IN THE WEST HIGHLANDS

Evening Star, Issue 21624, 20 January 1934, Page 19

IN THE WEST HIGHLANDS

[L. A'. G. Strong, in the ‘ Spectator.’] One evening nine summers ago I boarded the • train at King’s Cross, bound on my first journey to the West Highlands. Having heard much. I set off doggedly resolved to be faithful to Dartmoor and to Wicklow, convinced that the new country could have little to teach me. I woke twelve hours later to find a fellow-passenger shaking my arm and bidding me look down upon the mist-wreathed shores of Loch Lomond. Late the same evening I sat looking into the wild gloom of the mountains round Loch Morar, and there was no more spirit in me. I had surrendered to the country, and have been its prisoner ever since. The first attribute of this country (supposing one were to try to account for its hold upon the imagination) is its inexhaustible variety. There is not| only the spectacular magnificence of the train journey, though this remains an astonishment. Soon after Loch Lomond comes Crianlarich, _ set among huge green mountains rising sheer above the line, its cluster of houses baby-like and innocent in ■ the morning sun. Then all too swiftly the tram crosses Rannoch Moor, a vast expanse of peat casually strewn with boulders —for all the world as if giants had been playing cherry stones —to run down the steep shores of a loch, past the brown Spean foaming in its gorge of silver grey, to Fort William, _ all clean and winking by the waterside, nestled under the huge shoulder ,of Ben Nevis, that homeliest of mountains which, like a mighty sheepdog, stands, guard over the little town at its feet. Even after this there are forty miles on the branch line, the noble view up Loch Shiel between the mountains cf Glenfinnan, the wildness of Loch Ailort, the soaring peak of Roshven, and then past Loch Nan Uamh, the indescribable first glimpse of the islands. All that can be forgotten. It is when one has come to rest in the smaller country of the coast facing the islands that one begins to realise what variety can mean. In a few miles of coast there are scores of islets, some rocky and barren, some graceful with sands and rows of pine trees. There are long beaches of silver sand backed by. green foothills, which in turn lead to precipitous mountains. There are soft wooded estuaries and bare, forbidding cliffs footed with jagged rpeks. Half a mile of walking can bring one to' scenes so unlike those left behind that onei would swear one was in a different land. This physical variety is enriched and supported by an astonishing variety of atmosphere, of light and mood. The insanely changeable weather, vexatious in practical ways, brings with it magical beauties for the eye, and gives the place its final personality. One day last July I sat on the rocks for over eight hours gazing south-west, absorbed in the endless changes of colour and light, the altered emphasis of coastline and island, and the quick moods of the sea. While I watched the wind changed eleven times. The day passed like a single hour, and in it I underwent years of experience. I became part of the scene at which I was gazing. It was an experience indescribable to those who have not undergone it, and one which is rare enough in modern life; but here it can happen to one often.

The house where we stay faces west. All along the south and curving round to the east is a sheltered bank high enough to keep off the wind, but not to shut out the sun. North lies a field of scanty pasture, a ridge of white sandhills, and the Sound of Sleat—five miles of sea, ever changing its colour, flowing like a river between the mainland and the coast of Skye. Where else is there such a coast? Sand, cliffs, and dark woods; a pattern of fields rising like a counterpane to humps of moorland, and above all, far inland, of a different texture, a different world, the wild fantastic line of the Coolins, splintered, irrelevant, sharp _ as the teeth of a saw. Westward lies Eigg, sloping up gracefully to the Sguir on its southern point; behind it the towering peaks of Rum. In this clear air we can often see the mountains of TJist, more than sixty miles away. All this from the western windows. A hundred yards down the drive, round the end of the pine wood, a fresh prospect is opened: Prince Charlie’s country, bays and points and a huddle of islands, stretching as far as distant Ardnamurchan.

The people are delightful—welcoming, courteous, easy, and yet in manner. Their intonation is musical and soft, like the speech of Wicklow, utterly unlike what passes in England for a Scottish accent. (Their singing voices, on the other hand, incline fo be nasal and hard.) They speak Gaelic, most of them English as well, changing from one to another with disconcerting suddenness. It was odd the other day to hear two men talking as_ they endeavoured to start an ancient Ford van and hearing in the midst of a torrent of Gaelic the word “ ignition.” When it comes to such practical matters the dreaming timolessness. of the place and the mist that comes down so often and shuts these people from the world have cast a spell over them. They are indolent. They will not face things till they must. Visitors are often complaining of the way in which bulls arc allowed to wander on the high road, and their protest is always met with smiles of soft surprise. “ Oh, he is a quiet bull, he would hurt no one.” Sometimes he is not so quiet. A few years ago there was a bull which regularly made people run for their lives. At a meeting of the local council one man urged that it be shut up. His proposal was outvoted. ‘‘ Mark my words,” ho protested, 11 one day that bull will kill a man.” The prophecy was soon fulfilled, for the bull killed him a fortnight afterwards. Such a lesson is soon forgotten, however, and each bull is still allowed to roam until it attacks someone.

Underlying all this gentleness and resignation is a vein of savagery. Wild things have happened here in the not distant past. The stories told by the old people almost always contain some deed of fantastic violence, told in perfectly matter-of-fact tones; and written history bears them out. Even in _ the last century such deeds caused little surprise, and after all this is natural enough in a race with generations of tribal warfare close behind them. It is there, definite as the melancholy that descends upon these people in the long winter; one can feel it, yet for the moment see no trace of it. It breaks out through the melancholy in their music, which has recently been made accessible, though sometimes in too sophisticated and prettified a form. It would be impossible to live in this country and not to reflect its moods of sternness as well as grace. I have seen it in May, when there is still snow on the mountains, when the rocks are studded with sea pinks, and primroses grow right down to the edge of the tide. I have rowed on a still October day into the Sound of Arisaig, and wondered at strange blobs and swellings on the rocks that turned out to be a flock of forty seals, many of whom followed the boat for company till the gleaming water wrs dotted with dark inquisitive heads. Soon, all being well, I shall sec it in winter, too, and I ask nothing better.

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