnston's taxi (a beautiful black Humber Super Snipe)transported mum and the boys,the single suitcase and various massive boxes to Queen Street Station to connect with the 6.00am train(two steam engines pulling) to Mallaig,opposite the Isle of Skye.Known to this day as the West Highland Line,it has been voted one of the great train journeys in the world.The stations we stopped at,or passed through still evoke wonderful memories - Craigendoran,Arrochar,Rannoch,Carrour Junction,Spean Bridge,Glenfinnan Lochailort and Morar.The scenery was,and still is stupendous.The train crawled slowly through Lochailort,and I can still see in my mind's eye the exquisite display of rhododendrons of every hue which assailed my senses.At the port of Mallaig,my brother,Donald or me would be sent flying down the long platform to engage a porter with an enormous barrow. The promise of a couple of half-crowns saw us and our baggage on board the first of two ships we would take on our long sea voyage to Stornoway in the Isle of Lewis. If Lochailort assailed your senses,then Mallaig had an all too different effect.This thriving port was full of different sounds and smells - the raucous cry of thousands of gulls circling above or fighting for fish spilled from a creel,the shouts from seamen and fishermen and the overpowering smell of herring being unloaded from the many trawlers,and the smell from the kippering sheds across the way. The two vessels on these routes at that time were the "Loch Ness" and the "Loch Nevis",and in the absence of stabilisers,you were in for a rough ride.The "Loch Ness" was the first vessel(we called them "steamers"),taking us as far as Kyle of Lochalsh, where, to those travelling further on,the whole rigmarole of securing a porter,moving luggage and passengers had to be repeated all over again. Boarding the "Loch Nevis" for passage to Stornoway was always an unpredictable journey,as this stretch of water,called The Minch,could serve up very rough seas.
Mal de mer has never afflicted me,but if you were susceptible, The Minch and the "Loch Nevis" were sure to leave you prostrate on the saloon floor."Saloon" was a gross misnomer.This saloon was a floating vomitorium,and was equipped as such with a suspiciously large number of receptacles.The plight of mothers and children was heart breaking,the whole atmosphere was fetid and rancid,and the only way to avoid a similar fate was to drag yourself from this charnel house and make your way to the windy top deck.I always stood or sat amidships on the top deck,directly behind the funnel,where the roll of the ship was least. It could be cold but it was still preferable to the "saloon".Even on a moderately calm crossing,the ship still rolled and sea sickness claimed many passengers. It was a frightful journey and it would be some time before this ship reached Stornoway.

Highland Toffee and Baseball Boots

After the Second War ended in 1945,almost everything except carrots was severely rationed and required the appropriate coupon(s) to accompany the money.Even with enough money,a pair of trousers would use up a family's clothing allowance for months ahead.What naturally excercised me was my weekly sweetie allowance,which ran to a bar of MaCowan's Highland Toffee,every Saturday.One of the few things that eased the strictures of rationing was the large war surplus which helped to clothe me and a million other kids.The Royal Navy had zillions of navy blue balaclavas in surplus (no other colour),and all the wee Renfrew boys and some extrovert girls scoured the streets like a band of tiny bank robbers.A brilliant thing my mother bought me was a First War cavalryman's cape.It buttoned right up to your chin,had side pockets which allowed access to the Highland Toffee,and it happened also to keep out the wind and rain.With the balaclava pulled right down and the cape buttoned right up,I stood out in the school playground as some one to be reckoned with.Later still came the US surplus bonanza especially the US flying jackets,leather outside,wool inside and zip fasteners everywhere.I had never seen a zip until then.That jacket would be worth a bit today.To go along with that,there was the leather pilot's helmet.We were in our glory ! I used to tell my children about this pilot gear and that their Uncle Donald even had the goggles which he wore to school.I never disabused them of this until they were in their twenties.
Irrespective of other received knowledge,for my mother(and by association her children),summer began on the 1st of June each year and there was no discussion.It must have been an old Lewis ceremony like Beltane,when the sun first appeared over the moors.This notion was reinforced by our old neighbour in the close(tenement building),Old Bodach Goodfellow, who advised my mother thus."Annie,remember.Ne'er cast a cloot till May be oot".For us,the boys,June the First was a red-letter day,not the Queen's Birthday nor Battle of Britain Day.Still, my mother held to this adage till the dying hours of May the 31st.You see,on that June morning we laid aside the tackity boots,the wellies.the semmit and our vast array of Harris jumpers.On went the Sloppy Joe(T-shirt) and the baseball boots or black sandshoes.We became proxy Yanks in the land of the free.We could now run faster and jump higher than before,and that's probably why sports days in Renfrew were held in June.
June was my favourite month,because better was still to come.From the first day of July a grand migration of the Gaelic speaking exiles got underway.Whole families packed their things and returned "home" for the duration of the summer vacation.The Gaels and their offspring left the towns and cities for their Hebridean villages,in many ways like the wild Atlantic salmon making their way back to the river where they were born.And I would be part of this great exodus.

PS. I hope that Shelley in Boston can understand "English" words like "cloot","semmit"and "wellies" !

Not Just Any Old Blogger

One would have to agree that the word "blog" is a most unattractive neologism.Some would say "A neologism is an even less attractive word".The computer literate tell me that "blog" is an abbreviation for "weblog".So why did they feel they had to abbreviate "weblog" ? It sounds better - more technical ! Anyhow,as a Johnney come lately to webs and blogs,I am truthfully very grateful to Google and its blog for allowing me to record the history and stories of Dalmore,insofar as they were told to me, or which I researched myself.Much of the material was recorded over many years on various bits of paper or documents were photocopied,especially where names or dates might be lost.Many of the stories were passed on to me by people who were the "seanachean" during my youth,those skilled in retelling tales of the past.I was an eager listener and fortunately my memory was good.I was getting increasingly afraid that the large plastic bag at the bottom of my wardrobe would never see the light of day,and if it did,few would have been able to sort out this very mixed "bag" of notes.I know that I was the only person left who knew the history of Dalmore,and I did not want it to die with me.So God bless the "blog" and God bless my son,Alasdair,for making his dad into a blogger.
Future articles will record my experiences as a boy/youth when I went "home" to Lewis,during my long summer holidays from school in the city (Renfrew was a city to me ! ).

John Macleod - How The West Was Won.

My great great uncle,John Macleod,arrived in Quebec Province in 1837,aged 22 years,and found employment with the Hudson Bay Company,as many emigres from Scotland had,and would do so in the future.He was put in charge of all the company boats plying the southern Hudson Bay,which for a Leodhasach was second nature.The Company had plans to establish a presence west of the Rocky Mountains,where others,including the Russians were already involved in the fur trade.John and two other employees of the Hudson Bay Company were chosen to "go west" and establish the company's presence on the Pacific Coast.Men like these who undertook massive journeys into the unknown, fraught with hardships and danger,would be immortalised on the silver screen as heroes and pioneers of the "West".
They chose their own route westwards,and where possible used their small light canoes to carry them and their packs to the foothills of the Rockies.Here they had to abandon the canoes,and the party started across the high mountains on foot,with no beaten trail to guide them.They eventually reached the shores of the great Columbia River on the western side of the Rockies,and here they built boats strong enough to navigate this powerful river.
The 1838 trip,at least the portion down the Columbia River,is well documented in Hudson Bay Co. papers and correspondence,and by the accounts written by the first two Catholic priests to arrive in the Pacific Northwest.The two priests were travelling in the same group as John Macleod,at least from Boat Encampment,the first station west of the Rockies,where they started down the Columbia River.At a notoriously dangerous stretch of the Columbia called the "Dalles of the Dead",their boat capsized with a total of 26 on board,17 men,3 women and 6 small children.12 people were lost and only 3 bodies of children were recovered for burial.The priests had gone ahead in the first group,with two boats.Then one boat had been sent back from Upper Arrow Lake for the rest of the people and supplies.It was clearly overloaded when it was wrecked,and of those saved,most could not swim,including John Macleod who held on to pieces of flotsom.Those who tried to swim were carried to their deaths in the vicious currents.There were two English botanists on board,both of whom drowned.The wife of one of them,Maria(Simpson)Wallace,half-Indian,was reputed to be the daughter of the Governor,Sir George Wallace.She also drowned.
For John Macleod and the others the remainder of their journey was one of self denial and hardship.When he arrived in what is now the great city of Vancouver,the only evidence of humanity which John could see was a small Russian trading post.He went to Fort Nisqually and worked on a boat called the "Beaver" for the Hudson Bay Co. This boat plied between Fort Nisqually and Sitka, the Russian trading post,the future Vancouver.
John married a native Indian woman of high status in the early 1840s.My mother used to say that her great-uncle married a "Red Indian Squaw".She was a lady named Claquodote,the daughter of Chief Scanewah,who was chief of the Cowlitz Indians,their name derived from the river of that name.They only had one child,a daughter named Catherine.In 1849,John left for California to make his fortune in the so-called "Gold Rush" - a Lewis Miner 49er.He stayed for two years,but there would be no fortune.When John came back to Fort Nisqually,he was surprised to find that Claquodote,his erstwhile wife was now wedded to a man of her own tribe.Scanewah,the chief and her father, had decided that Macleod would not be coming back.Anyway,who's going to argue with the Chief? So John picked another Cowlitz "gal".During the early 1850s,when the "Indian Outbreak" occured,John was suspected by government soldiers of aiding the Indians,and was kept in prison for several months.Later in time,Claquodote's husband died,and as if it were fated,John's second wife died.John married his beloved Claquodote and they were together until she died in 1889.
His only child,Catherine, married one Daniel Mounts and together they had a large family.John died in 1905,a few days short of his 90th birthday,and is buried in the Masonic Cemetery at Stellacoom,near Tacoma,Washington State.There were obituaries of John in all the newspapers of the area."one of the earliest pioneers","one of the oldest white people in Washington","he preceeded civilisation" are some of the more colourful aphorisms.
Although John never returned to Lewis,he sent many letters home to Garenin,and each year sent £10 to each of his brothers and sisters,a considerable amount in these days.

John Macleod. Glass's uncle leaves for America.

John Macleod(Iain mhic Iain 'Ic Iain) was born in Garenin on the 4th May,1815(confirmed by church records at his birth place) and was my grandfather,Donald Macleod's uncle (ie.Glass,5 Dalmore).Before crofts were lotted,Garenin was a small hamlet of houses occupying an area below the present road called the "Sithean",and the people were almost all Macleods.John Macleod did what many others did,in making illicit whisky for personal consumption and possibly resale.In this endeavour he had a partner,a tinker from the shore encampment in the village.Their operation was located on the open moor on the Dalmore side,where it would be easy to see the "gaugers"(excise men)from along way off.They had a couple of peat fires burning,one under the large cauldron of boiling barley mash,the other heating the copper still to which the "worm" was attached.
John and his tinker pal(at other times he worked tin)used to help themselves to the first liquor dripping from the copper coil,and a powerful sensation that was,especially out there on the wind blown moor,with a scattering of snow on the ground.They began to argue over something(perhaps something relating to the business),but crazy with drink,they fought furiously,until John lifted the tinker bodily and threw him into the boiling cauldron of mash.The poor man managed to climb out of the pot and began to roll himself on the snowy ground.Pieces of his skin were later seen at the site of the affray.John must have sobered enough to realise what he had done and,running down to the village,he told his people.They immediately left to see to the man,and carried him home to their house in a blanket.They treated his burns by smearing butter over extensive areas of his body and with their ministrations they saved the poor man's life.He was never again fit to work,but my family looked after him and his family in their tent by the shore.
John must have thought that the tinker would die,that day, and that he might be charged with murder.He was told that the police would by now be on their way over from Stornoway,and was advised to quit Lewis that very night.He never saw any police as he left the island for the last time,and travelled to Stromness in Orkney,where he signed on with the Hudson Bay Company. He shipped out for Canada on the "Prince Rupert IV." in 1837 arriving in Quebec,aged 22 years. He never did return to Lewis again.

John Macleod. Soldier in the First World War.

John Macleod was the younger brother of Donald(RNR) who died in 1916 as an internee in Holland.John was born in Garenin in 1896 and attended Carloway School,and later the Nicolson Institute,Stornoway.He had just started his M.A.course at Glasgow University when,like many at that time,he was conscripted into the Army.He became a signaller with the Ross Mountain Battery attached to the Seaforth Highlanders and saw service in different war theatres during 1914-1918.He was at the Dardanelles Landings(Gallipoli) in April,1915 when the Turkish forces took a terrible toll on the lives of the Allies,especially the ANZAC troops.My Aunt Dolly had on show on one of the dressers in 5 Dalmore "the last shell fired at the Dardanelles",a highly polished Howitzer shell case.This costly exercise,like the Antwerp debacle,can be laid at the feet of Winston Churchill.
John had various spells when his tuberculosis flared up.In March,1916 when his brother died of pleurisy in Holland,John was hospitalised in England,later recovered and returned to the fray.In 1917 John was a signaller in General Allenby's army fighting in Palestine,again against the Turks.Allenby had promised the British people Jerusalem as their 1918 Christmas present.It was while they were making a push through Gaza at the town of Beersheba that John was cited for the award of the Distiguished Conduct Medal(D.C.M.)He had twice before been mentioned in dispatches.The award was announced in the London Gazette.
Distinguished Conduct Medal
301422 Bdr.J.Macleod.

10th Mtn.By.,R.G.A.,T.F.(Carloway)

For conspicuous gallantry and devotion to duty.When in charge of the signallers during the recent operations he has performed excellent work in frequently laying and mending wire under heavy shell fire.He has shown great devotion to duty.
The citation was signed "General E.H.H.Allenby" and dated 3rd April,1918,although the action itself occurred in 1917.John had already been promoted to lieutenant and saw out the war with the 13th Mountain Battery Corps until March,1919.At the war's end he resumed his studies at Glasgow University,and graduated M.A.(Honours).He later went to Canada for health reasons,settling in Regina (Sask),where he was a teacher and later an inspector of schools.
My uncle John Macleod told me this story in 1955 while over in the UK recruiting teachers for Saskatchewan Province.
One Sunday in Garenin,when Donald and John were young lads and the rest of the family had gone to church,Donald came running home to tell John that one of their sheep had slipped and was lodged some distance down a sea-cliff near Garenin.John followed him with a rope and together they rescued the sheep.Being a Sunday in a strictly sabbatarian community,Donald made John swear never to tell "a living soul" about this event,it being on the Sabbath.John assured me he never mentioned it again.
During John's return to Glasgow in the early 1920s,and at least five years after Donald's death in Holland,John was wandering up Bath Street and he noticed that he was standing outside a Spiritualist Church,and being "inquisitive"(his own word)he entered and sat watching proceedings from his seat at the rear of the church.After some time the medium announced that "there was an unbeliever in their midst". The church members turned around to look at John,but not in a threatening manner.The medium asked John to stand,saying that she had a message for him from his brother Donald.
"Do you remember the Sunday that you and I rescued the sheep from the cliff?".

My Uncle Donald dies in Groningen,March 1916.

My uncle,Donald Macleod,gave up his chance for a higher education for a life at sea,but also to allow his younger brother John to take up a place at the Nicolson Institute,feeling he was the more studious,and acknowleging that his parents could only afford to put one of them through.Donald was quiet and unassuming,and in camp was seen as a diligent reader and student.He had for some time been been studying with Mr.Mulder's Navigation Class and was expected to go up soon for his Mate's Certificate.On the 5th january,1916,he was taken to the hospital in the town with a slight attack of pleurisy.The case did not seem serious.and early in February he was expecting his discharge.But,by the end of the month,he had a serious relapse and Donald died on Wednesday,March 1st 1916,aged 24 years.He died in the Academisch Ziechhuis attended throughout by the very competent nursing sisters,Zuster Dourna and Zuster van der Hoist.He was buried with full military honours at the Heerweg cemetery in Groningen,the service in Gaelic conducted by the Rev.D.Macdougall from Barvas in the Isle of Lewis.
As far as I know,the only person in our extended family to have visited Donald's grave in Holland is my daughter Carolyn Maclennan about 1985,while a medical student.

Interned in Holland " for the duration".

Wnen the 1st.Royal Naval Brigade crossed over the border from Belgium into Holland on the 10th. of October,1914,it meant that these 1500 men were out of the war,and would, by the existing rules of war,be interned in Holland(neutral in this war)for the duration of hostilities.After wandering in the Dutch countryside,the British were rounded up by the Dutch police,and ordered to lay down their arms.The 1st Royal Naval Brigade were finally led to a camp in Groningen,surrounded by barbed wire and guarded by police
There are conflicting opinions about conditions in the Groningen camp but the two words which continued to appear in letters home to Lewis were "acaras agus cianalas" - hunger and boredom.It was said that some men killed a sheep and were so hungry that they ate it raw.Others came across a solitary cow,killed and cooked it.The British Government had to make compensation for this.The men in the camp could earn 1 guilder per week(ie. 100 cents),and when they got"shore leave",they could go down into Groningen town,and buy some food and beer.The British lads were often entertained by Dutch families in their homes.and some romances grew between the Dutch girls and the bored British boys.There were also some who married,which allowed the man to leave camp and reside with his wife's parents.But inconveniently for the newlyweds a gaurd came to stay too !
A " Camp Magazine " details the various activities taking place in the camp just 18 months after arriving there. There were concerts,at which Madame Sorga entertained,singing songs "in no less than seven different laguages"; the Camp Follies doing vocals and instrumentals,with Seaman Linley deservedely praised for his rendition of the Drinking Song from "The Rose of Persia".There was the Camp Club down town at the Groot Markt where 50 cents could buy you "beef steak pudding,a rich gravy and a plentiful supply of potatoes" - not forgetting some tapioca pudding and then cheese.That would keep the "acaras" at bay - no need for raw sheep,now.For those that might be prone to ennui,there were 20 mile route marches,the Association Football Club,an Art Club,the Athletics Club.the Debating Society where in early 1916 "Women's Suffrage was affirmed in principle,with no uncertain voice".I have the feeling that these activities were organised by "chaps" with pipes and cravats.The various activities bring to mind those old black and white films like the "Wooden Horse",well in some ways,at least.

Lewismen help in defence of Antwerp (1914)

Domhnull Glass ( my uncle Donald )was born at No.4 Garenin in 1892,the eldest of a family of 9,my mother being the youngest (born 1911).From Carloway School he was able to progress to the Nicolson Institute,Stornoway."Doodles", as he was called,had his early ambitions of becoming a teacher replaced by that of a life at sea.He returned to Garenin and,like many other Lewis boys,trained with the Royal Naval Reserve ( R.N.R. ).Finally Donald went to sea,and in the early months of the First World War, he volunteered for the Royal Navy.Strangely(perhaps,not),there was an embarrasingly large surplus of RNVR and RNR on the navy's books.Winston Churchill was in 1914 First Lord of the Admiralty when he mobilised the navy,and decided to use the surplus of seamen by forming Royal Naval Brigades,essentially sailors to fight as soldiers.Donald was on HMS Benbow,which along with the seamen of the Collingwood and the Hawke formed the First Royal Naval Brigade (1st RNB ).The 1st RNB along with the 2nd RNB left Dover on the 4th October,1914 for Dunkirk,where they were "entrained" for their transportation to Antwerp to join the 3rd Brigade of Marines in the trenches.The Germans had already taken the outer forts of Antwerp,and the British Naval Division of 6,000 men had been brought up to help the Belgian forces hold the city port of Antwerp.Churchill thought it essential that Antwerp be held.The arms of the Belgian troops were old,the training of the British was inadequate while the German army was superior in number and their guns powerful and accurate.The situation in Belgium was now critical. Antwerp was lost,and it was decided to withdraw the R.N.Division from the line on the 9th October,to be once again "entrained" to Ostend.
The withdrawal was a disaster as 1500 men of the 1st R.N.Brigade were caught in the rear,having failed to cross the River Schelde in time to "catch the train to Ostend". They marched north and were ordered by their Commander Henderson to cross the border into Holland (a neutral country)where they would be interned for the rest of the war,or unless Germany invaded Holland.On the 10th October,1914 ,Antwerp's city fathers surrendered to the Germans.
A little late in the day,Winston Churchill said that the Royal Naval Division was "inexperienced,partially equipped and partially trained". 1500 men of the 1st Naval Brigade did in fact spend "the duration" interned in Holland,and 106 of them came from the Isle of Lewis.My uncle never came back.

Dalmore. A New Beginning.

In 1918-1919,when the Great War ended,Dalmore was to be occupied once more by people, after more than 60 years,and the land there to be divided up into 10 crofts,each of approximately 4 or 5 acres in area.We have often heard the mantra "Homes Fit For Heroes",and that being eligible for a croft in 1920,one had to have fought in the Great War war,or a family claimed for a son lost in the war.I don't think that this was strictly the case,if it was the case at all.There were families who came to Dalmore who hadn't,or couldn't possibly have had a son in the war.Here was land up for grabs,and all interested parties submitted their names and a ballot was held.Sometimes more than one ballot was necessary,as in the case of our croft,No.5 .In the first draw,No.5 went to a man from Bragair,Iain Mhurchad an Gobha(John the son of Murdo Smith).The reality of the situation may have unnerved the man,and he eventually settled in Newmarket(Stornoway).My uncle John Macleod(Iain Glass),who happened to have been in the war,won on the second ballot and put the croft in his father's name,my grandfather, Donald Macleod(Glass).
The man who "won" No.1.(in at the sea cliffs)was a man from Bernera who was married to a woman from Shawbost(Piuthar Bean a'Shachead).Even after cutting peats(over the hill and above Taigh Shoudie),the Bernera man decided he wanted nothing more to do with Dalmore.What was going on ? Had he and the "Smitheach" been spooked or something ? The Bernera man and the "Shachead" (sp? The Jacket?)were married to two sisters from Shawbost,and it was to the Shachead he assigned croft
No.1 to do with it as he pleased,and for his own benefit. The Shachead didn't hang about and offered it to Donnachadh Dubh from Garenin in exchange for two wedders(or wethers - castrated rams).According to the Shachead,he only ever got one.But who would have argued with Black Duncan over one paltry wedder ? Not many!
Dalmore is not proving all that attractive,so far.Calum Dhomhnull Dhonnachadh from Upper Carloway actually drew No.9,but stll young and unmarried he went to Canada.By this time,one could sell the croft,which he did to my grandfather,Glass for £60,acting as proxy for my uncle John(Shonnie Glass).Peter Macaulay(Padruig Mor) from Carloway got croft No.7 which he kept for 30 years growing corn.In the 1950s he sold No.7 directly to Shonnie Glass,claiming he was to busy with his transport business.As far as I know,the remaining crofts were accepted on the first ballot.
In the early 1920s when the ten crofts were alloted,the land in Dalmore was not very fertile(sheep had been on it for nearly 70 years !),particularly the outer crofts Nos.8,9 and 10..These were essentially moorland ground covered in rushes.To compensate these people,they were given three one half acre strips of machair land down by the beach.And that still pertains to this day.
The only people who inherited a "walk-in"house was Shoudie,my paternal grandfather,his wife and his three sons(my father Alexander Maclennan was then a young man of 18 years) .Well, they had to put a roof on it,but the walls were sound.Nearly 70 years before,an amazing thing is said to have happened on the grassy mound outside this house.It is said that the woman of this house had gone mad(Dalmore,again)or deeply depressed,and that she was given to wander dangerously throughout the village,espcially near the sea.It is also said that her husband used to tie a rope round her waist attached to an iron stake driven far into the ground.This was to ensure his wife's safety,when his work took him any distance from home.People said she resembled a ram tethered to a stake,except that she didn't eat any grass.One summer's day,while tied to the rope,a massive cloud of midges descended on the poor woman,and attacked her mercilessly for some time.When her husband returned,he found his wife,her sanity restored.I wonder what she had to say to her husband about the rope around her waist?

Dalmore.Bits of Crockery and Some Old Bones.

On my summer vacations in Dalmore(eight glorious weeks),it was one of my duties to take the cattle up over the hills to the village common grazings,most often to the Gearraidh,where the "grass was greener".Later on in the evenings I would fetch the cows for milking and shelter.The morning outing was a leisurely affair where the cattle were allowed to eat their first fresh grass of the day.Between Beinn Dhaile Mor and Beinn Bhrag ran a small stream called the Allt Garbh(rugged/harsh stream).I only know that name from an old map and it was anything but rugged in July or August.
The allt flows slowly until it reaches the brae overlooking Dalmore Beach,when it descends steeply to the golden sands.Heavy rains can swell this stream to a torrent,carving out large Disneyland sand structures on the beach.Often, when the cattle were drinking from the stream,my attention would be drawn to the iridescent film on the water's surface at the point before the stream plunges down to the sea.The oil here on the surface is caused by a blue clay found here and nowhere else along the river.It was easy to fashion into simple objects,and was similar to potter's clay.I was later to find that it was from here that my Auntie Dollag(Dolina)got the clay to line the fire and the "stacks" in our house.It traspires that others in the village knew of the blue clay at the Allt Garbh,but few could have guessed just how far back in time people were using this self same clay - but we were soon to find out.When I came down to where the allt reached the sand,there was a bank strewn with bits of bone,pieces of unglazed pottery and small pieces of quartz.To me,it was just a rubbish tip of stones,fine bones and "old crockery".In Renfrew I knew what a "midden" was,but what happened many years later here on Dalmore Beach would bring a whole new meaning to that word for me,and the wider world.
In 1978/79 there was a very bad storm, and fierce seas broke through woefully inadequate sea defences and threatened to wash away the southern part of the new cemetry,with all the goulish sights which that might entail.The Council moved fast to shore up the breach,bringing in diggers and other earth moving equipment.A little way into his job,a digger operator stopped suddenly,when he ex posed some readily identifiable ancient site,some meters down in the hard sand.Margaret Ponting(as she was then) and her husband,both respected amateur archaeologists and living at Callanish,were called to the site,and later university experts arrived.They were given six weeks to do some excavations before the shoring up work would resume.What they discovered was the remains of an oval building, hearth and yard,bone and antler tools,shards of pottery of the Beaker Period and earlier Neolithic fragments of around 2000 BC.They think that this was a site where the Callanish people(Megalithic) kept a workshop for making arrowheads from quartz pieces found on the shore.There was very little evidence of fish/animal bones or shells.They concluded that Dalmore was a specialised site,where groups came together in their activities.And they used the blue clay in their pottery !
The dig ended,the sea defences were repaired and strengthened and, should the sea break through again,further archaeology on this site will tell us more about the "Dalmore Workshop". Margaret Curtis(formerly Ponting) still has artefacts from the Dalmore dig of 1978/79 at her museum in Callanish.The major finds went to Edinburgh.The whole dig appeared in "Current Archaeology",Volume 8,No.91,pages 230-235.

The Dalbeg Land Raid of 1909.

From the time of the Napier Commission reporting in 1884 on Land Law Reform in the Highlands and Isles,crofters and smallholders in those parts were intent on bringing about reform as soon as possible,and not always in strictly legal ways.There had been land raids in different parts of Lewis in the past viz. Lochs and Bernera,but the Dalbeg land raid of 1908/1909 is of a later date,and possibly less well known.The Dalbeg Grazing Dispute of 1885 is fully described in an article of that name written by the late Dr.I.M.M.Macphail for the Stornoway Gazette in December,1978.Iain Macphail(Ph.D,Prague Uni.),Dumbarton, wrote an authoritative book on these matters,called the "Crofters'War".
The following account of the Dalbeg raid was given to me by my old friend Seoras Dhomhnull Chalum(George Macleod,8.Dalmore)whose own father,Domhnull Chalum was one the 6 raiders(and their families)from South Shawbost.This was not a dispute over grazing or cattle poinding;this was an attempt to take over the lands of the local tenant farmer,and to occupy them for a period of time.knowing that the law could not stand idly by,but conscious that the tide of opinion was beginning to turn in their favour.
In the spring of 1909, Peter Sinclair had more than sheep on his mind.He left the Dalbeg farm and its stock in the care of a herdsman as he had more weighty matters in hand.He was off to Stornoway to marry a rich widow who owned the "Square" farm in town.
The six South Shawbost men and their families occupied the Dalbeg Farm,but not the farmhouse.They built three different fires within the farmhouse building,and erected pieces of sailcloth to use as partitions.Where Peter Sinclair went to is anyone's guess(honeymoon cruise?),but he was not there to see the Shawbost people cultivate a piece of the machair,where they planted potatoes for them all.They were there long enough to plant in May and lift the potatoes in September.George's oldest sister,Annie was about 18 months old at this time,when a second sister,Ishbel was born there in Dalbeg,as verified in the register of births.Finally the law was brought to bear,and the raiders were arrested by police and sheriff officers and charged.Taken to Stornoway to attend court,they all decided that whatever the outcome,even a fine,they would go to prison,it being seen by them as a matter of principle.They were all convicted and fined 10 shillings.Four served one week in Inverness,while the other two,including Domhnull Chalum,served their seven days in Stornoway Police Station.They spent their time tidying the station's garden grounds.The police took a sympathetic attitude to their "prisoners" and made sure that they were looked after and well fed.They even allowed the men to go down town for their mid-day pint of beer.I think Donald and his pal could have stood another week of incarceration.During this period,they were all evicted from Dalbeg,and returned to Shawbost.
Some of the other raiders,according to Seoras,were(apologies for spelling) "Mahdi" Morrison,two men named Kenneth Macleod("Cruich" and "Gulidh") and Murdo Macleod (Murchadh Phadruig).

Sgorr Dhomhnull Duncan.

John Sinclair,the farmer of Dalbeg/Dalmore had two sons,Peter and Hector,and towards the end of the 19th century,it was Peter Sinclair who inherited the farm.The name "Padruig Sinclair" was,during my childhood,often mentioned in hushed tones as if his spectre was ever present.I should mention here that my paternal grandmother "Bean Shoudie" (1864-1945)worked for the Old Sinclair as a maid in the Dalbeg farmhouse around 1880.
In the hill above Tigh Glass(No.5 Dalmore) there is a large passage,caused by the rocks here having split an eternity ago.It was known as"Sgorr Dhomhnull Duncan"(Donald Duncan's Rock)and supposedly afforded one a shortcut to the top of Beinn Dhail Mor - it didn't.It was long and damp and the sides were covered in a cold green moss.Half way along the floor the level rose abruptly by about 2 feet,and then continued to the top.We were told that Domhnull Duncan was a shepherd for the Sinclairs, a godly man and possessing powers of the Second Sight.It was here within this large cleft in the rock that Donald went to pray.
One day,standing on top of the hill,he looked over the valley,and what he saw was field upon field of ripe corn and barley swaying in the breeze.Back at the farmhouse in Dalbeg,he told Mrs Sinclair what he had seen.It is said that she cried quietly,realising that their time here was coming to an end. Another example of Donald Duncan's power as a seer would at that time have been impossible to explain. He witnessed some people carrying the body of a drowned man from the beach at Dalmore out to a house in the village.As he watched those same people carried a large box back into the shore,where they left it.They then returned back to that same house in the village.Hard to fathom such strange behaviour unless we know what actually happened one beautiful day(around 1930?).Calum Dhomhnull Chalum(Calum Macleod No.8 Dalmore),a strong lad,and excellent swimmer was tragically drowned in Dalmore Bay.His body was taken out to his house in the village (not there in Donald Duncan's day).Later at his funeral,his coffin was carried into the trigh and left there.In 1912 a cemetery was inaugurated at Dalmore(not there in the seer's day) and it was there that Calum Macleod was laid to rest.

Dalmore. The Sound of Silence.

From 1852/1853 the people of Dalmore and Dalbeg had been "cleared" from the "dailean" to make way for the Big Sheep and a couple of shepherds.From 1853 until 1875,Donald Mackenzie and his son John Mackenzie had the rental of these lands,either singly,as in the case of Donald Mackenzie who rented Dalbeg(1849-1853)for £55.0.0 pa,or Donald and son,John renting both Dalmore and Dalbeg(1853-1860) for £100.0.0 pa.They were based in the farmhouse at Dalbeg(a great portion of Dalbeg had for some time operated as a farm),and they also ran the government licensed inn there at Dalbeg(I think the Mackenzie ladies were actually "mine hosts").Government inns had been set up in the "country" to cater for the moorland traveller.There were inns at Barvas and Garynahine(of which a tale of murder is still told).In the town of Stornoway at that time(1851)you could slake your thirst in any one of 11 taverns.
From the register of deaths for Dalbeg,we see that Donald Mackenzie's wife Margaret died in 1855 aged 61(born in Stornoway,daughter of Colin Mackenzie,shoemaker).Her husband,Donald died two years later in 1857,aged 66.He was the son of Roderick Mackenzie,seaman(revenue cutter)and Una Mackenzie from Sutherland.It seem that the last of the Mackenzies in Dalbeg,John had broken with tradition and had married one Isabella Campbell.His life and Mackenzie tenure in Dalbeg ended in 1875.He should have kept things within Clann Choinnich,like his predecessors - seems he spoiled a good thing !
The tack of Dalmore/Dalbeg in 1875 was now taken by a Mr.John Sinclair at an annual rental of £100.0.0(which was £25.o.o less than Mackenzie's last payment ?).In 1888 Sinclair's rental dropped to £90.0.0 but we know the reasons for this.About 30 years earlier,Dalbeg farm had "appropriated" the grazings to the west of Loch Roinavat,land traditionally used by South Shawbost.This was the time of the Napier Commission which was looking into land reform in the Highlands and Islands of Scotland,and which when it was published in 1884,came down heavily in favour of the crofters.The Dalbeg Grazing Dispute ended in the Stornoway Sheriff Court with the grazings returned to the people of South Shawbost,and £10.0.0 deducted from Sinclair's rent.Crofters were now emboldened to fight for their rights,and their actions in the different Lewis townships are well documented - except this one which happened as late as 1909.It's in the next letter.

Dalmore. The Deserted Village

By 1852 Dalmore and Dalbeg had been "cleared" of its people and the sheep and shepherds had taken over.Between then and 1875,Donald and John Mackenzie held the tenancy of these two villages separately or together with,for example,a rent of £55.0.0 for Dalbeg alone in 1853, and £100.0.0 for Dalmore and Dalbeg taken as one tack for the period 1853-1860.The next good shepherd to arrive on the the scene was one John Sinclair,tenant of both dales initially from 1875 until 1887 at a rent of £102.0.0,and in 1888 this reduced to £90.0.0 because the South Shawbost crofters won back from him the grazings at the west end of Loch Raoinavat,which had been taken from them about 30 years earlier.This judgement in favour of the common people was due to The Napier Commission's Report which came out in April,1884 and generally sided with the crofters'case.See Dr.I.M.M.Macphail's book "Crofters War".John Sinclair and his son Peter Sinclair held sway in the "Dailean" until the end of World War One

Dalmore Church. Further Evidence

I am grateful to Mairi Macritchie of Urras na Gearrannan(The Garenin Trust)for the following information which helps me in my obsessive search for the truth about Dalmore Church(Ruins of),as I seem to be the only person ever to have been born on or in the church.Bodach Glass surely believed we stayed in the church,or at least within part of it.After all,it was built for him and he knew "from whence came its stones"
The minister who was transported from Keose in Lochs to take the services in Dalmore was the Reverend Robert Finlayson(Statistical Account of Scotland,Western Isles,1833),but only every 3 months.Dalmore was in the Established Church(ie Church of Scotland),and was in the parish of Lochs.Other than the aforesaid gentleman,Dalmore never had their own minister.This was strange since Carloway(nearby with no church)had in 1833 a population of 901.
The Disruption,when the Free Church came into being,happened in 1843,and only the churches at Barvas and Stornoway remained in the established church.All the others joined the Free Church of Scotland,accounting for almost the entire population of Lewis
The Free Church in Carloway was the first to be built there in 1884,or so I thought,but Mairi tells me that a Free Church was in fact built in Carloway in 1846(near the site of the present church).I don't know if they got their own minister from the outset,or whether they got a stand-in,like Mr.Finlayson,assuming he was now Free Kirk.
Now,we know that the roof timbers of Dalmore Church were removed and taken to Tolsta Chaolais in 1848,which is 2 years after they built the church in Carloway.The church in Dalmore could not now compete,if it ever could.It was a small building(only 60 feet long),out of the way,with only a few "proper"services a year.Its days were numbered in the year 1843.Did the church in Dalmore have elders,and if so who appointed them ? Did they take the services between times,or was Dalmore Church one in name only. Was the church really a big mistake from its inception, about which date I am still obsessing.

The Gearraidh. Some other stories.

Allt na Muilne was better known to us as Allt a'Ghearraidh and drained from the northern end of Loch Langavat,between Cnoc a' Choin and Skorashal Mor(in Garenin village)across the green pastures of the Gearraidh,finally descending rapidly to the sea at Geodha na Muilne,a little sandy bay,as treacherous as it is beautiful.In the 1800s,there were three "corn mills" driven by this one river,and each of these are now referred to as Norse-type mills(more on these later).The best preserved of these mills is the one below Cnoc a' Choin,lying just inside the "Garenin fence".The channel can still be seen,where the river would be diverted through the mill, to rotate the blades, attached to the shaft passing through the the large circular grinding stone.I should point out that,whereas this is what one would have seen about 20 years ago,today those two beautiful millstones are in a local museum about a mile away,and cost the curator £20,at that time.Still, you can probably imagine where the stones formerly were placed.These stones looked like a quartz granite,and were beautifully fashioned by an expert quarry man or a skilled stone mason.The square hole in the centre of the stone required to be chiseled out by someone of considerable expertise.My grandfather,Donald Macleod("Glass")who was born in Garenin in 1860, used this mill to grind corn for his family.The mill was communally owned by the Garenin people,and each family would be responsible for its upkeep and would have access for its use.Glass would come across from Garenin to the mill with a horse and cart,loaded with bags of oats,barley or corn,and he was allowed the whole day there.They came prepared with their own victuals,and hopefully before nightfall they were on their way home with bags filled with flour,barley meal or oatmeal.
The other two mills are very near the sea,and it is these that give the Allt and Geotha their name.They lie on that part of the river which descends rapidly to the sea.They are located one below the other at a distance of 20/30 yards apart and were possibly operated at the same time,using the same sluice. They are in a fairly ruinous condition and the millstones were probably removed when the people set up other mills.I don't think they're in the museum.In later times the proprietor set up large mills throughout the island,and tried to persuade the people to use these "super" mills,at quite a cost.The people were very reluctant to abandon their own mills,but pressure was brought to bear.
The "iolaire"(golden eagle)often builds its eyrie here in the Gearraidh or further round the coast towards Dalbeg or in the other direction towards Garenin.The eagles have been known to take newborn lambs,and this was definitely the opinion of my old friend Alexan an 'Illip(Alexander Maclennan),an intelligent and erudite man, blessed with tremendous recall,and a sense of humour,to boot.He,my mother,Anna Glass ,George Macleod((No.8 Dalmore)and a few others were those who enthused me with the the stories of long ago.
Always, on my first visit to see Alexan,when home on holiday,I would ask him if he seen the eagles this year.He was in the scullery boiling some water on the Calor ring,to make tea for us with a slice of sultana cake.He stopped what he was doing,and turning towards me he said."Do you know,Iain? If there are two things which I hate,it's the golden eagle,and that Rab.C.Nesbit !" Only Alexan could have juxtaposed that majestic bird and a wastrel in a string vest.

An Ghearraidh. Dalmore's hidden jewel.

I know the Gearraidh like the back of my hand, as I was there at least twice a day with our cattle or fishing for saithe from its rocks.Until recently,I did not know what the word "gearraidh" meant,and sort of confused it with "garadh"(garden),but the fertile nature of the place would justify my confusion.Dwelly's Gaelic Dictionary(the Big One)gives the word "gearraidh" as a point(jutting into the sea),green pasture land about a village,the land between the machair(shore) and the monadh(moor),etc.These accurately define the Gearraidh which I knew so well, which intrigued me,but which had about it an air of foreboding,even malevolence.It's not the place in which I would elect to spend the night.And yet, it is truly a beautiful area - green,green pastures with a small river meandering across its plain,before it tumbles at speed into a very bonnie little beach.
This is the land between Dalmore and the boundary fence of Garenin village, a place with fascinating names like Cnoc A' Choin( Hill of the Dogs ),Allt na Muilne( River of the Mills ),Rudha na Trilleachan( The Headland of the Oyster Catcher ).There is much evidence that the Gearraidh was occupied over hundreds of years - the large number of lazybeds,the remains of houses,walled enclosures and "torran poll",the circular beds in which the seaweed was kept to use as fertiliser in spring.A man named Neil Maclennan( Niall Ban )and who had a son,Murdo,is said to have lived in the Gearraidh around 1820-1830,but the story goes that he only lived there one or two years,because, being in such an exposed place,especially in winter,he gave up because of the constant presence of sea-spume.If Niall Ban threw in the towel after such a short time,then who built these structures? Whoever was there ,stayed there for some time.There was a whisky still here,as one might expect,and with all that sea-spume,who could blame Neil for taking a few sniffters.The "gaugers"(customs/excise)would occasionally drop by and one had to have a place to secrete the whisky and the "copper".Neil had 24 bottles of the "hard stuff" hidden under the thatch of the roof.When the gaugers asked Neil if he had any whisky,he immediately replied that,yes,he had two dozen bottles buried in the thatch above their heads.Maybe it was,the way he said it, because one of the excisemen replied."If you had that much whisky,you certainly wouldn't be telling us".
They left, and Neil might have had a dram to calm the nerves.
Whenever they did leave,these Maclennans went to stay in Back,on the other side of the island,and had the nickname of "Fortie".Another person said to have lived there was one Murchadh Macaoidh(Murdo Mackay),but nothing else is known about him.

Dail Mor. Bliadhna na Chaoraich Mhor.

Dalmore(and its beautiful neighbour,Dalbeg)had by 1852-1855 been cleared of its entire population,with 26 people left with no option but to emigrate to Canada'and a further 41 relocated to other places on Lewis,where Sir James Matheson had no immediate plans for a sheep farm or a deer park.This was the "year of the big sheep" in Dalmore and other parts of Uig Parish.The "Big Sheep" which came with the Highland Clearances was the Cheviot,a breed of sheep from the Scottish Borders,which eclipsed the indigenous Black Face,in size,weight and wool growth.In time the "Caora Dubh" would be cleared.Of course Matheson was intent on boosting estate revenues like the other British gentlemen he'd meet in the clubs of London or Edinburgh.These people looked on themselves as farmers on the grand scale,and readily adopted the latest farming methods which they would discuss among themselves.Because of the nature of the Lewis terrain,Matheson knew that sheep,deer,salmon and white fish were to be his estate's principal commodities,and efforts would be made to establish these "industries" as soon as possible.As we know, the lands and rivers were let to tacksmen(tenants)"from a'the pairts" at very attractive rents(well,Sir James thought so).One can still examine the rentals for this period. Dalmore's rent was at this time £115-5-0 which was high compared with land of a similar acreage in another part of the island.The Cheviot was a voracious eating machine,wasn't particularly fussy,but would do so much better on the lush pastures of Dalmore and Dalbeg.
So, from a village of 20 houses and 87 people in 1841, 20 years later in 1861,we now have only John Mackenzie,described as "shepherd",aged 43 years,his wife Mary(40) and a daughter Helen(8),and even they were incomers from Leurbost.I think their house was in at the sea.Surrounded by "thoosans" of sheep, the Mackenzie marriage must have been sorely tested by the noise of the sea,the ever present spume and the mass choir of the Cheviots.