I begin with the year 1856. That was the year in which old Corrie-choillie, the great drover and farmer, died. Some of you have heard stories of old “Corrie.” In his days there were no railways, and he attended all the markets from Portree to Falkirk on his piebald pony.
Once, he was crossing the ferry at Ballachulish when the ferryboat capsized and all the occupants were thrown into the sea. Fortunately, no one was drowned. One of his friends on shore congratulated “Corrie” on his escape from drowning and remarked that he should thank God for his preservation.
“God helps those who help themselves. I was clever myself.”
I was attending Bunroy School that year, now Roybridge School. The gamekeeper, who lodged in my father’s house in Glenroy, arranged a hare shoot for his friends on Beinn an Iaruinn. At that time, hares were more numerous than they are today and had to be kept down.
I was engaged to beat up the hares, assisted by a faithful old collie, who was a better beater than I could be. He chased the hares up to the guns and then turned back and hunted for more.
The meeting place was at Briagach, halfway up Glenroy, where King James V is said to have spent a night in a farmer’s house. For bedclothes, he had goatskins. So pleased was the King with his bed and the good fare provided for him that he exempted goats in Scotland from all rent during his reign.
I need not tell you how much pleasure the promise of a day’s sport gives those who are fond of the gun. Duncan Ban MacIntyre, our great Gaelic poet, says in one of his songs:
“Bu Togarach a dhalbhainn a shealgarach ‘s na beallaichean, Gu moch a direadh gharbheach, ‘S gum b’anmoch tighinn gu baile mi”
Translated, this means:
“How joyfully we start to hunt in the passes; early in the morning we climb the hills, and late at night return to our homes.”
Note: Glen Roy is noted for its parallel roads, the puzzle of geologists, and the salmon fisheries on the River Roy.
The meeting place was a green spot about halfway up Glen Roy. The scene of the shoot was Beinn an Iaruinn. To make a start, we had to ascend Bealach an Laothair, a pass shaped like the cloven hoof of an ox.
There were six guns: three from Cranachan—Donald and Colin MacDonald and Alexr. MacDonald, their sheep manager—and two from Fort William: Father Coll, who was a great hunter from his earliest days, and Mr MacMaster, brother-in-law of the gamekeeper, who for many years drove the Glencoe four-in-hand coach.
My good collie and I completed the party of six guns and a beater.
The collie was invaluable. He searched the long heather, the peat hags and the cairns, and chased the hares up to the lowest gun in line. Then he returned and resumed his search as before.
There were no breech-loading guns then; all were muzzle-loading. This took some time and necessitated a short halt after each shot or two. One of the party used an old flintlock gun, with a barrel as long as that of an old Enfield rifle.
The shooting went on merrily for about two hours, and the whole party met for lunch near the east end of the Ben. The bag was more than 60 hares, as many as could be carried over the hill to the road, where a cart was waiting to convey the spoil home.
My part of the shooting now began. I got the keeper’s gun and case and started off alone with my good “collie.” We left the party still eating their lunch.
Soon after we parted from them, the dog startled a hare, which ran up towards me. I fired, and the hare fell. I looked back to see whether they had seen my good shot. That was the first hare I killed on the run, and I felt it was one of the proudest moments of my life.
I got another three hares on my way home, and I was very proud indeed of my day’s work.
1859
In August of this year, I went to Achnacarry as a ghillie during the shooting season. The Earl of Malmsbury had the shooting and fishing then and for many years thereafter.
The Conservatives were in office that year, and the Earl of Malmsbury was Foreign Secretary, while Lord Derby, the “Rupert of Debate,” as he was called in Parliament, was Prime Minister.
A number of distinguished guests visited the castle for a few days’ sport, among them the Prime Minister and the French Ambassador.
A big hare drive was arranged for a day towards the end of August. The stags were scarcely ready for shooting so early. Hares were then very numerous, especially on a hill called the Geal Charn—that is, the White Cairn.
This hill lies north of the foot of Loch Arkaig and forms part of the range between Glengarry and Loch Arkaig.
It was a broiling hot day without any wind, and we all had some difficulty getting to the top. I was told off to attend the French Ambassador, who evidently was no sportsman, as he came to the shoot in his black coat and wide-awake hat.
No hare would come his way until I got him to take shelter behind a big boulder; then he got some shooting.
The biggest bag was obtained by the Prime Minister and the Earl of Malmsbury, who were put on the best passes and each had a man to load his guns. The day’s bag was about 150 hares.
My First Stalk
The next story I shall call “My First Stalk.”
The head keeper’s house is situated about three miles from the castle, on the south side of Loch Arkaig and at the mouth of a lovely glen called Glen Maillie.
The south side of this glen is covered by an immense forest of pinewood, with huge evergreen trees of great size and age. To follow a wounded stag in that wood, bloodhounds were employed. Now the keepers train collies to do this, and I believe they do it equally well.
On this particular day, we arrived at the keeper’s house at 11 a.m. I was given charge of the bloodhound. There were also two staghounds in the charge of another ghillie.
There were five stags lying at the top of the wood near the mouth of the Black Corrie, right above the stalker’s house. We had to ascend cautiously on the east side of the burn that issues from the corrie.
The stags were all lying down, and, owing to the direction of the wind, we could not get closer than about 200 yards.
After waiting for more than two hours, the stags got up and the gentleman fired. Soon we noticed four stags climb the hill; the fifth turned down into the wood, a sure sign that he was wounded.
The staghounds were slipped, and I was called up with the tracker, which I led by a strong, thick cord. The dog at once got the track, as I knew from the fresh footmarks in the soft ground.
Down we rushed through heather, bracken and rushes, and past huge fir trees, centuries old and hoary with age.
Finally, we emerged from the wood at the bottom and came to the stream, where the dog lost the scent. I concluded that the wounded animal must have crossed the stream.
Here there was a considerable stretch of old arable ground, overgrown with thick bracken. After some time spent searching there, the wounded stag got up close to where the hound and I stood.
The stalker, who now had the gentleman’s rifle, fired, and the staghounds gave chase. Soon the stag was brought to bay in the river and killed.
The day’s work was not complete yet. The stag had to be taken home.
The pony we had for this purpose was new to the work. When he came within a dozen yards or so of the dead deer, he snorted, reared and capered, and almost became unmanageable.
The stalker cast off his shooting jacket, wrapped it around the horse’s head and rubbed some of the stag’s blood into the horse’s nostrils.
After he had quieted down somewhat, the dead stag was firmly strapped to the deer saddle. After some fruitless struggling to throw off his burden, the pony had to give in and make his way home.
Note: Glen Loy. It was down this glen that Prince Charlie and his army marched in 1745, instead of following the usual track around by Corpach and Banavie, etc.
Beating Pootechan
My next adventure is a day spent beating the wood for deer.
This happened on Strome Farm, in Glen Loy, in a wood called Pootechan. The rifles were placed on passes outside the wood along the top.
The beaters started at the east end of the wood and continued beating towards the west end.
About the middle of the wood, a number of stags must have got the wind of some of the gentlemen on the passes, for they came back in our teeth and we could not stop their headlong career.
The result of this day’s work was two stags: one killed by the Earl himself and one wounded by another gentleman and secured by the staghounds after a long and hard chase.
Poaching Expedition, 1858
At the time I am speaking of, there was only one deer forest in Lochaber, namely, Lochiel’s Forest.
Large sheep farms were then the staple industry. Instead of dipping the sheep, as they do now, to keep them clean, they smeared them. This was a comparatively slow process.
On a large farm, smearing gave employment to a dozen or fifteen men for about six weeks, from the middle of October to the end of November each year.
The smearing house was a great centre for caylaying (ceilidhing). Songs were sung and tales told to enliven the long evenings.
Many of the young lads in the neighbourhood were in the habit of going to the smearing house to pass the evening and listen to the songs and stories.
One Saturday, a proposal was made to burn the river for salmon, it being the middle of the spawning season. It was concluded that the water bailiffs would be off their guard on Saturday nights.
There were at least a dozen expert hands at the gaff and spear among the smearers.
At the dinner hour, a large empty tar barrel was broken up and two torches were made, well plastered with tar and tied around with thin wire. Two gaffs and two spears were obtained somehow, and everything was ready for the exciting expedition.
Eight o’clock was the hour fixed for the start. I was selected to be the torchbearer because I was a good runner and a good swimmer.
There were two scouts or watchers, one stationed on each side of the river, to keep a lookout for the river bailiffs and give us timely warning if necessary.
Shortly after eight o’clock, the work began. Fish were numerous, and every now and again one was caught, brought ashore and placed in the bag prepared for the purpose.
All went on like clockwork until we reached the last pool, which was fairly deep, with a smooth, gravelly bottom.
Just as the spearman beside me speared a big fish, the danger signal was sounded. The torch was dipped into the pool, we rushed with all haste to the bank, and for about half an hour we chased one another over the fields until we became exhausted. Then we found that there were no water bailiffs at all.
The mistake arose from one of the spearmen falling behind while trying to get a fish off his spear. When he got clear, he hurried to overtake the light, and, with the speed at which he was travelling, one of the watchers thought he was the bailiff and gave the danger signal.
How true it is that conscience makes cowards of us all, as Shakespeare well says.
That was my first and last attempt at poaching. We each got two fish, but they were not really fit for human food. I do not think any poaching of this kind is done now. For one thing, fish are not nearly so plentiful now as they were then.
Shooting Rents
Shooting rents increased during the period of which I am speaking.
The rents for shooting were very cheap in comparison with present rents. Glenspean shooting was let for many years at £250, and I have known it to reach the high figure of £1,000.
Keppoch used to let for about £70; now it is up to £300.
Braeroy shootings were let for a long period at £300; now, I believe, they bring about five times that sum.
Achnacarry was let to Lord Malmsbury for £500; now it is £3,500.
Tirnadrish and Blarour shootings were not let at all when I came back to the parish in 1869, nor for many years thereafter.
While the rents of shootings have increased, grazing rents have decreased by 50 per cent in many cases.
The valuation of this parish has decreased during the last ten years by more than £5,000, and, as you know, as the rents decrease, our parish rates increase in proportion.
In some of the Western Isles, the rates are more than the rents, and some years ago School Boards could not obtain money to pay the teachers until the Government stepped in with a special grant.
We have reason to be thankful in this parish that, so far, our rates are not exorbitant.
Editors Note. This account is anonymous and was passed on by the late Katie Mackintosh Murlaggan to Mrs Marion Ham
The author was obviously well educated in English and Gaelic and writes in fine prose, consequently we speculate that it may have been the work of Roderick Kennedy the Bohuntin schoolmaster whose lifespan closely matches the timeframe mentioned.
