The Laird of Coll's Powder Horn

As the Carmichael Watson Project moves into a new, Leverhulme Trust-funded phase, we’re starting to investigate Alexander Carmichael’s fascinating personal collection of objects, now looked after in the West Highland Museum in Fort William. One particularly interesting item may be connected with an unusual waulking song Carmichael recorded in Mingulay.

As discussed in a blog earlier this year, Alexander Carmichael ‘discovered’ waulking songs while on a visit to the little island of Mingulay/Miughalaigh, at the southern tip of the Outer Hebrides, on 8 August 1867. Carmichael was back in Mingulay on 22 May 1869, doing intensive song-recording from his friend Roderick MacNeil (c. 1790–1875), Ruairidh an Rùma, as well as from two local women, Mary MacDonald (c. 1837–1915) and someone he later describes as ‘Mary wife of Angus Campbell’. We’ve been unable to trace her, but there’s a possibility Carmichael might have meant Marion (b. c. 1841), wife of John Campbell, who appears on the island in the 1871 census. The two women sang their songs to the very appreciative collector not at the waulking board, but while woolworking – ‘one carding, the other spinning’ – one singing the lines and the other the chorus.]

Among the songs Carmichael recorded is one with the following impassioned lines:

Mo cheist eir ti[gh]earna Cholla
S trua[gh] nach ann duit bha mi torrach
Luc[hd] mo dha chich liont am bhrollach
Ga nach beirinn dhuit ach torran
Bhi[th] gun chliu as gun char gun cholan[n]
Ach da shuil os cionn mala.
Sa leana[bh] beag na lai[gh] air a chulao[bh]
Sann daga sann aoraic [adharc] fhudair [CW150/24]

My love the Laird of Coll
A shame that I wasn’t pregnant for you
The load of my two breasts full in my chest
Even though I’d only give you a little heap
Without fame, strength, or body,
Just two eyes above a brow.
And the little baby lying behind him
[?With] the pistol and the ‘aoraic fhudair’.

Given the feelings they express, it’s hardly surprising that these lines don’t appear to have been given to any other song collector. But what’s the ‘aoraic fhudair’ in the last line?

The context gives the game away: it’s what would be written in standard Gaelic ‘adharc fhùdair’, a powder horn made out of cow horn, an object used to carry gunpowder without any danger of sparks or soaking. The heyday of the often elaborately decorated powder horn was the eighteenth century, the era of muskets, before the advent of the powder cartridge. By Carmichael’s time the powder horn was quite obsolete apart from occasional use in full ceremonial Highland dress – definitely not a common sight in the Outer Hebrides! It’s hardly surprising, then, that there are few if any other mentions of an ‘adharc fhùdair’ in the corpus of Gaelic waulking songs.

We originally thought that the word ‘aoraic’ which Carmichael wrote down meant that either he or the singer didn’t understand the reference to ‘adharc’ or horn. A brief chat with Professor Donald Meek from Tiree, however, put us right. Across much of the Scottish Gàidhealtachd, ‘adharachd’ is a perfectly acceptable dialect alternative to ‘adharc’. Maybe this is how Carmichael heard it when he was writing it down, or maybe the word was preserved like that in the song, testimony to its Argyllshire origins.

What of the item in Carmichael’s collection? As you’ll have guessed, it’s a powder horn, one of four he acquired. This one is said to have ‘belonged to MacLean of Coll’ – that is, the Laird of Coll, Tighearna Cholla. But did it really? Alexander Carmichael certainly visited the Island of Coll in September 1887, and knew a number of people with Coll connections, so the provenance of our powder horn may be genuine.

On the other hand, might this be a sly joke by the original donor, perhaps in reply to Carmichael’s question, ‘Who owned it?’ The object was a powder horn, an ‘adharc fhùdair’ (or an ‘adharachd fhùdair’). There was a waulking song praising the Laird of Coll where his powder horn is mentioned. ‘So it must have belonged to Tighearna Cholla.’ The story of the powder horn and the waulking song may demonstrate how closely bound up oral tradition and material culture might be. On the other hand, this may just be yet another example of a scholar making too much out of very slender connections. There may be a much simpler explanation lurking somewhere still in Alexander Carmichael’s archive!

Reference: CW150/24
 
Image: A not very clear picture of Carmichael’s powder horn

Storm-bound on Mingulay

Ruairidh an Rùma / Roderick MacNeil

A topic and a name mentioned previously in this blog is that of Carmichael’s visit to  Mingulay and also that of the tradition bearer Roderick MacNeil, styled Ruairidh an Rùma (c. 1790–1875), so-called ‘from a hogshead of rum he found on the shore and from the contents of which he nearly died’. Alexander Carmichael visited the remote island of Mingulay on more than one occasion and in September 1871 he found himself there in company of his folklore mentor, John Francis Campbell. Whilst storm-bound for a three whole days, Campbell took the opportunity to sketch MacNeil and Carmichael wrote down some traditions from this excellent tradition bearer. An account written by Campbell says ‘Rory Rum the story man about 85 the best climber in Minglay till he got past work…He never wore shoes or stockings, never had a bonnet on his head till some years ago and how is crippled by the Rheumatism and stoops over a longs stick.’ MacNeil’s knowledge of birds, their habitats and behaviour must have been phenomenal given his many years of actively taking part in bird-fowling. Here is but one example that Carmichael noted down from MacNeil’s recitation about the langaid or guillemot:

Incident in Langai[d] – bird life. A Lang[aid] came
with a siolag and herring and left these with its
peite and left. Another came with the same
to its own peite which was young. The big
pet did not con[sume] what was given it and the
parent bird of the little pet with [went] over
and took the siol[ag] and the her[ring] over to its own pet
and left. The par[ent] bird of the big pet re[turned] and
foun[d] that its pet had nothing. The pet and
bird chattered for a moment after
which the pa[rent] bird went over to the small pet
took it up in its bill gave it a fierce shake
and threw it with the pre[cipice]! An old wom[an]
in Miulay has a pet gull 7 ye[ars] It goes am[ong]
all the house[s] in the place can un[derstand]
all said to it – and do what is said to it.

Reference:

CW114/41, f. 67v.

Image: Ruairidh an Rùma as sketched by John Francis Campbell. Courtesy of the Trustees of the National Library of Scotland (NLS Adv.MS.50.4.6, f. 119v).

Plague in Mingulay III

Neil Gillies, Niall Mhìcheil Nìll

Gus crìoch a chur air an naidheachd mun phlàigh a bha uaireigin ann am Miughalaigh, seo agaibh an còrr dheth a chlàraich agus a sgrìobh Calum Iain MacGilleathain bhon t-seanchas Nèil MhicGillÌosa. Cha mhòr nach e an aon naidheachd th’ ann a thog MacGilleMhìcheil agus MacGilleathain bho dhiofar dhaoine agus mu thrì fichead bliadhna eadarra:

“Well, on a tha thusa air tìr, gun fhios nach e plàigh air choreigin a bh’ air na daoine, nuair a tha iad marbh air fad, chan fhaigh thu dhan sgothaidh idir.”

Agus dh’fhàgadh an duine ann am Miughalaigh agus thill an sgoth gu ruige Bàgh a’ Chaisteil, agus cha robh aig an duine ach a bhith ann am Miughalaigh leis fhèin, agus cha leigeadh an t-eagal dà fuireach as na taighean. Ach cò-dhiù bha e a’ gabhail beagan dhen bhiadh a bha sna taighean. Dh’fheumadh e. Cha robh an còrr ann agus ’s ann shuas as a’ bheinn a bhiodh e a’ cadal air an oidhche, agus tha a’ bheinn ann am Miughalaigh fhathast, beinn ris an can iad Beinn Mhic a’ Phì. Sin far am biodh e a’ cadal. Co-dhiù bha e cola-deug ann, agus an ceann a’ chola-deug chuir MacNèill a-null an sgoth air n-ais feuch am faiceadh e a robh duine beò, ma bha iad a dhol air, tìr agus feuch gu dè mar a bha an gnothach.

Seo mar a bha.

Dh’fhalbh an sgoth à Bàgh a’ Chaisteil air n-ais an ceann a’ chola-deug agus nuair a ràinig iad Miughalaigh, bha Mac a’ Phì rompa gun bhàn, gun dearg agus e pailt cho beò is cho fallain is a bha iad fhèin. Cha robh ach dh’iarr iad air tighinn dhan sgothaidh, agus thàinig e a Bhàgh a’ Chaisteil, agus ghabh iad leis do chaisteal MhicNèill agus sin nuair a rinn e an naidheachd air n-ais do MhacNèill:

“Agus gheibh thusa a-nist Miughalaigh dhut fhèin, ma thèid thu ann, agus sgrìobhaidh mise dhut i, gum bidh i agad fhad ’s is beò thu, agus nach urrainn duine eile dragh a chur ort.”

Well ’s e seo a rinneadh. Thill Mac a’ Phì a-null gu ruige Miughalaigh, agus thìodhlaic e na daoine a bha marbh. Chuir e ’n a’ chladh a h-uile duine aca, agus thug e a-null feadhainn eile còmh’ ris, an fheadhainn a thogair e fhèin, agus bha iad all right dheth ann am Miughalaigh, agus cha robh sgàth air dìth orra.

Siud agad mar a chuala mise e.

Here is the rest of the anecdote about the plague that once visited Mingulay that was recorded and written out by Calum Iain Maclean from the recitation of Neil Gillies. Comparing this anecdote transcribed by Maclean and that by Carmichael even though collected from different people and with a gap of around sixty years intervening, it is practically the same with only minor variations:

“Well, since you are on land, and seeing that it might be some sort of plague or another that killed them all, you can’t get back into the boat at all.”

And the lad was left stranded on Mingulay. The boat then returned to Castlebay and he was the only person remaining on Mingulay. He was so afraid he wouldn’t venture near the houses. But, in any case, he managed to pilfer some food within the homesteads. He had no other option. There was nothing else for it but the go up the hill where he would sleep at night, and that hill is still there on Mingulay which is called Beinn Mhic a’ Phì (MacPhee’s Mountain). That’s where he would go to sleep. He spent a fortnight there and at the end of this period MacNeil of Barra sent a boat back to find out if he was still alive and as they were going to land to find out how things were.

This is how things turned out.

The boat left Castlebay and went back to Mingulay after a fortnight and they found MacPhee in as rude health as they were themselves. They merely then asked him to board the boat and so he returned to Castlebay and they took him to MacNeil’s castle [Kisimul] where he told MacNeil his news:

“And you’ll get Mingulay to yourself, if you are prepared to return, and I’ll grant this to you, and you’ll own it so long as you live, and no one will trouble you.”

Well, this was done. MacPhee returned to Mingulay. He then buried the dead in the cemetery, and he also brought along with him others who he had picked out and they were well off in Mingulay as they were never in any want.

That’s how I heard it.

Reference:
IFC MS 1029, pp. 413–16, Am Plàigh ann am Miùlaidh.
Image: Neil Gillies.

Plague in Mingulay II

Neil Gillies, Niall Mhìcheil Nìll

Chan eil e idir na iongnadh nach do leig cuid de na seanchaidhean Bharrach air dìochuimhne na thachair ann am Miughalaigh. Mu thrì fichead bliadhna as deaghaidh do MhacGilleMhìcheil an naidheachd fhaotainn bho Ruairidh an Rùma mun phlàigh ann am Miughalaigh (anns a’ bhlog mu dheireadh), fhuair Calum Iain MacGilleathain an dearbh rud ann an 1947 bho Niall MacGillÌosa, no mar a theirear ris Niall Mhìcheil Nìll (1887–1965), iasgair agus croitear a bha uaireigin ann an Gearraidh Gadhal faisg air Bàgh a’ Chàisteil, Barraigh. A rèir teist an t-seanchaidh fhèin, bhuineadh a phàrantan do Mhiughalaigh agus phos iad ann an sin. Chuir iad an cùl ri Miughalaigh mun bhliadhna 1912 dar a dh’fhàg na daoine air fad an t-eilean agus chaidh iad a-null a Bharraigh. B’ ann bho athair fhèin agus Ruairidh Ruairidh Mhòir a chuala Niall a chuid sheanchais agus naidheachdan. A rèir Chaluim Iain, rachadh Niall gu taigh Ruairidh Ruairidh Mhòir a h-uile h-oidhche gheamhraidh thar air barrachd na dusan bliadhna gus a sheanchas a chluinntinn agus gur gann a chualadh e an aon naidheachd!

Well, tha naidheachd eile ann an seoachd air a dhèanamh mun àm a bha MacNèill ann am Barraigh, MacNèill Bharraigh mar a bh’ air a ghràdha ris: agus bha daoine a’ fuireach ann a Miughalaigh an uair sin, mar a bha iad as a dheoghaidh; agus trup a bha seoachd bha iad a’ gabhail fadachd nach robh eathair a’ tighinn a-nall à Miughalaigh idir, MacNèill, agus dheònaich e sgoth agus sgiobadh a chur a-null gu ruige Miughalaigh feuch am faiceadh iad gu dè bha ceàrr, agus rinn e seoachd. Fhuair e sgoth agus sgiobadh agus chuireadh a-null a Mhiughalaigh iad agus ràinig iad thall Miughalaigh agus cha robh duine beò ri fhaicinn ann am Miughalaigh. Cha robh duine rompa air creig, ach nuair a chunnaic iad sineachd chuir iad air tìr fear dheth na gillean a bha san sgothaidh, fear Mac a’ Phì, agus dh’iarr iad air a dhol suas feuch am faiceadh e gu dè bha ceàrr nach robh duine ri fhaicinn; agus dh’fhalbh am fear sa suas, agus chaidh e dhan chiad taigh a thachair ris, agus nuair a chaidh e a-staigh cha robh duine beò a bha san taigh nach robh marbh a-staigh. Chaidh e an seo a thaigh eile, agus bha iad sin air an nòs cianda – o thaigh gu taigh gus na chuir e cuairt air a h-uile taigh a bh’ ann a Miughalaigh, is cha robh duine beò ann am Miughalaigh nach robh marbh a-staigh. Nuair a chunnaic e seoachd dh’fhalbh e agus thill e sìos a dh’ ionnsaigh na sgothadh, agus dh’innis e dhaibh mar a bha an grothach, nach robh duine beò ann am Miughalaigh nach robh marbh as na taighean: agus thuirt iad sin ris: (ri leanntainn…)

It comes as no surprise that some of the Barra storytellers did not forget about what had happened in Mingulay. Some sixty years after Alexander Carmichael collected the story from Roderick MacNeil about the plague visiting Mingulay (posted in a previous blog), Calum Iain Maclean recorded the very same story in 1947 from Neil Gillies (1887–1965), styled Niall Mhìcheil Nìll, a crofter fisherman from Garrygall near Castlebay, Barra. According to the storyteller’s own testimony, his parents belonged to Mingulay where they were married. They left the island around 1912 along with everyone else and settled in Barra. Neil heard all his stories and anecdotes from his father and Roderick Mòr MacNeil. According to Calum Maclean, Neil would go to listen to the latter’s storytelling almost every winter’s night for a space of fifteen years and maintained that he hardly ever heard the same tale told twice!

Well, there’s another story here that happened in the time of MacNeil of Barra as he was called: people stayed in Mingulay then just as they did after that; and one of these times they were getting anxious that there was no sign at all of a boat coming over from Mingulay and so MacNeil of Barra was willing enough to send over a boat and crew to Mingulay to try and find out what has gone wrong. This was done. A boat and crew were found and sent over to Mingulay and when they reached Mingulay they found that there was no one alive there. No one was standing before them on the rock [to greet them] and when they saw this they put one of the lads from the boat on land – a MacPhee – and they asked him to go up and to see what was wrong as there was no one to be seen; the lad went up and he entered the first house he encountered and saw that no one was alive in the house: they were all dead. He then went to another house and met with the same sight – from house to house he went until he had been in all the houses in Mingulay; there was not one left alive in Mingulay as they were all dead. When he saw all of this he returned to the boat and told them what he had seen: that no one was left alive in Mingulay – they were all dead and they then said to him: (to be continued…)

Reference:
IFC MS 1029, pp. 413–16, Am Plàigh ann am Miùlaidh.
Image: Neil Gillies.

Plague on Mingulay

Mingulay / Miughalaigh 1888

Another short historical anecdote taken down by Alexander Carmichael probably from the recitation of Roderick MacNeil, nick-named Ruairidh an Rùma, tells of the time when plague visited the remote island of Mingulay. Although the actual word ‘plague’ is not used in the story it may be assumed that an outbreak of this or some other devastating disease took place at some point during the sixteenth century just as a similar outbreak of smallpox decimated the population of St Kilda during the late 1720s. A disaster of such a scale was bound to remembered by any of the survivors and their descendants or, indeed, by those that chose to relocate to Mingulay. MacNeil’s narrative suggests that MacPhie along with others helped to repopulate the island community as MacNeil of Barra granted them land there.

About 300 years ago ten families lived in Mi[ng]ulay
One time in win[ter] the MacNeil of the day won[dered] that he

was see[ing] no per[son] from Mi[ng]u[lay]. He sent a boats crew
to in[vesti]g[ate]. The boat came over and land[ed] and sent
up a man the name of MacPhie. When he came
to the houses which then stood on a rocky Bun[?]
N[orth] E[ast] of the pre[sent village] he found all within dead. He
ret[urned] to his com[panions] who were keep[ing] the boat. They as[ked]
him what news. I’ll tell that pre[sently] said Mac
Phi not a bone of your bone [recte: body] shall come
in till you tell us first. as he would
not do so the boat left him and ret[urned] to Cas[tlebay]
and told MacN[eil] For 7 w[eeks] no other boat was
able to come. In the mean[time] Mac[Phie] went to the
hill op[posite] Bearn[aray] where there was a hut where
the sheep shelt[ered] dur[ing] snow. He got hold
of some sheep skin and made a cov[ering]
for himself and used the fat of the sheep
when frozen as food. When MacN[eil] came fire
was set to all the huts and the dead bod[ies] were
burnt. MacN[eil] asked MacPh[ie] if he were
committed[?] an[d] live in Miul[ay]. He said he wo[u]ld
and chose 3 or 4 trust[y] frie[nds]. They built the
huts down on the stran[d] but from
this the pred[?ecessors] of the p[?opulatio]n had to remove
on acc[ount] of the en[croachment] of the sea. Ruary saw
a man to whose house the sea was
ap[proaching]. He left his old moth[er] in his [hut] and
had not got six y[ar]ds from the ho[use] when a
sea came and left not one stone.

Reference:
CW 114, fos. 63r –64v.
Image:
Mingulay / Miughalaigh 1888.

Captain Scott ‘Visiting’ Mingulay

As is well known the Hanoverian government, in the wake of Culloden in 1746, took some very heavy handed reprisals in order to put a stop to any future resistance from any disaffected Jacobites. One person – namely Captain Carolyn Scott – did not paint himself in glory at all for, according to oral testimony, he was a bloody and brutal man who gave but scant measures of justice to those who he had been ordered to repress in no uncertain terms:

The notorious Capt[ain] Scott came
to Mi[ng]ulay after Culloden. He got hold
of a man there Iain Mac Fhearachair ic Neill who had been in the army
of the Prince and without trial judge
or Jury hanged the man. The man whose
name was Iain Mac Fhear[achair] ic Mhur[chaidh] MacNeill
Iain mac Fhearachair ic Mhurach[a]idh ic Neill
was remarkably big and strong. When
his bones are still bro[ugh]t up they all
were large. Capt[ain] Scott and his soldiers
car[r]i[e]d them[selves] most ferociously. They
amused them[selves] by flaying the cattle
of the people alive and allowing them
then to run mad about the island.
Among the band was a High[lander] who after
the man was hanged whisper[ed] to the
peop[le] not to touch the body as Scott wou[ld]
yet return before going into the boat
and would give their houses to the flames
for the simple want [of] an excuse
The peop[le] took the advice. Scott re[turned]
from the strand but the body of the
man was where he left it so Scott
went away. The man had been
living in a cave long previous to this.

Another anecdote about Captain Scott in Mingulay stems from the pen of Miss Ada Goodrich-Freer in her rather romantic and over-wrought work entitled The Outer Isles (1904):

There was about this time a soldier, who had been in the ’15, who belonged to Mingulay. He was great-uncle’s son to Ian yonder, the son of Hamish, and he had some money, and the soldiers were coming after him. His brother advised him to put away the money in case of what might happen, but he said, ‘They’ve not done with me yet.’ However, he was surrounded by soldiers, and Captain Scott [whose name is execrated in the islands] ordered him to be shot, and he was robbed and murdered at the back of the house where the stackyard is.

The very same Captain Scott had been captured at the very outset of the ’45 Rebellion when he was captured at the skirmish known as the Battle of Highbridge (in Brae Lochaber). He was later released and, apart from his reputation for cruelty, is remembered for his successful defence during the Siege of Fort William in March 1746.

References:

CW114/72  fos, 83v–84r.

Goodrich-Freer, Ada, The Outer Hebrides (Westminster: Archibald Constable & Co., 1904), pp. 401–02.

Image:

Mingulay and Berneray.

Fulling the Cloth in Mingulay

Two years in a row saw Alexander Carmichael visit the remote island of Mingulay, lying some dozen miles south of Barra. On 8 August 1867, he had the opportunity to get to know some of the islanders, especially Roderick MacNeil or Ruairidh an Rùma, mentioned previously in this blog. Such an event as a luadhadh or waulking the cloth may have been something rather unusual for Carmichael to have witnessed as it was in the main the preserve of women. Carmichael did not show any reserve and what may be taken as something he had not previously seen clearly piqued his interest. His jottings help by way of providing a context for the social setting of waulking or fulling of cloth:

Fulling at Miulay. Heard a fulling song
sung while pas[sing] a hut and went in. Found
six good looking comely girls waulking cloth
One sung the verses the rest the chorus
and all took their turn at this. All the
songs suited the body made in ful[ling] and all
to my ear wild weird and beautiful.
One was a fairy song and fairy like.
Measured the arms of two of the girls. Each
meas[ured] 11½ inches in circ[cumference] The rest seemed
to be gen[er]ally stout and yet they did not
seem to me to be any sup[erfluous] flesh about them.
The ful[ling] song com[mences] first slowly and ma[jestically]
and all keep time to this in their mov[ements].
Then it becomes ‘fast and fun till the
whole as by feel] a dif[ficulty] in rest[raining]
their prop[riety]. The cloth is sent round
with the sun. upon no ac[count] would they
attempt the con[verse]. The cleith luai[dh] is a
a plank a fair in[ch] thick 1½ bro[ad] & 10 f[eet] long.
It must have been tossed ab[out] in the At[lantic]
for a time for it is perfor[ated] all over by teredo
One of the songs sung was a comp[osition] one
made to [supra: the Stranger] all the rest sung the chorus.
I asked them to sing the fairy song again
They hesi[tated] and when I pressed them they
said that did they repeat a song twice
at a clei[th] luai[dh] the cloth would
become as thin as before and in[stantly] lose
all its col[our] and become pure white!
I did not then press.

Elsewhere in Carmina Gadelica, Carmichael writes thus about the different stages involved in waulking: ‘Five minor processes are involved in waulking. There is first the process of thickening the cloth; second the process of cleansing the cloth; third, the process of folding it; fourth, the process of giving it tension; and after these the rite of consecrating the cloth. All these processes are performed with the care of eye and deftness of hand come of ability and experience.’ He then continues with the aspect of rhythmic choral singing used to lighten the toil of the sheer hard work involved in fulling the cloth: ‘During the work the women sing lively, stirring, emphatic song. One sings a verse, all join in the chorus. The leader usually sits a the head of the waulking frame; if she is advanced in life she is not allowed to work, in which case she sits a few feet back and in line with the frame. The women keep time with their arms and feet.’

References:

CW114, fos. 62v–63r.

Carmina Gadelica, iv, pp. 88–89.

Image: Waulking the Cloth, Talisker, depicted by Moses Griffiths from Thomas Pennant’s Voyage to the Hebrides (1772).

Ruairidh an Rùma enjoys a good old cup of tea

Hector Maclean (1818–1893), the Islay schoolteacher then collecting in the Outer Hebrides for his friend and youthful companion, the Victorian polymath that was John Francis Campbell of Islay (1821–1885), wrote him a letter from Castlebay, Barra, on the 30 September 1860. In this fascinating account Maclean describes his recent expedition that had taken him to Mingulay and, most importantly, his meeting with Roderick MacNeil (c. 1790–1875), Ruairidh mac Dhòmhnaill, better known perhaps under his moniker Ruairidh an Rùma ‘from his having found at some time 3 hogsheads of rum on the shore’:

I was over at Minglay last week and saw Roderick McNeill who is so celebrated among the people here as a story teller. I have written several of his tales which appear to me to be remarkable for vivid and pointed dialogue. He is an animated and spirited old man and though crippled to a certain extent by rheumatism his vivacity is not the least damped and the vigorous activity of his mind is not the least impaired 74 and not a trace of dotage. He hobbles about bareheaded and barefooted and is said not to have worn shoes for the last fifty years. He tells his tales with extraordinary effect being a capital natural elocutionist using pause emphasis gesture and inflection of the voice to express passion sentiment and character fully as well as though he had been trained by some of the best actors of the day. His Gaelic is excellent but his style is of the plain simple kind. He has obviously an aversion to anything obscure or mystical and gives a clearness and reality to the greatest extravagance […] He has many tales borrowed from other sources than Highland but he gives them all a Highland form.

Some seven years later on 8 August 1867, Alexander Carmichael also met this famed tradition bearer – although he seems to have aged considerably during the intervening years – and notes down an amusing anecdote about him:

Ruary an Ruma. Strange. The school
servant gave him a cup of tea. He de
clared that once and but once only
did he ever taste tea before. Is there
another man of 88 in Britain who can
say the same? I asked him how did
he like the tea. M anamsa Dhia gu
bheil gle mhath. Ach bu cho mhath
liom an siucar eir uisge teth ris
a so! Nach bu mhath luidh mhic
Righ B[h]reitean seach an seo? Amen.

Although tea was perhaps not so much of a luxury item as it had once been in the Highlands and Islands it appears that it was still relatively scarce in Mingulay. On the other hand perhaps Ruairidh an Rùma may have preferred a tipple of the drink from which he earned his nickname rather than a good old cup of tea.

References:
NLS Adv. MS 50.2.1. fo. 226
CW MS 114, fo. 77r
Image: Cup of tea

The Old Schoolhouse of Mingulay

While visiting Mingulay in August of 1867, Alexander Carmichael took the opportunity to take a look around the old Schoolhouse. He left a very detailed description of the building’s interior and one may speculate that such an interest was piqued by Carmichael’s curiosity because it may have reminded him of his own far off schoolboy days back in Lismore when he attended Samuel MacColl’s classes. The Schoolhouse was rebuilt by the architect Alexander Ross in 1881 who specialised in the construction of rural buildings. It is not on record but it might be safe to assume that perhaps the Mingulay Schoolhouse was the remotest building that Ross ever undertook to construct. Given the relative isolation of the island – eventually abandoned completely in 1912 – a dozen or so miles south of Barra, it would have been one of his most difficult commissions to carry out. Carmichael’s short account is full of fascinating details and even includes seemingly one oddity given that a Protestant religious work, Confession of Faith, should have found its way into the school. But as the school was established by the Free Church Ladies’ Association then such literature would have been used in order to try and convert the staunchly Roman Catholic population to the Protestant faith. Needless perhaps to say the Mingulay folk held onto their faith but the school was given the nick-name Sgoil nan Leadaidhean.  The schoolhouse is one of only two remaining buildings left on the island – the other is the chapel house – and was recently refurbished to allow a comfortable place for visitors to stay.

Teacher – Mi[ng]ulay. His house is
about 30f x 13. It was built by the native
sand is most rude and primitive. Ab[out] 18 f[eet] of this
is the schoolroom. The other end is the teacher’s.
The fur[niture] con[sists] of the bed which serves the treble pur[pose]
of a bed a parti[tion] and the top a gener[al] lumber
room. The teach[er’s] trunk which serves as dining table
There is a pri[mitive] overgrown round stool which
seems to have once formed a quern stand and
which now forms all the pur[pose] of a baking table
a wash stand (about 1½ f[eet] high) one and one half
basin one bowl 2 cups & 2 saucers 1 small milki[ng]
jug minus the “lug” 2 pots size pigeons nest
2 large plates & 1 small 2 knives 2 egg spoon[s]
2 tea spoons a small delapitided [sic] 4 gall[on] cask
for holding meal 1 chair 1 stool and 1 course
piece of plank laid on stones at the side
floor in ruts and hollows and roof just
suf[ficiently] high to allow a tall man to stand upright
without touching the centre rafters. Sides of
house about 4½ f[eet] high in x 3½ out. 2 egg cups
Books Dunbars Greek-English Lexi[c]on Con[fession of] Faith
Virgil and Tacitus in the original.


Reference: CW114, fos. 66v–67r
Storey, Lisa, Muinntir Mhiughalaigh (Glaschu: Clàr, 2007)
Images: Mingulay Schoolhouse interior (RCHAMS) and exterior