Every spring, we began to dig peat, plant potatoes, and generally gear up for the busy months of summer. So by May, everyone was getting ready for the ‘season’ in one way or another and hoping for good weather for the ‘visitors’. But some folk came back to our ‘sceptred isle’ every year no matter what the weather threw at them. These folk loved the peace and the open spaces, the uncluttered roads and the unsophisticated lifestyle. They toured or walked, fished or climbed, or perhaps just leaned on a bar and chatted with the locals, or maybe sat on the harbour wall and watched boats coming in and out. They enjoyed all the simple things and welcomed a holiday that recharged them for another year.
On the other hand, there were some who couldn’t stand the quietness and roamed around in a disgruntled fashion looking for ‘nightlife’, grumbled about the steep hills and lack of buses, and proclaimed to the world that they were bored. These people never returned.
During the summer season, Dr Mac and I became used to treating all manner of minor ailments. We even had cases of sunburn, because the heat of the summer sun in the islands (when it deigns to appear at all) is always underestimated by the visitors. There is usually a cooling breeze to fool the unwary, and the air is so clear that every ray reaches the skin of a sun worshipper. So clear, in fact, that aircraft, flying so high that they appear as mere dots on the roof of the world, will throw their shadows to the ground, where they seem to creep along among the heather on the shaggy hills like some weird moorland creature.
One glorious day in spring I was ‘in the peats’ at our peat hag high on the hill near Loch Annan. We had cut the brown wet rectangles in April, throwing them onto the tussocky grass to dry. The weather had been kinder than usual, so they were now hard and light, dry and crumbly. When the peats reach that stage, they have to be stacked in pyramids of about 50 or so.
I was taking a rest, sitting on a bank, gazing at the quiet loveliness of the view, listening to the merry song of skylarks and watching a distant eagle scooping up the sky with its huge wings. It soared high in the blue dome while it scanned the ground for an unwary mouse or cheeky fox cub. The peace was complete, encompassing my world and seeping into my very soul.
A slight rustle made me turn to see someone skirting the far peat bogs. As the figure drew nearer, I became intrigued. Here, out on this lonely hillside, walking at quite a spanking pace, was a priest in full garb! The black soutane flapped in the cooling breeze and the figure clutched a beretta in his hand. It occurred to me that he was probably as surprised to see a woman sitting in a peat bog as I was to see a priest in clerical clothes walking the hills.
He drew near. ‘What a wonderful day! It is good to be alive on such a day.’ A man after my own heart! We exchanged pleasantries and introduced ourselves. Father Peter MacAnally was from Southern Ireland, with a delightful accent to match. He was young, handsome and very tall, the soutane streamlining him even further. Looking at him, I could see how young women might fall for this forbidden fruit, and I wondered if he found this difficult.
Gesturing a request, he seated himself beside me and gazed out over the hills and the sea to the far mountains. A sigh escaped him.
‘This is wonderful! This is what I came for. I’m walking on several islands for charity. This is truly God’s country!’ He grinned rather sheepishly. ‘The charity bit is wearing this ridiculous outfit in order to be sponsored.’
‘What charity is that?’ I asked.
‘A local one for a small girl who was badly burned in a bomb attack on the border. She is going to need complete care for the rest of her life, and her parents have very little to offer being rather . . . um . . . mentally challenged, is the term, I believe.’ He sighed again. ‘I work in a very poor area of Dublin. All this is just fantastic.’ He made a wide sweep with his arm.
The distant black and purple mountains were so clear that the dark corries and jagged peaks seemed only a mile or two away. The crystal sea sparkled with moving golden light while the deep valleys below us drowsed in the blessed warmth of a crimson spring day.
I said, ‘It is all so clean and pure that it looks as though God finished making it all today and He has only just gone.’
Father Peter smiled and said, ‘Oh, no. He hasn’t gone. He is still here, all around us.’
I looked at my watch. The school car would soon be bringing Andy and another young scholar back from school to their homes in Dhubaig. Andrew would be ‘starving’ as usual. I invited Father Peter home for some refreshment, and we made our way towards my car on the distant brown ribbon of road. The peat hags were mercifully fairly dry or the anklehugging soutane would have become sodden with dark peaty mud. What a ridiculous requirement for sponsorship!
Father Peter and I climbed into my little car and set off across the high open moors that lean on the side of Ben Criel. This narrow lane beside the peat bogs was inclined to sink under the weight of moving vehicles and rise again after they had passed: it virtually floated on the boggy ground. We were used to it, but strangers to the island found it difficult to believe that the road would not sink altogether.
We had come to the point on the narrow road where it plunged downwards. Below us glittered the dark waters of Loch Annan, which contrived to look menacing even in brilliant sunshine. As we began the descent, I saw Father Peter clasp his hands tightly together, whether from dread or in prayer I could only guess.
‘Papavray!’ he said suddenly. ‘A strange name, is it not?’
‘Well, not really,’ I replied. ‘I think it means “priest isle”, so you should feel quite at home. “Papa” is an old Norse word for “priest”, I’m told. I don’t know how it strayed to the Hebrides; it is more suited to the Shetlands or even the Faeroes. But there is a legend about a hermit who came here in early Christian times and converted everyone.’
We reached Dhubaig and descended the track that led to our croft house. Father Peter paused in the ‘garden’ to admire the view of mountain and sea. ‘Garden’ was a polite term for our ‘small acre’ of grass, a few bushes, and some bedraggled potato plants. But the garden was still beautiful, with its burn bubbling through the wilderness and meandering its watery way to a tiny stony cascade before leaving our land to wander off towards the waiting sea.
A mackerel sky was developing, indicating the end of a beautiful afternoon. Before dark, the rain, borne on the wind, would fall with myriad sharp, painful, flint-like drops. We knew our capricious weather only too well.
Once inside, Father Peter tucked into clootie dumpling, which he appeared to enjoy enormously. Even George had been forced to admit that my dumpling now rivalled the expert baking of my more experienced neighbours.
Andrew came running across the croft from the school car, rushing to avoid the threatening storm. He exploded into the house, propelled by the bullying wind. His cheery greeting fizzled to a halt when he saw Father Peter sitting beside the fire. Even in the summer, we needed a fire in the evenings.
A little in awe of the black-robed figure, Andy recounted his day in a subdued tone and then startled me by saying, ‘There’s a new girl in my class.’
I had not heard of any recent arrivals on the island, and I already knew all the 14 or 15 island juniors as a result of my monthly health visits to the school.
‘Her name is Fiona. She’s English.’ The succinct information came in disjointed outbursts between mouthfuls of dumpling.
Andy continued, ‘Her mum and dad have taken Tin Cottage for a year.’
Another surprise, as Tin Cottage was usually only let to holidaymakers.
‘Her Dad’s a nature . . . um . . . nature . . . ist?’
Father Peter’s eyebrows nearly disappeared into his hair. Hastily I said, ‘Naturalist, perhaps?’
‘Well, flowers and bees and things. She’s a bit funny,’ Andy went on, munching happily.
‘How do you mean “funny”?’
‘Well, in the head, you know.’ And with that, we had to be content.
The storm was increasing: we could feel the buffeting of the wind on the stout walls and hear the thunderous sea crashing on the shore. The room was almost dark by 6 p.m., as restless Stygian clouds streamed across the sky.
George was away on one of the many east-coast fishing boats, testing the sonar equipment. This necessitated a short trip to sea.
Hesitantly, I asked Father Peter what his arrangements were for the night. To ask him to stay was out of the question with George away. I could just imagine the interest that would cause!
‘Oh,’ he said offhandedly, ‘I have a tent near Coiravaig. I was on my way back to it over the hills when I saw you.’
I stared in disbelief. ‘A tent! In this?’
‘Oh, it’s quite substantial. I’m not supposed to stay in inns or B&Bs. The sponsors would be most unhappy. I think they rather like the idea of their priest having to “slum it” in a tent. You see, I usually have a housekeeper to look after me.’
With a sigh, I settled for driving him the two miles to Coiravaig, taking a thermos of tea and some food. The tent was sturdy enough and had been pitched in a relatively sheltered spot, but . . . After inviting him for lunch the next day, I turned the car and drove home, thankful for the bright warm home with the crackling fire and pungent smell of peat smoke. It poured and blew all night, and in my wakeful moments I wondered how Father Peter was coping in that little tent.
Next morning dawned bright and brittle, pretending that it could do no wrong. But we knew that this sunny splendour would not last, for we could already see more rain clouds hiding behind the mountains. Although it was late spring, the pasture was still sparse, so one of my morning chores was to take hay to Sunshine, our Highland pony. We had bought her soon after our arrival on Papavray when we found how very inexpensive it was to rent a vast field near Dhubaig. Although no expert, I had always loved riding and I was keen for the boys to enjoy it too, but they seemed to prefer fishing. So Sunshine was not ridden as often as she should have been and frequently became naughty and difficult to control. But by this time, we all loved her and were resigned to her cantankerous ways. She was reluctant to embark on an outing and needed much encouragement to leave her field but always galloped back to it as soon as we turned for home. There was a bridge nearby made of wooden planks. Sunshine did not care for this bridge at all and preferred to avoid it altogether by plunging into the fast-flowing burn that ran beneath it, soaking the unfortunate rider. And yet she would ostentatiously avoid walking in puddles. I had decided some time ago that I had a lot to learn about ponies.
I approached the concrete shed near the house. Stored within it was chicken feed, dog food, cat food, saddles, harnesses, multitudes of tools, and Sunshine’s hay. I opened the door.
There, curled up on the hay, wrapped in an old horse blanket, was Father Peter! The tent had blown away during the night.