An Island Odyssey. Hamish Haswell-Smith
City.
Eilean Righ (pron. elan ree), not much more than a mere 200 acres in area, is snugly situated in Loch Craignish, a sea-loch which is separated from the Sound of Jura by the powerful tidal rips of the Dorus Mór. A little further south is Crinan and the entrance to the canal which links to Loch Fyne. With good hill pasture and a fairly large area of mature woodland consisting of oak, ash, rowan, alder and hawthorn spreading along its east shore, the island was bought in 1992 by Viscount Chewton (a Somerset farmer and brother of the former government minister, William Waldegrave). He had spent all his childhood holidays on Scottish islands and he wanted his sons to have the same wonderful experience. But for family reasons he put the island back on the market a few years later and Eilean Righ now has another owner.
The road from the newly constructed jetty climbs steeply through the dense belt of mixed woodland, stippled with primroses amid a tangle of brambles, before it reaches the attractive group of buildings. These are almost at the centre of the island and they are set round a courtyard with a central flagpole. There is also the remains of a Confucian temple and stone lantern built by Sir Reginald who owned many Chinese artefacts and antiques. When he died, there was a local report that valuable porcelain and china were thrown into the loch, but this seems a very unlikely story.
Wandering about the island in the summer months is difficult because the dense, uncontrolled growth of bracken has taken over much of the grazing land but it is worthwhile battling through it to see one of Eilean Righ’s two Iron Age duns or forts which is set on the grassy summit of a ridge to the north of the buildings. It is oval-shaped and a number of minor artefacts were recovered from it by archaeologists during excavations in 1982. The other dun – Dun Righ, on a flat-topped ridge in the south-west, is rectangular but has an oval structure in the corner and just south of it is a fine example of a large cup-mark on a lichen-covered rock. This surely must have been a very important island to have justified having two forts!
The trees attract a lot of birds. Raptors and owls can be seen, and even the occasional pheasant pays a visit from the mainland. From October to March wintering divers frequent the shores which also support extensive wild mussel beds. There is a small resident herd of wild goats on Eilean Righ, although I have not yet seen them, and one would assume that they might occasionally swim over to the nearby islet which is called Eilean nan Gabhar – ‘isle of the goats’ – but I must admit that I have never yet seen any goats on it either. This tiny islet is probably better known for the shelter it gives to the occasional boat which tucks into the pleasant anchorage between it and the reef.
On Eilean Righ
Irene’s house at Ardinamir
LUING
. . . Children, horses, and cows see the second sight, as well as men and women advanced in years.
There is a popular anchorage at Ardinamir on Luing and the track leading to it passes a patch of woodland and a small house with an Iron Age fort on the hill above. On summer nights pipistrelle bats catch midges among the trees. The small house was occupied by Irene – a noteworthy character (every inhabited island has at least one noteworthy character). She had no electricity supply and had rejected the Council’s offer to arrange a connection on the grounds that electricity was of no use for anything – ‘except for the television – and who would want the television?’ she would shout (Irene assumed everyone was deaf). We never dared to ask her about the plumbing. An outside stand-pipe was her only source of running water and – to our continual puzzlement – she appeared to have no toilet facilities whatsoever, although she did have a telephone.
Because she always took such an interest in the anchorage at Ardinamir – she painted a white leading mark on a rock to help entering yachts, collected rainfall statistics, and had kept a register of all visiting yachts since the 1940s – Irene was made an honorary member of the Clyde Cruising Club. The entrance to the anchorage is through a very narrow and shallow gap between submerged reefs, tricky at the best of times, but if any helmsman was ever foolish enough to graze a rock Irene’s stentorian advice could be heard on the mainland; a sound that could strike terror into any sailor’s heart.
Irene spent most of her time on the bench seat at the open window admiring the West Coast Drizzle and watching the yachts entering and leaving Ardinamir. She prided herself on remembering the names of every visitor but, sadly, the passing years brought uncertainty. The one and only armchair was the property of McElvie, a very large cat with pink eyes.
We were signing the register one day and McElvie, for once, was not occupying his armchair. Irene was at the open window, dressed as usual in woolly jersey and jeans, when a couple appeared with a large black Labrador. They entered the room to greet her and were immediately asked where the dog was.
‘He’s waiting outside,’ they said.
‘Quickly!’ Irene bellowed, ‘You must get to him before McElvie does!’
On another occasion, since we were in the vicinity, we decided to anchor for the night at Ardinamir. It was Peter’s turn to prepare the evening meal and Craig was absorbed in his favourite occupation, crouching in the lazarette (the warmest place aboard) tuning the diesel-fired heating system – which occasionally worked. Ian and I went ashore to see Irene. She welcomed us from the open window. McElvie was asleep in his armchair.
‘Thank you for your postcard,’ shouted Irene to Ian as soon as we had entered ‘– and that will do for a Christmas Card too, mind.’
We discussed sailing, local topics, signed the register, and shared some shortbread which we had brought along. The telephone rang from beneath a heap of old newspapers on the stone floor.
‘Och, that terrible machine,’ yelled Irene, ‘and it will not be for me at all. It is for you, of course,’ she said to Ian and sat back.
McElvie’s red eyes were open and staring malevolently at him. Ian rummaged under the newspapers, picked up the telephone and put it uncertainly to his ear. To his surprise it was his wife, Jean, trying to contact him urgently, and she had only tried telephoning Irene on the wildest improbability.
McElvie’s eyes panned slowly round and met mine. Then they closed and dismissed us all.
All things change. Irene, sadly, is no longer with us, after a spell in Oban (where she enjoyed watching television). McElvie, a pathetic shadow of his former self, and semi-wild, would come out of the shrubs to greet us for a while, but now, like Irene, he too has faded away.
Luing, which has one of the largest lobster-ponds in Scotland and its own famous and unique breed of prize beef cattle, is an easy island to reach from the mainland as there is a fast and regular car-ferry service across the 200 metres wide Cuan Sound which separates it from the island of Seil. Seil in turn is linked to the mainland by the famous ‘Bridge over the Atlantic’. From the attractive village of Toberonochy in the south to the equally delightful village of Cullipool in the north, Luing has the gentle country atmosphere of a much more mellow age – except for the northern corner which is a dramatic contrast. Slate used to be the principal industry (Iona Cathedral is roofed with Luing slates) but the quarry was abandoned in 1965 and it stands there now in deserted glory, a gargantuan composition of steel-grey slabs and platters, reminiscent of a Paolozzi sculpture.
KERRERA
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