‘ ’Tis gone!’ Archie was indignant.
‘What’s gone?’ queried Morag.
‘The signpost. I’m no surprised there were nae many visitors at the laird’s ceilidh last night. They couldna find their way in the dark because some daftie has made off wi’ the sign to the castle.’
There were only two signposts on the island; this one was on the road from our little harbour town of Dalhavaig, where most of the tourists stayed. People for the ceilidh would come from there and would look for the sign, which pointed to the castle in one direction and to our village of Dhubaig in the other.
‘No wonder I heard so many cars go by last night,’ I said.
‘Aye, some folk must have taken the turn for Dhubaig by mistake. They would have a bad shock, foreby, when they found themselves drivin’ over the Ben in the dark with no ceilidh at the end of it.’
Archie was not speaking of the spontaneous getting together of the villagers for fun and entertainment in the dark winter evenings but of the big organised ceilidhs put on at the laird’s castle for the benefit of the tourists, raising much-needed money for the uncertain economy of our small island.
The evenings were drawing in. We were used to driving on our narrow, uneven roads high on the mighty Ben Criel, or between small lochans with the brown peaty water winking at us in the failing light, or peering down to Loch Annan where it brooded far below as we engaged first gear to descend the tortuous track that clung uncertainly to the rocky hillside. But to a tourist, used to double-width roads, white lines, decent tarmac surfaces and street lights for much of their way, the prospect of such a journey must have been daunting in the extreme. And entirely unnecessary, as the castle was in a different direction altogether!
‘There’s another the night. The last one afore the winter. We’ve looked all over for that sign and there’s no sign of it.’ Archie guffawed loudly at his own joke. ‘What will we do?’
Mary had been thinking. ‘We’ll have to destruct one,’ she asserted.
We all stared at her. After a moment, Archie gave a longsuffering sigh. ‘The woman means construct one.’ He turned to his wife, ‘Why do you no just say “make” one?’
‘Aye,’ murmured an unrepentant Mary.
‘She’s right, though,’ said Morag. ‘My Angus will make the arms for it. He’s good with the wood.’
Old Janet piped up, ‘Nay, ma Douggy is better with the wood than your Angus.’
Morag was affronted. ‘And what about the letterin’? My Angus is better at the letterin’ than your Douggy. And he can spell “castle”.’
Janet bridled. ‘So can ma Douggy . . .’
Archie waded in. ‘Och! Haud your wheesht, you! ’Tis only two pieces o’ wood: one pointin’ to the castle and one to Dhubaig. The post is still there, so they can just be nailed to it. It’s no difficult.’
Janet and Morag glowered at each other, but I had to leave at that point in the discussion and I just assumed that the matter would be dealt with in the usual way of the Gaels: with heated disagreement but laughing compromise in the end.
Once again, I heard quite a few cars pass that night instead of the usual one or two. Did they not get the sign up after all, so the tourists were still confused, I wondered?
Next morning, as I rattled towards the junction, I could see in the distance two sturdy pieces of wood in place at the top of the post. They were shaped and pointing, one towards the castle and one towards our village.
Archie was standing in the road beside his tractor, looking at the signs. He was shaking his head.
‘Can you believe it, Nurse? Those two silly, stubborn old bodachs! They both just had to prove that they could spell “castle”. Just look!’
I looked. The arm pointing to the left read ‘To The Castle’ and the arm pointing to the right read . . . ‘To The Castle’. No wonder the tourists were confused!