There is a good anchorage in Loch Lochy round the first point to port just after entering. The Canal chart would not have suffered if the important detail had been made more striking, and even if some extra detail, not strictly useful for navigation, had been added. One hesitates to suggest that it might have said the fishing is free on Loch Lochy but privately preserved on Loch Oich, though if it had, honest folk might be saved unnecessary thought or precaution. Of course, a good angler should row with quiet oars at any time. But in Loch Lochy the stillness of the heron and the cunning of the eel would have had little effect in luring the large trout from their lairs. We heard afterwards that the bottom feeding is exceptionally good here. And we can at least assert that the quality of the half-pound brown trout is high—and pink. But the loch itself is very deep, running to well over seventy fathoms opposite Invergloy. There seemed to be a fair stretch of fishing water from where we rounded the point along towards Achnacarry, and I mention this because it happens to coincide with shelter from the winds which blow up the Great Glen at this season.
It may seem absurd to suggest that a yacht could be storm-bound in Loch Lochy, a fresh-water loch no more than ten miles long, but as we fished along the shore and saw the white-caps racing up mid loch, we decided that stranger things could happen. The downpour had now got broken up into squall showers, and if the trout had been biting in the water like the midges on shore, we might have been there a long time. The ground feeding here must be very good for midges, for they were unusually large in size and fastidious in palate. They are very fond of eyelids, and, like perverts generally, are relentless in pursuit. If you vulgarly swipe them, they will, of course, bite common parts like the wrists and the neck and the inside of the nostrils, but it’s the eyelids they are after.
So we viewed Achnacarry and the Dark Mile and the region of Prince Charlie’s cave from the safety of the water. This is where yachting has a splendid ease over hiking or the pause that follows the mere rush of motoring. All the marvels of heaven and earth may be contemplated objectively or in deep abstraction without a single bite. ‘They’re following you,’ cries the Crew. So we take a turn across to the edge of the squall and come back unattended.
The following morning the rain had stopped but the wind was still strong, so as the glass was rising we were in no hurry to depart and decided that we would wait until the afternoon and then proceed in an enchanted calm. The glass kept rising slowly but surely, but about five o’clock the weather was very bad and the rain coming down again. So we lifted anchor.
Had the same strength of wind been against us, we certainly could never have faced it. We were astonished at the seas that were running and had to keep a sharp eye on the dinghy. Before getting the full force of the wind, the Mate had hoisted his precious sail. Fortunately, jibbing in the first blast, it flattened most of its wet area against the mast. We were going at a great pace, and in fact we covered the ten miles in about one hour, by far the highest speed of the trip.
It was quite an impressive sight looking back on the wind-blackened water alive with seething crests, and we chuckled at this inland effort to emulate the real sea. The only spot where we were anxious for a few minutes was just after passing the Achnacarry glen, where some deflection of the wind adds to the fury. Later we heard that two sizable yachts had that day decided not to face it in Loch Ness.
Driving along at this speed, we began to wonder with some concern about our approach to the end of the loch with its swing bridge and two locks, but fortunately the loch narrows just before the end and then opens out again into a small but sheltered bay, and with relief and offering much encouragement we watched the Crew get the horn ready. It was the first time it had ever been required. Tilting it up in the best style, she blew a prolonged and splendid blast. We gave her a great cheer. Even the lock-keepers heard it.
I was not now going to make the Corpach mistake of stopping too soon, but the wind being with us and the flow from the locks negligible, we went so far that, before the gates could be opened, we had to tie up against the stone wall, whose base, for no doubt some interesting reason, curved outward immediately below the water. After that, when approaching locks or bridges, we stood well off, until we could enter or pass properly; and that undoubtedly is the right way.
But once inside the lock, we had no difficulty at all; none of the watching and fending of our experiences with the fishing boats. We were tucked into a corner where nothing came at us, and when the next gate was open the obliging lock-keepers hauled us through. It was child’s play, and the Crew departed to get fresh milk from a farm and some provisions from a small store close by.
What held most interest for us so far in our journey up the Canal was not clan feuds or hunted princes or battles long ago, but the sight of new forests growing along its banks. It is difficult to describe the curious impersonal pleasure this gave us. Perhaps it is that at the back of his mind the Highlander is tired of his ‘romantic’ past, particularly when contrasted with his unromantic present. Tired, too, of talking of the failure of his fishings and his crofts, of deer forests and sportsmen, of the decay of his native tongue, Gaelic; even tired of the chronic habit of grousing against the Government, and not a little ashamed of the recent fungus growth of State aid in direct cash or other payments, free potatoes or assisted settlements.
An impartial factual history of the Highlands in modern times by one also able to deal with the psychological factors involved would make an amazing story. To find a parallel to some of the treacheries and cruelties to the inhabitants, one would have to go to Armenia and the Turks. I am not now referring to the wholesale evictions, or even to solitary efforts by chiefs to try to sell some of their clansmen into slavery, but to the open acts of responsible British governments. Here, for example, is part of a letter from a man, taken prisoner a few weeks after Culloden (1746) and sent to the hulks on the Thames: ‘. . . In the latter end of June we was put on board of a transport of 450 tons called the “Liberty and Property,” in which we continued the rest of the eight months upon twelve ounces of oat shilling [a day] as it came from the mill. There was 32 prisoners more put aboard of the said “Liberty and Property”, which makes 157, and when we came ashore we was but 49 in life. . . . They would take us from the hold in a rope, and hoist us to the yard-arm and let us fall in the sea in order for ducking of us, and tie us to the mast and whip us. This was done to us when we was not able to stand. . . . We had neither bed nor bedclothes, nor clothes to keep us warm in the day-time. The ship’s ballast was black earth and small stones, in which we was obliged to dig holes to lie into for to keep us warm. . . .’ (Though he was lucky in this last respect, as in another transport the prisoners had to lie on horse manure.) Having survived those pleasantries, he was transported to the Barbadoes. Many of the prisoners had surrendered on a promise having been given that no action would be taken against them.
But it is not pleasant to write about. Even thinking over it gives one a grue. The Highlander has forgotten it; as he has forgotten to wear his kilt; cares little whether his language dies or not; and is not moved much by Bonnie Prince Charlies or even the lesser orders of Sutherlands or Lochiels or the Lords of the Isles.
What he wants now—where the spirit has been left in him to want anything constructive—is hope for the future, and these new forests along the banks of the Canal and on both sides of Loch Lochy were somehow like a symbol of a new order. The trees were full of sap, of young life, green and eager, larches and other pines, pointed in aspiration, and with an air about them not of privilege but of freedom. They had been planted by the Forestry Commission. They were therefore State forests; the forests of the folk themselves.
It was a heartening sight, with something of gaiety and invitation about it. That the fishing on Loch Lochy should in consequence be free seemed natural. Myriad points of vivid green light in the rain.
‘What thousands of Christmas trees!’ said the Crew.
This is no veiled plea for State ownership. I may be presumed to know the inner workings of bureaucracy. Writing simply from observation, I have merely to record that the only two efforts at reconstruction which impressed us in our travels were both sponsored by public bodies: the settlement at Portnalong by the Department of Agriculture, to which I have already referred, and this afforestation by the Forestry Commission. One could hope for less individual mistrust in the Highlander, or, if one likes, the Scot, and so envisage a wide emergence of co-operative effort. One can dream all sorts of dreams. But here at last were two positive beginnings in construction, carried out quietly and unostentatiously. And we have seen no notices—so far—warning trespassers in the new forests that they will be prosecuted. One notice only—a warning against the common enemy fire.
The highway crosses the Canal just before the entrance to Loch Oich, and here we watched the Crew trying to waken the dead with her horn. It was a stupendous performance. The dead appeared.
‘It makes you think,’ said the Mate, looking far away. She blew one in his ear, but I caught him as he was going over.
Loch Oich is a small but lovely loch, with bends and shallows and wooded islands. The passage is clearly indicated by beacons and buoys—red to port going north and black to starboard. We passed an ivied ruin on our left which the Mate said was the old castle of the Macdonells, the rock it stood on being the gathering place of the clan (‘the rock of the raven’—their war-cry). It had direct connection with the Well of the Seven Heads near by—a ghastly story. But we were concerned about an anchorage, for none is shown on the official chart. There is a sheltered one, however, just off the wooden pier at Port Macdonell. Going rather far in, we lay abreast of the pier, and on taking soundings from the dinghy discovered a soft-bottomed bank inshore within range of our anchor chain, but as it had four to five feet of water over it, we did not move out. The gear lever had stuck in the old-fashioned way coming in, despite the cupful of oil, so we all felt friendly about it.
It was now after eight o’clock and the Mate and I decided that if we hurried we might get some business done ashore. Once safely clear of the Thistle, we called to the Crew that we should be expecting a good supper. She came and looked at us and, words failing her, blew a blast that made the trees shiver.
It was over a mile and a half to Invergarry Hotel, and when we arrived there we could not find the entrance marked Bar. But I knew this peculiarity of Highland hotels, and searching round the back premises we came on a door that led through a dark passage down which we stumbled until we pushed suddenly into a bare room where the working men of that district were having their pint. (In Fort Augustus we failed to find the Bar altogether, but then we had left ourselves only a quarter of an hour to look for it, though we were assured in the luxurious lounge that there was one.)
As we had never overcome a reluctance to drink the water straight out of the tank, we found the draught beer excellent; and the company was friendly, with talk of fishing and bees and crops. One small oldish man had taken a drop too much, but they bore with him good naturedly and with an attentive politeness. Even when the talk had the utmost cordiality and warmth, there was always this reserve of good manners: a sort of instinct against exhibiting oneself and against intrusion. It produced a pleasant atmosphere wherein sober talk and laughter jostled each other naturally. The Mate was moved by it to remember the Crew, and the dear old lady who served us answered him hopefully in a low and confidential voice. We had to wait by the back door so long that we were giving up hope, when at last she appeared from the high and inner sanctum with apologies for delay.
In this contrast between back door and front, there is no institution more typical of the Highland social scene than the Highland hotel.
As remarkable a contrast as between the fresh water and the salt, which it took us some time to get used to. There was no concern now over filling the tank. One dropped a bucket overboard. But we could not remember the absence of a tide and frequently surprised ourselves strenuously hauling up the dinghy.
We stayed the week-end, and on Sunday set off to explore the tale of the ivied castle. The country is heavily wooded and the undergrowth lush. Wild raspberries weighted their bushes with a dark red ripeness. The rain had gone and we wandered down by the old bridge where there is a simple and effective war memorial and some obviously sound salmon pools. But the water of the Garry was too dark to spot a fin or a tail.
No one, however, can stop the traveller looking, though in these keepered regions the fish take on something of the untouchable quality of the holy water beasts of ancient Egypt.
And in time we came to Tobar nan Ceann, the Well of the Heads. This memorial to a bloody deed is a pillar of four sides, each of which tells the same tale in a different language: Gaelic, English, French, and Latin. The four sides are brought to a point surmounted by seven stone heads, cut off at the throat, with a hand grasping a dirk laid vengefully on top of them.
The story is of two sons of Keppoch (a branch of the Macdonells) being educated in France, and, in their absence, of seven male cousins at home enjoying the family power. On their return the two were murdered by the seven, and at last the bard of the family managed to avenge the deed by slaughtering the seven. Thereupon (as the memorial puts it): ‘The Heads of the Seven Murderers were presented at the foot of the Noble Chief, in Glengarry Castle, after having been washed in this Spring: and ever since that event, which took place early in the Sixteenth Century, it has been known by the name of “Tobar-nan-ceann,” the Well of the Heads’ It was erected in 1812, by the reigning chief, ‘As a Memorial of the ample and summary Vengeance, which, in the swift course of Feudal Justice . . .’
Looking around this grim record, you may think the well is gone, but if you go down off the road, on the loch side, you come on a low archway extending right under the road. As we entered, past some tramp’s litter, the darkness of the vault after the bright day made us blink and grope carefully. I must have gone between twenty and thirty feet, doubled up, when my hand, feeling before me, went to the wrist in the bloody well.
As we came out, I looked at my hand. It was quite clean. But the cold water had in an instant obliterated the centuries more effectively than had the thirty-six lines of sculptured letters in four tongues. In fact, the contact for some time induced an odd sensation, that seemed akin to, if not part of, complicity in the deed itself!
For the power of the well is extremely strong. Of Druidic practices, worship of or at the well is perhaps the only real survival. On the first Sunday in May, great crowds still gather at the Culloden Wishing Well, above Inverness, to drop their coin in and wish their secret wish and make festival, crowds of the folk themselves who would never dream of going the extra mile or two to look at the Culloden battlefield. There, too, they tie their pieces of coloured cloth to the trees, leave their secret hopes to the gods. But the wishing-well hopes are pagan hopes, hopes for love and well-being and laughter on the earth where life is good; not hopes for personal salvation in some shadowy hereafter, made to seem as full of righteous gloom as the insides of their churches.
And as around Loch Lochy, so by the Culloden Wishing Well there is now growing a State forest, and to the top-knot of a young pine I saw, the other year, a girl tie a gay pink strip torn from her clothing. She swayed more lissom than the released pine and her laughter bubbled more deliciously than ever did the old pagan well. Well and forest and young girl, and love among them in a laughing breeze for a few thousand years. Humanity may make something of that, without either feudal memorial or sculptured letters about summary vengeance.
For it is remarkable how all the bloody deeds are remembered, and the happiness, the greatness, and the love forgotten.