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Castles and Crofters
The story of Scotland is written in stone on the Isle of Mull
By Elizabeth Shilts with photography by David Trattles
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| Click map to enlarge |
FERGIE THE CEILIDH KING is taking a quick break at the
MacDonald Arms Hotel, a pub in Tobermory on Scotland’s
Isle of Mull, and has opened the microphone to any willing
performer. A ruddy-faced gent takes the stage to belt out the
12 drunken days of Christmas, a little out of season for April,
but the crowd goes wild with every verse. “twelve Alka Seltzers
… six nips of whisky, five haaaappppy daaaays….”
Then a hulk of a man, at least six-foot-five, steps forward,
reluctantly, to chants from his friends of “Big Frankie Boy!” He
pulls out his harmonica and soon has grandmothers and kids
stomping and clapping. Later, as he makes his way back through
the cheering crowd, I stop him to ask if he plays here often.
“Never,” he says. He has come to the Burgh of Tobermory,
the largest community on Mull, to take in the Mishnish Music
Festival, an annual three-day celebration of the music of western
Scotland. “I’ve always wanted to come,” he says, humbled
by the cheers of the crowd. He pats his heart and smiles when
I ask him about his music. “Aaawwww … I just love it. It’s who
I am.” He bends down, gives me a peck on the cheek and then
walks off to join his rowdy friends.
Back on stage, Fergie launches into a Scottish rendition of the
Hokey Pokey on his accordion. The standing-room-only crowd
of Mullaaaahs, as Mull’s residents are known, and other festival
regulars surrounds his five-piece band — crammed between
the old pub’s busy bar and fireplace — bumping and jostling.
I push through to join my three Canadian companions, who are
whooping and clapping right along with everyone else. I had
hoped to experience the infectious spirit of Scotland when we
decided to come to the Inner Hebrides islands. Earlier in the day,
my colleagues Tanya Manoryk, Gilles Gagnier and David Trattles
and I had driven south down the coast from Inverness where
we had just finished competing in a high-octane corporate
adventure race. We’d all decided to stay on and explore the
country in a slightly less intense way.
As we’d made our way to Mull, crammed into a sub-compact
car, I had felt a bit overwhelmed. We were all physically wiped
from the race, had never travelled together and had less than
three days to explore three islands. It didn’t help that our ferry
captain described the Mishnish as “Scotsmen at their waaarst!”
But now, immersed in this Scottish crowd fuelled on octane of
another sort, I feel completely re-energized.
STUDYING OUR MAP OF MULL, it looks as if we can easily
drive the sparse network of roads and still make a number
of stops along the way. It’s only 39 kilometres north-south and
42 kilometres wide.
It is unusually sunny and clear for an island that we have
been told can experience all four seasons in one day. But
almost as soon as we start, we realize this isn’t going to be any
Sunday drive. Most of the roads are single lane, with impossible
turns and bends and ups and downs. The convoluted routes
are draped over mountains, glens and lava-stepped hills.
Some 70 percent of the terrain is more than 150 metres above
sea level. Ben More, one of the country’s highest mountains at
966 metres, looms in the middle of the island and is often
shrouded in wispy clouds.
Approaching Mull’s west coast, we round a corner and
Dave brakes just in time to avoid a couple wandering along the
road with binoculars in hand and cameras at the ready. A little
farther on, a woman ambles solo, also with binoculars. No one is
in a hurry. With more than 200 avian species, from golden eagles
to Slavonian grebes and skylarks, Mull is a birder’s paradise.
We spot a lookout and pull over. Gnarly stunted oaks and
birch line the road, and thick, mossy thatch grass covers everything.
Lichen is splatted over rocks in yellows, whites and greens.
The island of Borsa protrudes from Loch na Keal and off shore, I can make out the silhouettes of other Inner Hebrides islands:
Ulva, Inch, Kenneth, Staffa and Treshnish. At every turn, there
is a postcard-perfect image: an ancient stone fence lining the road
with mossy parge; an iconic red phone booth plopped in the
middle of nowhere; a flock of sheep wandering the roads;
Highland cows calmly chewing their cud and posing in front of
an impossibly beautiful backdrop. We discover benches set in
the most idyllic spots, looking out across the vast North Atlantic.
And in a country that seems to have a castle around every
bend, Mull is no exception. There are two practically within
spitting distance on the east side of the island. The Georgianstyle
Torosay was built in 1858 and is now home to Christopher
James and his family. His father, David Guthrie James, was a
British Member of Parliament and war hero who inherited this
castle from his mother. While Torosay’s main floor is open to
the public from Easter until mid-October, the family lives on
the second floor. (The gardens are open year round.)
Just down the road is Duart Castle, which has been home to
the chief of the Clan Maclean since the 13th century. “We moved
up here in 1947,” says Sir Lachlan Maclean, the 28th chief of
the clan. “It was my parents’ home.” In his wool V-neck and out
walking his dog, he does not match my image of a clan chief,
the rough-and-ready warriors à la Braveheart and Rob Roy, nor
do the cold stone walls and dingy dungeon say “home sweet
home.” He explains that today clans are like an extensive
federation of family branches.
“Many people come having saved up their whole lives to get
here,” he adds. It’s a testament to the pull this country has on
all those who have even an ounce of Scottish blood, a pull
that has been all but irresistible in 2009 as the country celebrates
“Homecoming,” an open invitation for Scots, real or
wannabe, to visit.
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