Thursday,
September 1st.—We had been attended at supper by a civil boy,
whom we engaged to rouse us at six o’clock, and to provide us each a basin of
milk and bread, and have the car ready; all which he did punctually, and we
were off in good time. The morning was not unpleasant, though rather
cold, and we had some fear of rain. Crossed the bridge, and passed by the
manse and chapel, our road carrying us back again in the direction we had come;
but on the opposite side of the river. Passed close to many of the houses
we had seen on the hill-side, which the lame gentleman had told us belonged to
Lord Breadalbane, and were attached to little farms, or ‘crofts,’ as he called
them. Lord Breadalbane had lately laid out a part of his estates in this
way as an experiment, in the hope of preventing discontent and
emigration. We were sorry we had not an opportunity of seeing into these
cottages, and of learning how far the people were happy or otherwise. The
dwellings certainly did not look so comfortable when we were near to them as
from a distance; but this might be chiefly owing to what the inhabitants did
not feel as an evil—the dirt about the doors. We saw, however—a sight
always painful to me—two or three women, each creeping after her single cow,
while it was feeding on the slips of grass between the corn-grounds. Went
round the head of the lake, and onwards close to the lake-side. Kilchurn
Castle was always interesting, though not so grand as seen from the other side,
with its own mountain cove and roaring stream. It combined with the vale
of Dalmally and the distant hills—a beautiful scene, yet
overspread with a gentle desolation. As we went further down we lost
sight of the vale of Dalmally. The castle, which we often stopped to look
back upon, was very beautiful seen in combination with the opposite shore of
the lake—perhaps a little bay, a tuft of trees, or a slope of the hill.
Travelled under the foot of the mountain Cruachan, along an excellent road,
having the lake close to us on our left, woods overhead, and frequent torrents
tumbling down the hills. The distant views across the lake were not
peculiarly interesting after we were out of sight of Kilchurn Castle, the lake
being wide, and the opposite shore not rich, and those mountains which we could
see were not high.
Came
opposite to the village where we had dined the day before, and, losing sight of
the body of the lake, pursued the narrow channel or pass, which is, I believe, three miles long, out of
which issues the river that flows into Loch Etive. We were now enclosed
between steep hills, on the opposite side entirely bare, on our side bare or
woody; the branch of the lake generally filling the whole area of the vale.
It was a pleasing, solitary scene; the long reach of naked precipices on the
other side rose directly out of the water, exceedingly steep, not rugged or
rocky, but with scanty sheep pasturage and large beds of small stones, purple,
dove-coloured, or red, such as are called Screes in Cumberland and
Westmoreland. These beds, or rather streams of stones, appeared as smooth
as the turf itself, nay, I might say, as soft as the feathers of birds, which
they resembled in colour. There was no building on either side of the
water; in many parts only just room for the road, and on the other shore no
footing, as it might seem, for any creature larger than the
mountain sheep, and they, in treading amongst the shelving stones, must often
send them down into the lake below.
After we
had wound for some time through the valley, having met neither foot-traveller,
horse, nor cart, we started at the sight of a single vessel, just as it turned
round the point of a hill, coming into the reach of the valley where we
were. She floated steadily through the middle of the water, with one
large sail spread out, full swollen by the breeze, that blew her right towards
us. I cannot express what romantic images this vessel brought along with
her—how much more beautiful the mountains appeared, the lake how much more
graceful. There was one man on board, who sate at the helm, and he,
having no companion, made the boat look more silent than if we could not have
seen him. I had almost said the ship, for on that narrow water it appeared
as large as the ships which I have watched sailing out of a harbour of the
sea. A little further on we passed a stone hut by the lake-side, near
which were many charcoal sacks, and we conjectured that the vessel had been
depositing charcoal brought from other parts of Loch Awe to be carried to the
iron-works at Loch Etive. A little further on we came to the end of the
lake, but where exactly it ended was not easy to determine, for the river was
as broad as the lake, and we could only say when it became positively a river
by the rushing of the water. It is, indeed, a grand stream, the quantity
of water being very large, frequently forming rapids, and always flowing very
quickly; but its greatness is short-lived, for, after a course of three miles,
it is lost in the great waters of Loch Etive, a sea loch.
Crossed a
bridge, and climbing a hill towards Taynuilt, our
baiting-place, we saw a hollow to the right below us, through which the river
continued its course between rocks and steep banks of wood. William
turned aside to look into the dell, but I was too much tired. We had left
it, two or three hundred yards behind, an open river, the hills, enclosing the
branch of the lake, having settled down into irregular slopes. We were
glad when we reached Taynuilt, a village of huts, with a chapel and one stone
house, which was the inn. It had begun to rain, and I was almost benumbed
with the cold, besides having a bad headache; so it rejoiced me to see kind
looks on the landlady’s face, and that she was willing to put herself in a
bustle for our comfort; we had a good fire presently, and breakfast was set
out—eggs, preserved gooseberries, excellent cream, cheese, and butter, but no
wheat bread, and the oaten cakes were so hard I could not chew them. We
wished to go upon Loch Etive; so, having desired the landlady to prepare a fowl
for supper, and engaged beds, which she promised us willingly—a proof that we
were not in the great road—we determined to find our way to the lake and
endeavour to procure a boat. It rained heavily, but we went on, hoping
the sky would clear up.
Walked
through unenclosed fields, a sort of half-desolate country; but when we came to
the mouth of the river which issues out of Loch Awe, and which we had to cross
by a ferry, looking up that river we saw that the vale down which it flowed was
richly wooded and beautiful.
We were
now among familiar fireside names. We could see the town of Bunawe, a
place of which the old woman with whom William lodged ten years at Hawkshead
used to tell tales half as long as an ancient romance. It is a small
village or port on the same side of Loch Etive on which we
stood, and at a little distance is a house built by a Mr. Knott of Coniston
Water-head, a partner in the iron-foundry at Bunawe, in the service of whose
family the old woman had spent her youth. It was an ugly yellow-daubed
building, staring this way and that, but William looked at it with pleasure for
poor Ann Tyson’s sake.
We hailed the ferry-boat, and a little boy came to fetch us; he rowed up
against the stream with all his might for a considerable way, and then yielding
to it, the boat was shot towards the shore almost like an arrow from a
bow. It was pleasing to observe the dexterity with which the lad managed
his oars, glorying in the appearance of danger—for he observed us watching him,
and afterwards, while he conveyed us over, his pride redoubled; for my part, I
was completely dizzy with the swiftness of the motion.
We could
not have a boat from the ferry, but were told that if we would walk to a house
half a mile up the river, we had a chance of getting one. I went a part
of the way with William, and then sate down under the umbrella near some
houses. A woman came out to talk with me, and pressed me to take shelter
in her house, which I refused, afraid of missing William. She eyed me
with extreme curiosity, asking fifty questions respecting the object of our
journey. She told me that it rained most parts of the year there, and
that there was no chance of fine weather that day; and I believe when William
came to tell me that we could have a boat, she thought I was half crazed.
We went down to the shore of the lake, and, after having sate some time under a
wall, the boatman came to us, and we went upon the water. At first it did
not rain heavily, and the air was not cold, and before we had gone far we
rejoiced that we had not been faint-hearted. The loch is of a considerable width, but the mountains are so very high that,
whether we were close under them or looked from one shore to the other, they
maintained their dignity. I speak of the higher part of the loch, above
the town of Bunawe and the large river, for downwards they are but hills, and the
water spreads out wide towards undetermined shores. On our right was the
mountain Cruachan, rising directly from the lake, and on the opposite side
another mountain, called Ben Durinish, craggy, and exceedingly steep, with wild
wood growing among the rocks and stones.
We crossed
the water, which was very rough in the middle, but calmer near the shores, and
some of the rocky basins and little creeks among the rocks were as still as a
mirror, and they were so beautiful with the reflection of the orange-coloured
seaweed growing on the stones or rocks, that a child, with a child’s delight in
gay colours, might have danced with joy at the sight of them. It never
ceased raining, and the tops of the mountains were concealed by mists, but as
long as we could see across the water we were contented; for though little
could be seen of the true shapes and permanent appearances of the mountains, we
saw enough to give us the most exquisite delight: the powerful lake which
filled the large vale, roaring torrents, clouds floating on the mountain sides,
sheep that pastured there, sea-birds and land birds. We sailed a
considerable way without coming to any houses or cultivated fields. There
was no horse-road on either side of the loch, but a person on foot, as the
boatman told us, might make his way at the foot of Ben Durinish, namely on that
side of the loch on which we were; there was, however, not the least track to
be seen, and it must be very difficult and laborious.
We
happened to say that we were going to Glen Coe, which would be the journey of a
long day and a half, when one of the men, pointing to the head of the loch,
replied that if we were there we should be but an hour’s walk from Glen
Coe. Though it continued raining, and there was no hope that the rain would
cease, we could not help wishing to go by that way: it was an adventure; we
were not afraid of trusting ourselves to the hospitality of the Highlanders,
and we wanted to give our horse a day’s rest, his back having been galled by
the saddle. The owner of the boat, who understood English much better
than the other man, his helper, said he would make inquiries about the road at
a farm-house a little further on. He was very ready to talk with us, and
was rather an interesting companion; he spoke after a slow and solemn manner,
in book and sermon language and phrases:
“A stately
speech, such as grave livers do in Scotland use.”
When we
came to the farm-house of which the man had spoken, William and he landed to
make the necessary inquiries. It was a thatched house at the foot of the
high mountain Ben Durinish—a few patches or little beds of corn belonging to
it; but the spot was pastoral, the green grass growing to the walls of the
house. The dwelling-house was distinguished from the outer buildings, which
were numerous, making it look like two or three houses, as is common in
Scotland, by a chimney and one small window with sash-panes; on one side was a
little woody glen, with a precipitous stream that fell into the bay, which was
perfectly still, and bordered with the rich orange-colour reflected from the
sea-weed. Cruachan, on the other side of the lake, was exceedingly grand,
and appeared of an enormous height, spreading out two large
arms that made a cove down which fell many streams swoln by the rain, and in
the hollow of the cove were some huts which looked like a village. The
top of the mountain was concealed from us by clouds, and the mists floated high
and low upon the sides of it.
William
came back to the boat highly pleased with the cheerful hospitality and kindness
of the woman of the house, who would scarcely permit him and his guide to go
away without taking some refreshment. She was the only person at home, so
they could not obtain the desired information; but William had been well repaid
for the trouble of landing; indeed, rainy as it was, I regretted that I had not
landed also, for I should have wished to bear away in my memory a perfect image
of this place,—the view from the doors, as well as the simple Highland comforts
and contrivances which were near it. I think I never saw a retirement
that would have so completely satisfied me, if I had wanted to be altogether
shut out from the world, and at the same time among the grandest of the works
of God; but it must be remembered that mountains are often so much dignified by
clouds, mists, and other accidents of weather, that one could not know them
again in the full sunshine of a summer’s noon. But, whatever the
mountains may be in their own shapes, the farm-house with its pastoral grounds
and corn fields won from the mountain, its warm out-houses in irregular stages
one above another on the side of the hill, the rocks, the stream, and
sheltering bay, must at all times be interesting objects. The household
boat lay at anchor, chained to a rock, which, like the whole border of the
lake, was edged with sea-weed, and some fishing-nets were hung upon
poles,—affecting images, which led our thoughts out to the
wide ocean, yet made these solitudes of the mountains bear the impression of
greater safety and more deep seclusion.
The rain
became so heavy that we should certainly have turned back if we had not felt
more than usual courage from the pleasure we had enjoyed, which raised hope
where none was. There were some houses a little higher up, and we determined
to go thither and make further inquiries. We could now hardly see to the
other side of the lake, yet continued to go on, and presently heard some people
pushing through a thicket close to us, on which the boatman called out,
‘There’s one that can tell us something about the road to Glen Coe, for he was
born there.’ We looked up and saw a ragged, lame fellow, followed by some
others, with a fishing-rod over his shoulder; and he was making such good speed
through the boughs that one might have half believed he was the better for his
lame leg. He was the head of a company of tinkers, who, as the men told
us, travel with their fishing-rods as duly as their hammers. On being
hailed by us the whole company stopped; and their lame leader and our boatmen
shouted to each other in Erse—a savage cry to our ears, in that lonely and
romantic place. We could not learn from the tinker all we wished to know,
therefore when we came near to the houses William landed again with the owner
of the boat. The rain was now so heavy that we could see nothing at
all—not even the houses whither William was going.
We had
given up all thought of proceeding further at that time, but were desirous to
know how far that road to Glen Coe was practicable for us. They met with
an intelligent man, who was at work with others in a hay field, though it
rained so heavily; he gave them the information they
desired, and said that there was an acquaintance of his between that place and
Glen Coe, who, he had no doubt, would gladly accommodate us with lodging and
anything else we might need. When William returned to the boat we shaped
our course back again down the water, leaving the head of Loch Etive not only
unvisited, but unseen—to our great regret. The rain was very heavy; the
wind had risen, and both wind and tide were against us, so that it was hard
labour for the boatmen to push us on. They kept as close to the shore as
they could, to be under the wind; but at the doubling of many of the rocky
points the tide was so strong that it was difficult to get on at all, and I was
sometimes afraid that we should be dashed against the rocks, though I believe,
indeed, there was not much danger.
Came down
the same side of the lake under Ben Durinish, and landed at a ferry-house
opposite to Bunawe, where we gave the men a glass of whisky; but our chief
motive for landing was to look about the place, which had a most wild aspect at
that time. It was a low promontory, pushed far into the water, narrowing
the lake exceedingly; in the obscurity occasioned by the mist and rain it
appeared to be an island; it was stained and weather-beaten, a rocky place,
seeming to bear no produce but such as might be cherished by cold and storms,
lichens or the incrustations of sea rocks. We rowed right across the
water to the mouth of the river of Loch Awe, our boat following the ferry-boat
which was conveying the tinker crew to the other side, whither they were going
to lodge, as the men told us, in some kiln, which they considered as their
right and privilege—a lodging always to be found where there was any arable
land—for every farm has its kiln to dry the corn in:
another proof of the wetness of the climate. The kilns are built of
stone, covered in, and probably as good a shelter as the huts in which these Highland
vagrants were born. They gather sticks or heather for their fire, and, as
they are obstinate beggars, for the men said they would not be denied, they
probably have plenty of food with little other trouble than that of wandering
in search of it, for their smutty faces and tinker equipage serve chiefly for a
passport to a free and careless life. It rained very heavily, and the
wind blew when we crossed the lake, and their boat and ours went tilting over
the high waves. They made a romantic appearance; three women were of the
party; two men rowed them over; the lame fellow sate at one end of the boat,
and his companion at the other, each with an enormous fishing-rod, which looked
very graceful, something like masts to the boat. When we had landed at
the other side we saw them, after having begged at the ferry-house, strike
merrily through the fields, no doubt betaking themselves to their shelter for
the night.
We were
completely wet when we reached the inn; the landlady wanted to make a fire for
me up-stairs, but I went into her own parlour to undress, and her daughter, a
pretty little girl, who could speak a few words of English, waited on me; I
rewarded her with one of the penny books bought at Dumfries for Johnny, with
which she was greatly delighted. We had an excellent supper—fresh salmon,
a fowl, gooseberries and cream, and potatoes; good beds; and the next morning
boiled milk and bread, and were only charged seven shillings and sixpence for
the whole—horse, liquor, supper, and the two breakfasts. We thought they
had made a mistake, and told them so—for it was only just half as much as we
had paid the day before at Dalmally, the case being that
Dalmally is in the main road of the tourists. The landlady insisted on my
bringing away a little cup instead of our tin can, which she told me had been
taken from the car by some children: we set no little value on this cup as a
memorial of the good woman’s honesty and kindness, and hoped to have brought it
home. . . .
Friday, September 2d.—Departed at about seven
o’clock this morning, having to travel eight miles down Loch Etive, and then to
cross a ferry. Our road was at first at a considerable distance from the
lake, and out of sight of it, among undulating hills covered with coppice
woods, resembling the country between Coniston and Windermere, but it
afterwards carried us close to the water’s edge; and in this part of our ride
we were disappointed. We knew that the high mountains were all at the
head of the lake, therefore had not expected the same awful grandeur which we
beheld the day before, and perceived by glimpses; but the gentleman whom we met
with at Dalmally had told us that there were many fine situations for
gentlemen’s seats on this part of the lake, which had made us expect greater loveliness
near the shores, and better cultivation. It is true there are pleasant
bays, with grounds prettily sloping to the water, and coppice woods, where
houses would stand in shelter and sun, looking on the lake; but much is yet
wanting—waste lands to be ploughed, peat-mosses drained, hedgerows reared; and
the woods demand a grant of longer life than is now their privilege.
But after
we had journeyed about six miles a beautiful scene opened upon us. The
morning had been gloomy, and at this time the sun shone out, scattering the
clouds. We looked right down the lake, that was
covered with streams of dazzling sunshine, which revealed the indentings of the
dark shores. On a bold promontory, on the same side of the loch where we
were, stood an old castle, an irregular tall building, not without majesty; and
beyond, with leagues of water between, our eyes settled upon the island of
Mull, a high mountain, green in the sunshine, and overcast with clouds,—an
object as inviting to the fancy as the evening sky in the west, and though of a
terrestrial green, almost as visionary. We saw that it was an island of
the seas but were unacquainted with its name; it was of a gem-like colour, and
as soft as the sky. The shores of Loch Etive, in their moorish, rocky
wildness, their earthly bareness, as they lay in length before us, produced a
contrast which, with the pure sea, the brilliant sunshine, the long distance,
contributed to the aërial and romantic power with which the mountain island was
invested.
Soon
after, we came to the ferry. The boat being on the other shore, we had to
wait a considerable time, though the water was not wide, and our call was heard
immediately. The boatmen moved with surly tardiness, as if glad to make
us know that they were our masters. At this point the lake was narrowed
to the breadth of not a very wide river by a round ear or promontory on the
side on which we were, and a low ridge of peat-mossy ground on the other.
It was a dreary place, shut out from the beautiful prospect of the Isle of
Mull, and Dunstaffnage Castle—so the fortress was called. Four or five
men came over with the boat; the horse was unyoked, and being harshly driven
over rough stones, which were as slippery as ice, with slimy seaweed, he was in
terror before he reached the boat, and they completed the work by beating and
pushing him by main force over the ridge of the boat, for
there was no open end, or plank, or any other convenience for shipping either
horse or carriage. I was very uneasy when we were launched on the
water. A blackguard-looking fellow, blind of one eye, which I could not
but think had been put out in some strife or other, held him by force like a
horse-breaker, while the poor creature fretted, and stamped with his feet
against the bare boards, frightening himself more and more with every stroke;
and when we were in the middle of the water I would have given a thousand
pounds to have been sure that we should reach the other side in safety.
The tide was rushing violently in, making a strong eddy with the stream of the
loch, so that the motion of the boat and the noise and foam of the waves
terrified him still more, and we thought it would be impossible to keep him in
the boat, and when we were just far enough from the shore to have been all
drowned he became furious, and, plunging desperately, his hind-legs were in the
water, then, recovering himself, he beat with such force against the boat-side
that we were afraid he should send his feet through. All the while the
men were swearing terrible oaths, and cursing the poor beast, redoubling their
curses when we reached the landing-place, and whipping him ashore in brutal
triumph.
We had
only room for half a heartful of joy when we set foot on dry land, for another
ferry was to be crossed five miles further. We had intended breakfasting
at this house if it had been a decent place; but after this affair we were glad
to pay the men off and depart, though I was not well and needed
refreshment. The people made us more easy by assuring us that we might
easily swim the horse over the next ferry. The first mile or two of our road was over a peat-moss; we then came near to the seashore,
and had beautiful views backwards towards the Island of Mull and Dunstaffnage
Castle, and forward where the sea ran up between the hills. In this part,
on the opposite side of the small bay or elbow of the sea, was a gentleman’s
house on a hillside, and a building on the hill-top which we took
for a lighthouse, but were told that it belonged to the mansion, and was only
lighted up on rejoicing days—the laird’s birthday, for instance.
Before we
had left the peat-moss to travel close to the sea-shore we delighted ourselves
with looking on a range of green hills, in shape like those bordering
immediately upon the sea, abrupt but not high; they were, in fact, a
continuation of the same; but retiring backwards, and rising from the black
peat-moss. These hills were of a delicate green, uncommon in Scotland; a
foaming rivulet ran down one part, and near it lay two herdsmen full in the
sun, with their dogs, among a troop of black cattle which were feeding near,
and sprinkled over the whole range of hills—a pastoral scene, to our eyes the
more beautiful from knowing what a delightful prospect it must overlook.
We now came under the steeps by the sea-side, which were bold rocks, mouldering
scars, or fresh with green grass. Under the brow of one of these rocks
was a burying-ground, with many upright grave-stones and hay-cocks between, and
fenced round by a wall neatly sodded. Near it were one or two houses,
with out-houses under a group of trees, but no chapel. The neatness of
the burying-ground would in itself have been noticeable in any part of Scotland
where we have been; but it was more interesting from its situation than for its
own sake—within the sound of the gentlest waves of the sea,
and near so many quiet and beautiful objects. There was a range of hills
opposite, which we were here first told were the hills of Morven, so much sung
of by Ossian. We consulted with some men respecting the ferry, who
advised us by all means to send our horse round the loch, and go ourselves over
in the boat: they were very civil, and seemed to be intelligent men, yet all
disagreed about the length of the loch, though we were not two miles from it:
one said it was only six miles long, another ten or fifteen, and afterwards a
man whom we met told us it was twenty.
We lost
sight of the sea for some time, crossing a half-cultivated space, then reached
Loch Creran, a large irregular sea loch, with low sloping banks, coppice woods,
and uncultivated grounds, with a scattering of corn fields; as it appeared to
us, very thinly inhabited: mountains at a distance. We found only women
at home at the ferry-house. I was faint and cold, and went to sit by the
fire, but, though very much needing refreshment, I had not heart to eat
anything there—the house was so dirty, and there were so many wretchedly dirty
women and children; yet perhaps I might have got over the dirt, though I
believe there are few ladies who would not have been turned sick by it, if
there had not been a most disgusting combination of laziness and coarseness in
the countenances and manners of the women, though two of them were very
handsome. It was a small hut, and four women were living in it: one, the
mother of the children and mistress of the house; the others I supposed to be
lodgers, or perhaps servants; but there was no work amongst them. They
had just taken from the fire a great pan full of potatoes, which they mixed up
with milk, all helping themselves out of the same vessel,
and the little children put in their dirty hands to dig out of the mess at
their pleasure. I thought to myself, How light the labour of such a house
as this! Little sweeping, no washing of floors, and as to scouring the
table, I believe it was a thing never thought of.
After a
long time the ferryman came home; but we had to wait yet another hour for the
tide. In the meanwhile our horse took fright in consequence of his terror
at the last ferry, ran away with the car, and dashed out umbrellas, greatcoats,
etc.; but luckily he was stopped before any serious mischief was done. We
had determined, whatever it cost, not to trust ourselves with him again in the
boat; but sending him round the lake seemed almost out of the question, there
being no road, and probably much difficulty in going round with a horse; so
after some deliberation with the ferryman it was agreed that he should swim
over. The usual place of ferrying was very broad, but he was led to the
point of a peninsula at a little distance. It being an unusual
affair,—indeed, the people of the house said that he was the first horse that
had ever swum over,—we had several men on board, and the mistress of the house
offered herself as an assistant: we supposed for the sake of a share in
eighteen-pennyworth of whisky which her husband called for without ceremony,
and of which she and the young lasses, who had helped to push the boat into the
water, partook as freely as the men. At first I feared for the horse: he
was frightened, and strove to push himself under the boat; but I was soon
tolerably easy, for he went on regularly and well, and after from six to ten
minutes swimming landed in safety on the other side. Poor creature! he
stretched out his nostrils and stared wildly while the man
was trotting him about to warm him, and when he put him into the car he was
afraid of the sound of the wheels. For some time our road was up a glen,
the banks chiefly covered with coppice woods, an unpeopled, but, though without
grandeur, not a dreary tract.
Came to a
moor and descended into a broad vale, which opened to Loch Linnhe, an arm of
the sea, the prospect being shut in by high mountains, on which the sun was
shining among mists and resting clouds. A village and chapel stood on the
opposite hill; the hills sloped prettily down to the bed of the vale, a large
level area—the grounds in general cultivated, but not rich. We went perhaps
half a mile down the vale, when our road struck right across it towards the
village on the hill-side. We overtook a tall, well-looking man, seemingly
about thirty years of age, driving a cart, of whom we inquired concerning the
road, and the distance to Portnacroish, our baiting-place. We made
further inquiries respecting our future journey, which he answered in an
intelligent manner, being perfectly acquainted with the geography of
Scotland. He told us that the village which we saw before us and the
whole tract of country was called Appin. William said that it was a
pretty wild place, to which the man replied, ‘Sir, it is a very bonny place if
you did but see it on a fine day,’ mistaking William’s praise for a
half-censure; I must say, however, that we hardly ever saw a thoroughly
pleasing place in Scotland, which had not something of wildness in its aspect
of one sort or other. It came from many causes here: the sea, or
sea-loch, of which we only saw as it were a glimpse crossing the vale at the foot
of it, the high mountains on the opposite shore, the unenclosed hills on each side of the vale, with black cattle feeding on them, the
simplicity of the scattered huts, the half-sheltered, half-exposed situation of
the village, the imperfect culture of the fields, the distance from any city or
large town, and the very names of Morven and Appin, particularly at such a
time, when old Ossian’s old friends, sunbeams and mists, as like ghosts as any
in the mid-afternoon could be, were keeping company with them. William
did all he could to efface the unpleasant impression he had made on the
Highlander, and not without success, for he was kind and communicative when we
walked up the hill towards the village. He had been a great traveller, in
Ireland and elsewhere; but I believe that he had visited no place so beautiful
to his eyes as his native home, the strath of Appin under the heathy hills.
We arrived
at Portnacroish soon after parting from this man. It is a small village—a
few huts and an indifferent inn by the side of the loch. Ordered a fowl
for dinner, had a fire lighted, and went a few steps from the door up the road,
and turning aside into a field stood at the top of a low eminence, from which,
looking down the loch to the sea through a long vista of hills and mountains,
we beheld one of the most delightful prospects that, even when we dream of
fairer worlds than this, it is possible for us to conceive in our hearts.
A covering of clouds rested on the long range of the hills of Morven, mists floated
very near to the water on their sides, and were slowly shifting about: yet the
sky was clear, and the sea, from the reflection of the sky, of an ethereal or
sapphire blue, which was intermingled in many places, and mostly by gentle
gradations, with beds of bright dazzling sunshine; green islands lay on the
calm water, islands far greener, for so it seemed, than the
grass of other places; and from their excessive beauty, their unearthly
softness, and the great distance of many of them, they made us think of the
islands of the blessed in the Vision of Mirza—a resemblance more striking from
the long tract of mist which rested on the top of the steeps of Morven.
The view was endless, and though not so wide, had something of the intricacy of
the islands and water of Loch Lomond as we saw them from Inch-ta-vanach; and
yet how different! At Loch Lomond we could never forget that it was an
inland lake of fresh water, nor here that it was the sea itself, though among
multitudes of hills. Immediately below us, on an island a few yards from
the shore, stood an old keep or fortress; the vale of Appin opened to the water-side,
with cultivated fields and cottages. If there were trees near the shore
they contributed little to the delightful effect of the scene: it was the
immeasurable water, the lofty mist-covered steeps of Morven to the right, the
emerald islands without a bush or tree, the celestial colour and brightness of
the calm sea, and the innumerable creeks and bays, the communion of land and
water as far as the eye could travel. My description must needs be
languid; for the sight itself was too fair to be remembered. We sate a
long time upon the hill, and pursued our journey at about four o’clock.
Had an indifferent dinner, but the cheese was so excellent that William wished
to buy the remainder; but the woman would not consent to sell it, and forced us
to accept a large portion of it.
We had to
travel up the loch, leaving behind us the beautiful scene which we had viewed
with such delight before dinner. Often, while we were climbing the hill,
did we stop to look back, and when we had gone twenty or
thirty yards beyond the point where we had the last view of it, we left the car
to the care of some children who were coming from school, and went to take
another farewell, always in the hope of bearing away a more substantial
remembrance. Travelled for some miles along a road which was so smooth it
was more like a gravel walk in a gentleman’s grounds than a public
highway. Probably the country is indebted for this excellent road to Lord
Tweeddale, now a prisoner in France. His house stands
upon an eminence within a mile of Portnacroish, commanding the same prospect
which I have spoken of, except that it must lose something in not having the
old fortress at the foot of it—indeed, it is not to be seen at all from the
house or grounds.
We
travelled under steep hills, stony or smooth, with coppice-woods and patches of
cultivated land, and houses here and there; and at every hundred yards, I may
almost venture to say, a streamlet, narrow as a ribbon, came tumbling down,
and, crossing our road, fell into the lake below. On the opposite shore,
the hills—namely, the continuation of the hills of Morven—were stern and
severe, rising like upright walls from the water’s edge, and in colour more
resembling rocks than hills, as they appeared to us. We did not see any
house, or any place where it was likely a house could stand, for many miles;
but as the loch was broad we could not perhaps distinguish the objects
thoroughly. A little after sunset our road led us from the vale of the
loch. We came to a small river, a bridge, a mill, and some cottages at
the foot of a hill, and close to the loch.
Did not
cross the bridge, but went up the brook, having it on our left, and soon found
ourselves in a retired valley, scattered over with many grey huts, and
surrounded on every side by green hills. The hay grounds in the middle of
the vale were unenclosed, which was enough to keep alive the Scottish wildness,
here blended with exceeding beauty; for there were trees growing irregularly or
in clumps all through the valley, rocks or stones here and there, which, with
the people at work, hay-cocks sprinkled over the fields, made the vale look
full and populous. It was a sweet time of the evening: the moon was up;
but there was yet so much of day that her light was not perceived. Our
road was through open fields; the people suspended their work as we passed
along, and leaning on their pitchforks or rakes, with their arms at their
sides, or hanging down, some in one way, some in another, and no two alike,
they formed most beautiful groups, the outlines of their figures being much
more distinct than by day, and all that might have been harsh or unlovely
softened down. The dogs were, as usual, attendant on their masters, and,
watching after us, they barked aloud; yet even their barking hardly disturbed
the quiet of the place.
I cannot
say how long this vale was; it made the larger half of a circle, or a curve
deeper than that of half a circle, before it opened again upon the loch.
It was less thoroughly cultivated and woody after the last turning—the hills
steep and lofty. We met a very tall stout man, a fine figure, in a
Highland bonnet, with a little girl, driving home their cow: he accosted us,
saying that we were late travellers, and that we had yet four miles to go
before we should reach Ballachulish—a long way, uncertain as we were respecting
our accommodations. He told us that the vale was
called the Strath of Duror, and when we said it was a pretty place, he
answered, Indeed it was, and that they lived very comfortably there, for they
had a good master, Lord Tweeddale, whose imprisonment he lamented, speaking
earnestly of his excellent qualities. At the end of the vale we came
close upon a large bay of the loch, formed by a rocky hill, a continuation of the
ridge of high hills on the left side of the strath, making a very grand
promontory, under which was a hamlet, a cluster of huts, at the water’s edge,
with their little fleet of fishing boats at anchor, and behind, among the
rocks, a hundred slips of corn, slips and patches, often no bigger than a
garden such as a child, eight years old, would make for sport: it might have
been the work of a small colony from China. There was something touching
to the heart in this appearance of scrupulous industry, and excessive labour of
the soil, in a country where hills and mountains, and even valleys, are left to
the care of nature and the pleasure of the cattle that feed among them.
It was, indeed, a very interesting place, the more so being in perfect contrast
with the few houses at the entrance of the strath—a sea hamlet, without trees,
under a naked stony mountain, yet perfectly sheltered, standing in the middle
of a large bay which half the winds that travel over the lake can never
visit. The other, a little bowery spot, with its river, bridge, and mill,
might have been a hundred miles from the sea-side.
The moon
was now shining, and though it reminded us how far the evening was advanced, we
stopped for many minutes before we could resolve to go on; we saw nothing
stirring, neither men, women, nor cattle; but the linen was still bleaching by
the stony rivulet, which ran near the houses in water-breaks and tiny
cataracts. For the first half mile after we had left
this scene there was no thing remarkable; and afterwards we could only see the
hills, the sky, the moon, and moonlight water. When we came within, it
might be, half a mile of Ballachulish, the place where we were to lodge, the
loch narrowed very much, the hills still continuing high. I speak
inaccurately, for it split into two divisions, the one along which we went
being called Loch Leven.
The road
grew very bad, and we had an anxious journey till we saw a light before us,
which with great joy we assured ourselves was from the inn; but what was our
distress when, on going a few steps further, we came to a bridge half broken
down, with bushes laid across to prevent travellers from going over.
After some perplexity we determined that I should walk on to the house before
us—for we could see that the bridge was safe for foot-passengers—and ask for
assistance. By great good luck, at this very moment four or five men came
along the road towards us and offered to help William in driving the car
through the water, which was not very deep at that time, though, only a few
days before, the damage had been done to the bridge by a flood.
I walked
on to the inn, ordered tea, and was conducted into a lodging room. I
desired to have a fire, and was answered with the old scruple about ‘giving
fire,’—with, at the same time, an excuse ‘that it was so late,’—the girl,
however, would ask the landlady, who was lying-in; the fire was brought
immediately, and from that time the girl was very civil. I was not,
however, quite at ease, for William stayed long, and I was going to leave my
fire to seek after him, when I heard him at the door with the horse and
car. The horse had taken fright with the roughness of the
river-bed and the rattling of the wheels—the second fright in consequence of
the ferry—and the men had been obliged to unyoke him and drag the car through,
a troublesome affair for William; but he talked less of the trouble and alarm
than of the pleasure he had felt in having met with such true good-will and
ready kindness in the Highlanders. They drank their glass of whisky at
the door, wishing William twenty good wishes, and asking him twice as many
questions,—if he was married, if he had an estate, where he lived, etc.
etc. This inn is the ferry-house on the main road up into the Highlands
by Fort-William, and here Coleridge, though unknown to us, had slept three
nights before.
To be
continued
