They will be here soon flying through the night piercing the muffled silence as stars punctuate darkness’s depths. They are coming, converging, greeting each other, flying alongside and ahead.
Battalions with no borders to defend no wars to fight no points to score.
To the stirring fields of autumn to the flat black water to the margins, they approach.
Let’s meet them there.
I was on a bus between Perth and Edinburgh last week. As it swung into Kinross to pick up passengers, I glanced up at the amazing Kinross Gateway sculpture of three pink-footed geese alighting (David F. Wilson, https://dfwilson.co.uk/1371-2/). I thought, ah yes, the pink-foots. They’ll be on their way now. In my mind I could see them sweeping the skies, could hear their incessant babbling on the wind. The poem above got written before the bus had even got to Kelty. By the time I go to the end of it, I wasn’t only writing about geese. The last line references a famous poem by the 12th century Persian Sufi poet, Rumi, which goes like this:
“Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing there is a field. I’ll meet you there.
When the soul lies down in that grass, the world is too full to talk about. Ideas, language, even the phase “each other” doesn’t make any sense.”
The little wood has become tangled, and the paths vague and meandering in the past few years, since Jed our collie died. Few people walk them, and even when it was a regular walk for me and Jed, they tended to shift and change, as blackthorn grew to block one route, or trees, felled by the wind or growing with vigour, made another way more attractive.
But always, there have been certain way-markers:- the overgrown guerrilla-planted Christmas tree, the gap in the field boundary where the wire’s trampled down, a patch of brambles, the fallen birch that still produces shoots…. Today, alone, I beat the path out again, lost in thickets of gorse and thorn, disoriented by the sound of traffic, unsure of distances among an understory of fern and broom. As so many times before, when coming from diverse directions, my brain unconsciously looks for you to reset my compass. I know I must pass you on my left to regain the path downhill and out of the wood.
You are the biggest, broadest, in the wood, though perhaps not the tallest or the oldest, and certainly not as old as me. With two feet firmly planted, you stand fast and firm among the rest who bend and break in the wind, and you spread your many solid arms in all directions, and to the sky.
Here you are. Now I know my way way. But wait – have we ever truly met? Have I ever really seen you, Mr. Standfast? Today I approach with awareness, pausing in stages, taking you in. A rush of warmth, of joy… joy or recognition, joy at being recognised. When I reach close enough to touch, my gardener’s – my orchardist’s – eye notes dead, stiff and black lower branches and itches, for a second, for loppers. But then I watch the beetle’s progress through the moss and lichen upon them; the moist droplets of old rain sustaining the beings on the branch, and recognise, it’s none of my damned business.
We are together for a good while, without words, unified by our alikeness, as your very own warbler comes to join us, bursting into that fitful exhuberance of song that wears itself out in a twittering, grumpy-sounding mutter, then kicks off a few minutes later to try again. I feel the healing nature of your skin, the questing stability and strength of your roots, the air you breathe, I breathe, we breathe. For a moment, I know we are one, with the lichens and beetles and warblers and the things unseen.
I know my way now. As I rejoin the ghost of a path, my palms carry the imprint of willow bark, like a memory, like a gift.
I haven’t written this blog for ages, and what follows is a comment neither on nature nor the universe. It’s an account of a vivid dream from which I’ve just awoken, and it might be a comment on the human part of this small dot in the universe today. Or it might not. See what you think.
Somewhere in the industrial north of England, I was running to catch an underground train. I couldn’t quite keep up with my partner and when I arrived on the platform, he was just pressing a button to get on a single huge, black, open carriage – which was all the train consisted of. The doors slid open, he got on, I went to follow and the doors closed in front of me. So I waited a while and got on the next, identical, “train”. It resembled an old-fashioned coach without a horse – with a roof, but no glass in the windows. There were quite a few passengers sprawled around inside, on seats, the floor, or couches.
I didn’t know where we were, and wasn’t sure what my partner would do – go on to our destination and wait for me there, or get off at the next station and come back to find me? I also couldn’t remember, or had never bothered to find out, our destination. No matter, I thought, I’ll look at Google maps….. Only, I seemed to have lost my phone. We had bought a cheap sort of “toy” version for emergencies, which we hadn’t got out of its box yet. Of course, there were no Google apps, or else I couldn’t find them. In fact, I couldn’t find anything useful. Well, never mind, I could just ring him and he could tell me where we were, why we were there and where we were going.
But I couldn’t fathom how to make a simple phone call on the device. There seemed to be lots of games, but no means of communication. Station after station went by as I struggled with it, and endless vistas of industrial wasteland and dark satanic mills – and networks of grimy canals – were the only clues I could see as to where we were. One passenger, a middle-aged man, offered some help and advice, but none of his tips and instructions seemed to make any sense, or they didn’t work, and soon he fell asleep. The train hit the barrier which marked the end of the line, but without a pause reversed and set off back on the same track. This happened repeatedly; it got dark – and I had another problem.
For some reason, I was carrying the smaller of my ginger cats, Jeoffry, in my arms. A very biddable and lazy animal, Jeoffry was finally showing signs of annoyance and wanting to get off the train. Fearful he would jump out of the open window, and desperate not to lose him as well, I clung on to cat with one arm while trying to get some sense out of the phone with the other hand. It dawned on me that all I had to do was read the instructions, which, after a struggle I prised out of the base of the box. This thick wad of paper, as I supposed, must have the answer to how to use a phone to phone someone.
But as I opened each layer, out jumped some cheap plastic toy or game or cartoon show, which expanded with the air to make a growing heap of unwanted junk on my lap (with the cat), and nowhere in all these gimmicks could I find any decipherable instructions. I noted that a disproportionate number of my fellow passengers were children, all busy playing with games and toys already. I tried to offload a set of plastic animals the phone had disgorged onto one of them. He wasn’t interested – he had loads of plastic toys already, surrounding him on the floor. If they weren’t so distracted, mightn’t one of these (presumably) tech-savvy infants be able to get my “phone” to work?
Getting desperate, I appealed loudly for help. The man who’d first advised me woke up. “Are you still looking for people to help you?” he sneered. “What is it it now?”
“For a start,” I replied, “where are we? What is this place?”
He tutted. “Great Yorrington”, he said, and proceeded to lecture me on then history of the murky waste we were passing through. By the time he finished we were somewhere else entirely, but equally murky.
So there I was. Left behind, not understanding where I was and ignorant of where I was going, unable to communicate with anyone who could tell me. Confounded by crappy technology which delivered only junk and gimmicks and no truthful information, while surrounded by people so completely engrossed in their own junk and toys they were totally unaware of anyone else’s difficulties, and had no apparent interest in where they were going. And all the time, desperately trying to hold on to the living, breathing, warm thing that was all I had of value on that train.
I’m glad to say I woke up.
One other thing. Of course, the train was driverless, and completely unsupervised.
In the weak, blinking sunshine, wind-chilled and watery, The top fields swarm with detectorists from West Lothian, Thinly spread, rigorously spaced, slowly they move, like cautious extra-terrestrials, each has a rigid, but fluidly-swaying trunk, held just above the ground, all wear rucksacks or cloth bags that sport spade-shaped antennae.
Every so often, a detectorist drops to his knees and starts to dig, carefully refilling each hole before moving on. I greet a smiling pair of them at the gate. “I only get Sunday off, but I wouldn’t be anywhere else,” says one. Do they find treasure? Laughter rings – “be better off buying a lottery ticket for that!” But…. each has a tale to tell, of tobacco tins and Victorian pennies; last weekend, a Bronze Age spearhead – “in this very field!” And anyway, “it’s this I enjoy best,” – throwing an arm towards the hills, the grazing geese, the spruced-up-for-spring yellowhammers in the hedge – “being outside. The scenery. And the people are all lovely.”
They are. I admire their hi-tech gear, wish them luck…. And off they go again. Watching their measured tread, I know (whether they do or not) detecting’s a walking meditation, just as anglers sit and meditate on water, fish or no fish.
On a quiet day of winter sun and muted activity from woodland birds, I arrive at King’s Myre again. Reed Mace flowerheads from last year cluster around the watery margin, clogging the channel by the little jetty where the boats wait and fill with rain. We used to call them “bulrushes” where I grew up, and it wasn’t till Mr. Illesley, in Rural Studies, enlightened us all about the differences between reeds, rushes, sedges and grasses that I ever learned their proper name– or that Reed Mace is related, but none of these anyway!
It is the same plant known as cattails in America, and valued throughout its distribution for its edibility. The rhizomes – root like underground stems, or underwater ones in the case of this plant – are starchy and filling when baked. They can also be dried and ground into flour, though I never have. The pollen from the male flowers can be used as flour too, or to thicken sauces and soups. It has many medicinal uses. But the best part is the emerging shoot – which will be appearing above water level any time now. Cut, cleaned, steamed, baked, sauteed – it is a lovely spring vegetable to rivals asparagus or bamboo shoots for flavour and versatility. You can keep eating the shoots until the flower spikes start to emerge, you don’t need waders to forage it, and, as Reed Mace is actually quite an invasive plant, it’s pretty sustainable to nibble bits off the clump! Last year’s flowers are starting to burst apart now, revealing the dense, cottony-fluffy seedheads inside.
I creep through the spongy, saturated margins of the little loch at the heart of the King’s Myre, to peer through the cattails to see what wintering birds are on it today. Goldeneye, a few gadwall, mallards, a coot, typically swimming against the tide of the rest, intent on his own adventure. No sign of the swans, too early for the osprey to be home yet. In the damp woodland, waterlogged alcoves and scrapes, from which spiky, angular trees grow erratically, wait for frogs and toads to arrive for spawning. Between bare branches, multiple trunks and stems and a storm of tiny twigs, the blue sky seeps as if caught in a vast, arboreal net, reflected in patches of water.
Bracket fungi show off their smug Cornish-pasty smiles of concentric bands, on wood they share with moss and lichen, and a thousand invertebrates. Spread across the leaf-carpeted floor, long-dead logs, un-barked, silvery, yielding, are home to thousands and thousands more, riddled with holes and channels and hidden tunnels in the fungus-softened wood. On cue, somewhere in a dead tree, a woodpecker begins his first tentative drumming and drilling.
I look up into the Scots Pines, their narrow crowns dancing around each other like polite or nervous teenagers, and see the shapes of jagged sashes of sky, so clear, so blue….
Look up, look through, look between – there is much to see. Or is there only sky?
With implacably good timing, I finished my coffee to arrive at the Holiday Inn on the edge of Perth, seven minutes before the hourly bus home. Bang on time, I saw a bus crawling up Dunkeld Road. I slid to the edge of the pavement. But wait – was it a bus? No Stagecoach livery, a plain white coach, beetling along rather fast. I screwed up my eyes: nothing on the front to say what number – or any number – or destination. The tinted windows didn’t allow me to see if it carried passengers. A private coach, then? I sighed and stepped back.
As it hurtled past, driver not even glancing at the bus stop, I saw, on the side, “23 – Bankfoot”. The air turned blue outside the Holiday Inn, as I gawped in disbelief and watched it sail off without me. What to do? No, I wasn’t going to go for another coffee. I certainly wasn’t going to sit staring at a petrol garage while inhaling the noxious air of Perth’s god-awful motor mile for an hour. One does not get a “pleasant stroll” down Dunkeld Road, but eventually I began to walk towards town, undecidedly, seeking equanimity.
A couple of minutes later, just before the rail bridge, I noticed a tucked-away footpath sign: Lade Walk to Perth/Tulloch. Perth Lade is an historic man-made waterway which fed into the town’s mills. I knew the Tulloch bit, and the bit from the retail park to the City Mills, but this stretch – I never knew it existed. The Lade is grotesquely polluted for much of its length these days, but I know people who have spotted kingfishers hunting there, and the incredibly tolerant mallards of Perth make the best of it, and eat discarded chips. I ducked along a narrow path between the railway and the fenced car park of some tedious car dealer, with little optimism. Surely all I had in store were industrial lots and housing estates? The narrow path broadened as it reached the Lade, curving round from the west, and I heard flowing water and the busy furking-about of moorhens in the thick undergrowth on either side. The irritating groan of the Dunkeld Road traffic had completely disappeared, yet surely I must be not far from, and parallel to, it? To my left, a thick bank of mature trees, mostly self-sown and densely overgrown, had shed small branches and twigs in profusion during the winter storms. Accumulations of litter, initially like glue in the conglomerate of nature’s own debris, were slightly fewer than at the start, though one spot behind the ugly chainlink fence was a veritable carpet of empty beer bottles – either decades’ worth of boozing or the emptying of an accumulation someone didn’t want on their own doorstep.
Five sleeping mallards sat camouflaged on the far bank, not moving, until I got my phone out to take their photo, when they all silently uncurled sleepy heads and glided off downstream. Moorhens, in vibrant plumage ready for spring, hung about, quite tame, crossing the path and ferreting in the reeds on their spindly legs. The larger trees thinned to a narrow belt and behind the fence was a huge expanse of derelict industrial land, half-concreted or tarmac in places, but being rapidly colonised by pioneer birch. elder and other young trees. In January, all looked grey, but from the lying vegetation of last summer I could guess at the wealth of wildness that would spring up, laughing at human arrogance, when the season turned again. Bare young trees may look like a delicate screen, but never doubt their power and ability to exploit a vacuum. Nor that of the dandelions, dockens and bombsite weed, all bringing seeds and nectar to wildlife. On cue, a terrible high-pitched squeaking started up in one of the older sycamores – a flock of long-tailed tits on the rampage. I stopped and birdwatched for a while – coal tits and blue tits were weaving between the branches and a cheeping of chaffinches held forth from some bushes by the lade. On the path, first a male bullfinch, then his duller mate, landed and had a good look around before returning to the other side of the lade. Blackbirds and a thrush hopped out and eyed me beadily.
I came to a junction – a path crossed the Lade by bridge, past an old brick building – possibly a former mill but now another garage. It was attractive though, and full of potential nesting sites. Here, there was a sign on the fence – all this derelict land, stretching into infinite distance with no trace of the motor mile, belonged to the railway, which was nowhere to be seen but must be in there somewhere. I hoped it would stay their property, and they would never try to tidy it up or sell it to developers.
There were houses and flats now on the other side of the Lade, so near, yet curiously far and separated from this unexpectedly lovely and interesting walk. A large willow on the far bank was decorated with ribbons, toys and ornaments, like a wishing tree of old. I wondered who came out of their homes to celebrate or remember there. The ground on my left opened out, seeming endlessly wide. Lade and path swung eastwards and I saw an iron bridge, unmistakably a railway footbridge, just like the one I used to play under as a child in east London.
And over the bridge, where teenaged girls stood discussing the wicked-looking, monstrous-headed dog they thankfully had on a tight lead, Dunkeld Road reappeared. I swerved away from it, passed through some houses and across Crieff Road, where I joined the Lade stretch I knew well, skirting old tenements and road ends, bits of gardens and the ubiquitous smell of cannabis. Passing Stagecoach Headquarters, I surreptitiously made a rude sign. No time to march in and complain, if I wasn’t to miss the next bus as well! But thanks to their rubbish driver, I had discovered a stretch of unofficial countryside that I’ll revisit in summer, I’d enjoyed an unexpected daunder, found equanimity – and, moreover, escaped Dunkeld Road.
(It’s taken me a while to write this walk. I did it the day the clocks went forward, end of March, and today they went back again. My 14 year old collie died in early summer, and this was the first walk I decided it would be unfair to take him on, so it was a bit poignant; and weird not to have him beside me all the way.)
It began at the CLEAR Community Garden in Methil where I left Andrew to deliver a workshop. CLEAR stands for Community-Led Environmental Action for Regeneration, and is a very active charity whose stamp is all over the former mining towns of Methil and Buckhaven in Fife. We’ve worked with them a lot over the years – their compulsion to fill every available space whether roadside or cliff-top with fruit trees was one of the inspirations that got us into orchards in the first place. The Methil garden was pretty stunning; I had a good look round to admire the recycled materials, the superb compost bays (I do love a good compost heap) and pear trees about to blossom, before heading off into the cold, breezy sunshine.
Zig-zagging through Methil, side-stepping CLEAR plantings on the edges of parks and in vacant plots, till the town had morphed into Buckhaven, or Buckhyne if you like, the place of superlative pies and hidden histories, from the extravagant exposure of Fife coast geology, the sturdy cottages of Cowley Street and relics of the long-disused mine railway – all explained in panels erected by CLEAR and Fife Council.
I’ve become rather fond of urban walking lately, for the unexpected quirks of history, and opportunities to see the extraordinary hiding behind the mundane. Here, I learned of the “lost village” of Buckhaven Links, which grew, mushroom-like, on the shore when the Church of Scotland had one of its fallings-out and mislaid a large part of its congregation. Buckhaven Links did not survive too long, and is now buried under the Buckhaven Energy Park, a darkly towering set of anonymous edifices over the wall from the street.
Buckhaven Energy Park
That road took me past rows of houses with signature Fife/East coast crow-stepped gables to where Buckhyne Harbour once was, until it was abandoned due to over-fishing and used as a repository for mining spoil. Beyond the harbour site, a scramble through rocks and there was the beach, for a while and pre-pollution a popular holiday and day trip destination for Fifers and those beyond the kingdom.
Up, then, climbing skyward the Buckhaven Braes, lit by the silver of blackthorn blossom and the gold of Sea Buckthorn, peppered with orchard trees, all labelled, all immaculately pruned and protected, the coast path lined with daffodils in flower, until this extraordinary little town was behind me and I marched along westwards towards East Wemyss.
It was the East Wemyss caves that had been bothering me ever since reading that Val McDermid novel; not just to imagine fictional murders, but to see where Picts had carved strange images in bygone centuries, where people had dwelt, sheltered, hidden, picnicked and stored precious things. But first, when I passed through the woods, I came upon Macduff’s Castle – an impressive ruin whose stonework exhibited all the artistry of a carving, it is so tastefully eroded. All around its roofless vaults grew great clumps of Alexanders, a shiny-leafed, celery-like edible plant not native to these parts, but where it takes off, it does so with enthusiasm. I circumnavigated the castle before heading down the cliff to the caves.
I had been warned that the best bits of the caves were gated off by substantial railings, in order to protect the ancient carvings. You can get a guided tour of them if you go to the museum in East Wemyss, but I didn’t want that today. So I stood outside Jonathan’s Cave and used my imagination instead, then stood inside the Doo Cave, where dozens of little cubicle nest holes have been carved out of the soft red sandstone to accommodate the doos, kept for meat and eggs in years gone by. At the large Court Cave, I did my exploring along with other visitors until my excitement subsided.
Then I walked on, the sunshine now spring-warm, past a gaggle of East Wemyss monuments and memorials, side-stepping mine ventilation shafts, to re-join the path by the sea. Rafts of eider ducks sailed by, making their weird, cooing, gossipy calls, and cormorants lined up on rocks. Strange but recent sculptures in stone arose against the skyline like sentinels; I added to them, noticing how the stiff uprightness of last year’s teasel seedheads mirrored their form. Under the precipice on which the relatively modern Wemyss Castle teeters, and I was into happy little West Wemyss, basking, and its lovely cafe for tea and a well-earned salad.
Looking forward to the next Fife coast exploration!
Sunday looked a bit damp from the bedroom window, but we wanted a walk, and we wanted to be in the hills, so with beginners’ minds, not choked with assumptions about walks in bad weather not being enjoyable, we set off to Little Glenshee, to walk the Obney hills to the Obelisk on Craig Gibbon that overlooks Glen Garr. As we neared the ford, we realised we were not going to get any fantastic views from the Highland Boundary Fault over the flatlands of lowland Perthshire. The cloud base, already low, was decidedly sinking like a lead balloon. I wondered where Wordsworth was actually wandering when he spoke about “a cloud that floats on high”. It is not in the nature of any self-respecting cloud to float. Sink, envelop, infiltrate, surround, creep into you…. Not float. Anyway, we donned the waterproofs and walked.
And this is what came of it.
First came the rocks; a stony uphill path; clear water running over the blue slates, the shambles of old quarries. Upthrust from the plain, the sudden rise of hills unseen but felt in thigh and chest, heartbeat thundering in swaddled air; stones shiny, metamorphic, tale-telling, momentous.
Stones too, marked on the map, rearing through a drenching mist: “Cairn (remains of)” – markers, unknown burials or merely outcrops – “Pile of Stones”: piles which shrink as you approach across heather and fescue grass.
Then, the little things that lie beside the track: startling pink of late-flowering heaths pounce on you from the greyness of descending cloud; tiny water buttercups, iridescent ferns. And the spiders! Stalwart and smug in their jewel-encrusted orb webs, Waiting in pole position even though there’s Building still to be done. Every stem, every firework explosion of rush and moor-grass holds a magical web. Higher up, orb spiders fade away, their places taken by crowded, ill-designed but functional hammock webs, their makers hiding from shame or cunning, or just from the rain. The democracy of glistening crystal water-gems adorns them all.
And so, the water: the cloud paints every surface, you included, wet without knowing how. A little pool, no more, stretches in the mind… Arthurian legend, told by the poet: “…and fling him far into the middle mere. Watch what thou see-est, and lightly bring me word….” No arm today “clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful” rises to catch a sword, no lady in this lake. Just the mist weaving between the rushes and the ripples. Mist magnifies the shade of a ghostly tree, Tall as a mountain, shivering in and out of focus -is it there, or is it just your eyes?
And finally, the Obelisk….
The track seemed to go on forever. We had no way of knowing how much further it was to the Obelisk, since there was no chance of picking out landmarks with visibility only 20m or less, and the risk that the map would dissolve if we got it out. We waved in the direction of the much-vaunted views that weren’t there. But I was happy having my vision curtailed; there was so much to see close by, so much that surprised and intrigued. The cloud muffled sound: occasionally, red grouse materialised and flew off – “go back! go back! go back!” – or a plaintive meadow pipit called damply.
Then on our right, where the view would have been, a monstrous hill seemed to rise sheer from a deep valley we knew wasn’t on the map. But no, it was surely a bank of darker cloud – there are no hills that high here. It faded in and out of sight, until the penny dropped – it was the start of the trees in the midst of which the Obelisk stands. But so tall! And so far away, across a great canyon of a valley. “Not going there,” we said, as the track ended abruptly and we ignored ourselves to head south towards the top of Craig Gibbon. I don’t know how mist and cloud so trick the eye, but the great gulf was actually just a slight dip in the terrain, and the supernaturally gigantic trees were but mature pines and larches clustered on top of the little summit.
The Obelisk itself, looming like an ancient pyramid from the foggy tangles of tree and heath, was a wonderful thing that day. Its history is rather pedestrian – just an expression of a 19th century landowner’s ego who wanted everyone to see how far his land stretched. But the cloud slithered into its window-spaces; ferns flourished on the wet grey stone. Tiny frogs hopped among the slippery, exposed pine roots, and there were wild blaeberries for lunch.
The track we follow is purposeful. It has the directness and air not just of going somewhere, but of having been going there for a long, long, time. We get to it from another determined little track, that rises up from the calm waters of Galmisdale Bay, through woodland to the uplands of a hill farm. Side-stepping the sheep and their copious leavings, ignoring the bull who is also ignoring us as he lounges among his harem, we skirt the farmhouse and its hollyhocks, and turn onto the Grulin track.
Straight, easy, well-founded with centuries of stone and tamped by more recent ATVs seeking sheep, the track passes the remains of a fort on the left; hut circles lurk in the grass and bracken between track and cliff edge – we know they’re there but cannot discern them. To our right looms the monstrous tower of An Sgurr, the dramatic reminder of an outpouring of volcanic pitchstone that dominates the Island of Eigg.
The track becomes a path; there are a few boggy bits, and lots of ups and downs, but it is still clear, still purposeful. So many feet have imbued it with purpose. The first thing we notice that hints we are approaching Grulin Uachdrach or Upper Grulin are some angled, straight lines of raised turf. They are buried dry stone walls, created long ago from the stony, rubble-laden landscape we traverse. They mark irregular fields and enclosures that would outlie and tangle with the settlement itself. Bracken and heather, with snatches of rush and bog cotton form the matrix of vegetation, but suddenly I am arrested by an open, grassy mound to my right.
I know from the map we are not quite at Upper Grulin. But I head off for that mound, and feel a prickle in my spine, a sudden silence in my head. On the edge of that sunny clearing, I stop. The wind is stilled. Are there walls beneath me or not? I walk through – or is it over? – the softly waving pale green grass, and step – is it outside? – into the tufts of fern and heath. I think, am I walking someone else’s path, or one created by my imagination? And then there it is – a small patch of stinging nettle, the signature of the midden. Someone lived here once. So I follow their path, and it leads around the cnoc to a south-facing rocky bank covered in wild strawberries. I get it. I, too, would have passed the midden to get fruit for my porridge every summer morning.
Most of the ruins are more visible, and soon they come into view. Indeed, the first is roofed and is in good repair, with new windows and fresh white paint. It was the one house left for the shepherd when the whole village (which had held 103 people) was forced to leave – “cleared” is the unsavoury term they used for it – by the landowner in 1853 to make way for Cheviot sheep to graze the rich pastures.
The rest of the buildings are dunts in the bracken, crumbling walls, the hint of a doorway, nothing above lintel height. We continue on the track, now more rocky and difficult, to Grulin Iachdrach (Lower Grulin). Springs gush from the rocks near the path; we cross one by a rough bridge of massive unhewn rocks lain long ago. Later, we founder in a bog – the sort you hop quickly without stopping and your fingers crossed. A kestrel hovers above the ruins, claiming it as territory. Some houses of Lower Grulin are easy to access. All retain their tell-tale nettle patch after 160 years. I stop at a doorway and wonder, can I enter? Eventually I quietly ask permission, and apologise, and go through. Again, the silence, within and without. The questions, the unknown answers; long sea journeys to Nova Scotia; what is left? What is lost? What remains?
The “18 unroofed buildings, 6 enclosures and a field system” drily described in the notes on the 1880 Ordnance Survey map of Eigg to sum up Grulin are not all that’s there. A fort, probably Iron Age, sits perched on a rocky outcrop. Shielings, shelters, kilns and other buildings have been identified. And what remains is that silence – a telling scream of silence. Whatever the end story for the 14 families who were given no choice, that screaming stillness can almost be tasted, bitter and lingering.
But, on this island which has taken control of its fate, this crime can never be committed again.
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