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Breakfast is over—a
Highland breakfast. Full justice has been done to the pleasant porridge
and warm creamy milk, the fresh herrings that were alive in Loch Fyne a
few hours ago, salmon from the splash-nets at Eriska, fragrant coffee,
excellent home-made scones, and rich butter, tasting of the cloverfield.
The day is superb, and no one will spend more of it indoors than he can
help; besides, the boat will be almost afloat now, and it will take a
little time to bale her out. Bring the lines, then, with their gaudy red
and yellow flies—it may be that a mackerel or two are to be caught in the
loch; a novel of William Black’s, "The Princess of Thule" or "MacLeod of
Dare," and a pocketful of good cigars. It is hardly nine o’clock, yet the
sun is dazzling and hot in the doorway. There is just enough air moving to
bring up the fresh smell of the seaweed stirred by the rising tide. The
white sandy road is almost dry again after the rain. which has fallen in
the night, and as the kine, after their morning milking, are turned into
the clover-field alongside, the foremost will hardly move from the gate to
allow the others to enter, but bury their muzzles at once in the fresh,
wet grass. The sea lies flashing and sparkling in the morning sunshine,
and on the dark Kingairloch Mountains opposite, here and there the silver
streak of a torrent still shows the effects of the morning shower. A sunny
quiet fills the air. The faint screaming and splashing of gulls and
sea-swallows far out over some shoal of fishes, and the sound of the oars
in the rowlocks of the distant boat can be distinctly heard, while the
leisurely movements of the horse and cart going down the road a quarter of
a mile away are quite distinguishable. The driver is whistling pleasantly;
the tune is "Ho ro mo nighean donn." The last mists are leaving the
mountain sides, and everything promises a hot day. Even the soft white
clouds far up in the sky are every moment growing fainter, and already the
thin shimmer of heat is ascending from the dry stone dyke beside the road.
The brambles on the other side of the dry, grassy ditch show profuse
clusters of bright red fruit, but there are no ripe berries to be seen—the
children pluck them long before they are black. The scarlet hips, too,
shine bravely on the sprays of hedgebrier, the tips of whose leaves are
just beginning to turn brown. A small blue butterfly flickers across the
road, and, rising at the dyke, is lost in a moment against the blue of the
sky; while a silent humble-bee comes along, alights on the last empty bell
of a seeded foxglove, and immediately tumbles out again disgusted, to
continue his researches further on. Over the hedge there, on the other
side of the road, the oats seem yellow enough to cut, and among them are
still in flower a few yellow Marguerites. The hill beyond glows purple yet
with the heather, although its full bloom is past. Here and there plants
of it are flowering close to the dyke by the roadside. It is the small
sort, the kind the bees frequent, for they can get into it,—the bell
heather flowers earlier, and is over now.
But here is our boat; she
is already afloat, the mainsail and jib are hoisted, there is just enough
wind to carry her against the tide, and Appin and Castle Stalker, the
ruined stronghold of the Stewarts of Appin, are slowly hidden by the point
behind. On the right is the green island of Lismore, low lying and
fertile, with few houses visible upon it, only the slate roof of Lady
Elphinstone’s lodge flashes in the sunlight like a crystal, while beyond
and above tower the dark mountains of Morvern. To the south in the offing
lie the islands of Easdale and Luing, famous for their slates.
Down we drift, past the
Black Isle, to the narrows of Eriska. The tide is still running in towards
Loch Creran, and the passage, which otherwise would have been difficult
among the eddies and currents, is easily and quickly made. An immense
volume of water must pour to and fro through that narrow channel to fill
the loch at every tide. At these times the current rushes like a
mill-race. We are inside presently, and as the air is very warm, and a
pleasant little bay with a sandy beach lies close at hand on Eriska, there
could be no better opportunity for a bathe.
No sooner said than done.
The boat is anchored a little way from the beach, where through the clear
green water the sandy bottom can be seen some few fathoms below, and one
after another enjoys a header from the bow, or slips gently over the
stern. Pleasant as Arcady and utterly secluded is the spot; not even the
crack of a gamekeeper’s fowling-piece is to be heard on shore. But what is
this—that jig-jig-jigging of engines? A small steam yacht is coming into
the loch, and—gracious goodness! there are ladies on board.
To cover, all three, behind
the boat, hang on by the gunwale, and trust in Providence to keep the
yacht at a respectable distance. One has no ambition at such moments to
court the suffrages even of the most delectable society. But the danger
moves past, and though the fair ones on deck do smile at the phenomenal
movements of our boat, and the ominous absence of occupants, who is a whit
the worse? They will laugh with us rather than at us should we meet.
The breeze has freshened a
little now, and will be enough to carry us up the loch amongst the
currents and against the outflowing tide. Yonder is the ferry-boat
crossing from Shian. It has a waggonette and horses on board, and the long
sweeps carry it over but slowly. The long low island there, with its few
stunted bushes, is seldom visited, and remains a favourite haunt of the
graceful sea-swallows. Two months ago every grassy ledge upon its sides
would have its couple of sea-swallow’s eggs. See yonder, just beyond the
rocky point, swimming quietly about, with watchful, intelligent eyes,
there is the black head of a seal.
As the boat gets round the
end of Craigailleach, on the low neck of land across which the road winds
from Connal, the ruin of the ancient castle of Barcaldine comes into
sight. In the days of which Sir Walter Scott speaks in his "Lord of the
Isles," when against the Bruce in Artornish Castle "Barcaldine’s arm was
high in air," there was scantier cultivation around the site of that black
stronghold. The shrub ivy was not waving then from its beacon turret, and
the retainers whose thatched cottages are still scattered among the fields
around were rather caterans and pirates than peaceful crofters. Now,
however, as Mr. William Freeland puts it—
The freebooters, reiving and killing,
No longer swoop down from their glens,
But delve by the bothie and shieling,
Or shepherd their flocks on the bens.
The mountains in front seem
to rise higher as we approach, and to cast a deeper silence on the
narrowing water and motionless woods at their base. Barcaldine House, as
secluded and delightful a spot as any in the Highlands, with its
old-fashioned gardens and vineries, lies hidden among these woods. Far up
on the purple hillside at the head of the loch is a lonely burying place.
A stone dyke guards the little enclosure of quiet graves. The spot is
visible for many a mile around, and its presence ever in sight must have a
tender and solemn effect in keeping alive the memory of the dead. Every
day, as the crofter toils in his little field or the shepherd takes the
hill with his dogs, his eyes will turn to it, and he will think of wife or
child who lie in that still peaceful place, asleep under the calm sunshine
and among the heather. Only sometimes will it be hidden—when the soft,
white, trailing mists come down and weep their gentle tears upon the spot.
Directly in front, away beyond and above the other mountains, towers Ben
Cruachan, a monarch among the peers. And below, on the shore of the loch
appears the long, low-roofed cottage, half covered a month ago with
crimson tropeolum, and half smothered among its roses, where lives the
author of the humorous and valuable "Notes from Benderloch." Here is our
destination. Let down the mainsail, let go the jib, and we will run
ashore. It is not yet noon, and there are many hours before us to spend in
the beautiful Barcaldine woods. |
