Famous Hebrideans - Eileanaich Ainmeil
Murchadh
This list covers just a few Hebrideans whose names are well-known for
one reason or another. In fact, if you look at who's who in business,
industry and culture today, you'll often find that natives of the
Hebrides are a feature. With the islands' high quality education
system, islanders who leave the islands tend to make a big impression
in whatever they do. Here are just a few people that you may have
heard of...
Flora MacDonald (1722-1790)
Native of South Uist in the Hebrides, Flora helped Bonnie Prince
Charlie, the Jacobite Prince to safety following the failed rebellion
of 1745. She later emigrated to North Carolina and was active in
recruiting Scots to fight for the British in the American War of
Independence.
John Wayne (1907-1979)
In the 1950s John Wayne remarked to a Hollywood reporter that he was
'just a Scotch-Irish little boy.' In the ancient past, the Morrison
clan had originated on the Isle of Lewis in the Hebrides. They moved
to Northern Ireland Ulster with the Great Migration during the
seventeenth century when tens of thousands of Scots Presbyterians, at
the invitation of the English, crossed the Irish sea and crushed the
Roman Catholic peasants who occupied the land.
Donald Trump (1946- ...)
The American multi-millionaire's mother's family came from the Isle of
Lewis: it is said that she spoke with a soft island lilt all her life.
Major Duncan Morrison (no dates)
The late Duncan Morison was a much loved music teacher and piano
player who was well known not only in Lewis but by his playing for
'society' throughout Britain & Ireland and around the world, not least
playing for the Queen Mother! In 1998 he bequeathed his house at 44
Habost, Ness, Isle of Lewis to Comunn Eachdraidh Nis (Ness Historical
Society and in 1999/2000 was renovated and converted into a Gaelic
arts & music centre with modern facilities while still maintaining
traditional elements.
Norman MacCaig (1910-1996)
Generally regarded as the finest Scottish poet of his generation
(writing in English), Norman MacCaig was awarded the Queens Medal for
poetry in 1986. His father was a chemist in Edinburgh and although
born in Edinburgh, he had island connections through his mother, who
was from Harris in the Hebrides. The family always felt close to
island society and its culture held a strong influence over Norman.
Among his many famous poems are: Aunt Julia, the Basking Shark and
Assisi.
Sir Alexander Mackenzie (1764-1839)
Born in Stornoway on the Isle of Lewis, Mackenzie emigrated to Canada
and worked as an incredibly successful and adventurous fur trader. He
was the first man to journey down the river which now bears his name,
the famed Mackenzie River.
Iain Crichton Smith (1928-)
One of Scotland's premier poets and literary masters, Smith was born
in Glasgow in 1928 where he lived for two years before moving to the
Isle of Lewis where he remained until he left for further education.
He was brought up in a Gaelic speaking community and English was his
second language. Highland and Island culture, landscape and history
are diffused throughout his work. He often exclaims against the
narrowness of the world in which he grew up in - specifically the
teachings and influence of the Free Church, which had an extremely
powerful grip over the society in which he was brought up in.
Calum MacDonald Runrig drummer and songwriter, (1953-)
Calum MacDonald, was born in Lochmaddy, North Uist, in November 1953.
Calum began his song-writing career entirely in English, because he
thought that Gaelic was 'uncool' at the time!
The Macaulays
The Macaulay family from Uig in Lewis produced the anti-slavery
campaigner Zachery Macaulay and historian Lord Macaulay.
Karen Matheson Top Celtic band Capercaillie's lead singer was born and
brought up in Oban, but it was from her Grandmother,a singer from the
Isle of Barra in the Hebrides that Karen learned many of the
traditional songs that have been the backbone of Capercaillie's
material over the years.
The Macivers
This family from Uig on the Isle of Lewis founded "Cunard Line," the
worldwide shipping company.
John Macleod the former Tory Chancellor of the Exchequer came from the
Isle of Lewis.
Colin Mackezie Surveyor General of India, came from the Isle of Lewis
Murchadh
Lachie
>Famous Hebrideans - Eileanaich Ainmeil
>
>This list covers just a few Hebrideans whose names are well-known for
>one reason or another. In fact, if you look at who's who in business,
>industry and culture today, you'll often find that natives of the
>Hebrides are a feature. With the islands' high quality education
>system, islanders who leave the islands tend to make a big impression
>in whatever they do. Here are just a few people that you may have
>heard of...
What about Beaverbrook's ma or is the IH no damn good?
Actually though it is not something I am really want to boast about.
Was the first PM of the Dominion of Canada no a slanderer?
>
>Colin Mackezie Surveyor General of India, came from the Isle of Lewis
>
>
>Murchadh
--
Lachie.
When you were alive I was never alone,
somewhere in the world there was something called home.
LWIII.
Murchadh
> Murchadh <murc...@shaw.ca> sgrìobh,
>>Famous Hebrideans - Eileanaich Ainmeil
>>
>>This list covers just a few Hebrideans whose names are well-known for
>>one reason or another. In fact, if you look at who's who in business,
>>industry and culture today, you'll often find that natives of the
>>Hebrides are a feature. With the islands' high quality education
>>system, islanders who leave the islands tend to make a big impression
>>in whatever they do. Here are just a few people that you may have
>>heard of...
>Snip
>
>What about Beaverbrook's ma or is the IH no damn good?
IH?
>Actually though it is not something I am really want to boast about.
>Was the first PM of the Dominion of Canada no a slanderer?
No, he was a drunk, but a very sharp and effective drunk. Also, he
wasn't a Hebridean; he was born in Glasgow.
>>Colin Mackezie Surveyor General of India, came from the Isle of Lewis
>>
>>
>>Murchadh
>
>--
>Lachie.
>When you were alive I was never alone,
>somewhere in the world there was something called home.
>LWIII.
Murchadh
JackieMulheron
>Famous Hebrideans - Eileanaich Ainmeil
And the website or book you scanned that from should be credited to...?
Lachie
<4037934c.2649169@news>, and displaying the suave and sophisticated
disposition of Archibald Leach, Murchadh <murc...@shaw.ca> sgrìobh,
>On Sat, 21 Feb 2004 10:29:30 +0000, Lachie <noos@[127.0.0.1]> wrote:
>
>> Murchadh <murc...@shaw.ca> sgrìobh,
>>>Famous Hebrideans - Eileanaich Ainmeil
>>>
>>>This list covers just a few Hebrideans whose names are well-known for
>>>one reason or another. In fact, if you look at who's who in business,
>>>industry and culture today, you'll often find that natives of the
>>>Hebrides are a feature. With the islands' high quality education
>>>system, islanders who leave the islands tend to make a big impression
>>>in whatever they do. Here are just a few people that you may have
>>>heard of...
>>Snip
>>
>>What about Beaverbrook's ma or is the IH no damn good?
>
>IH?
>
Inner.
>>Actually though it is not something I am really want to boast about.
>>Was the first PM of the Dominion of Canada no a slanderer?
>
>No, he was a drunk, but a very sharp and effective drunk. Also, he
>wasn't a Hebridean; he was born in Glasgow.
>
What about Wellesley's quote "you can be born in a stable but does that
make you a horse?" Is that not right?
Mind you his parents were born in Rogart, so I did get it wrong, I had
it in my head that they were born on Tiree or Coll.
>>>Colin Mackezie Surveyor General of India, came from the Isle of Lewis
>>>
>>>
>>>Murchadh
--
Lachie.
Exodus 22:19. Quisquis concubuerit cum animali, morte moriatur.
Murchadh
>Exodus 22:19. Quisquis concubuerit cum animali, morte moriatur.
I was once startled to hear Mahatma Ghandi referred to by a Sikh as a
'Bakri choat' (Goat f*cker)
However it seems to be okay for the lion to lie down with the lamb.
Exactly like Scottish society - it's the animals who get all the fun!
The prophet Hezakiah, a favourite in the Highlands, was very strong on
that subject -
Hezakiah 14:10 Na sanntaich na caoirich do choimhearsnaich, oir tha'n
Tighearna do Dhia 'n a Dhia eudmhor...
(Do not covet thy neighbour's sheep, for the Lord thy God is a jealous
God...)
Bit of a shady background there if I'm not mistaken. Of course the
whole book should be banned - it's totally unfit for decent people and
especially children - it's entirely obsessed with murder, robbery,
rape and incest, not to mention all sorts of other vices - it's a soap
opera from beginning to end. No wonder our ancestors spent all their
spare time drooling over the damnable thing until that TV show "Sex
and the City" came along to knock it out of the ratings...
Murchadh
Lachie
>On Sun, 22 Feb 2004 01:50:44 +0000, Lachie <noos@[127.0.0.1]> wrote:
>
>>Exodus 22:19. Quisquis concubuerit cum animali, morte moriatur.
>
>I was once startled to hear Mahatma Ghandi referred to by a Sikh as a
>'Bakri choat' (Goat f*cker)
>
>However it seems to be okay for the lion to lie down with the lamb.
>Exactly like Scottish society - it's the animals who get all the fun!
>
>The prophet Hezakiah, a favourite in the Highlands, was very strong on
>that subject -
>
>Hezakiah 14:10 Na sanntaich na caoirich do choimhearsnaich, oir tha'n
>Tighearna do Dhia 'n a Dhia eudmhor...
>(Do not covet thy neighbour's sheep, for the Lord thy God is a jealous
>God...)
>
Excellent for a sig, I don't suppose you have got it in Welsh.
>Bit of a shady background there if I'm not mistaken. Of course the
>whole book should be banned - it's totally unfit for decent people and
>especially children - it's entirely obsessed with murder, robbery,
>rape and incest, not to mention all sorts of other vices - it's a soap
>opera from beginning to end. No wonder our ancestors spent all their
>spare time drooling over the damnable thing until that TV show "Sex
>and the City" came along to knock it out of the ratings...
I prefer MacGowan's alternative, "Sex and Manchester City", especially
the Scottish version of Nigella, Ronnie Ancona. Cold shower anyone?
--
Lachie.
Murchadh
> Murchadh <murc...@shaw.ca> sgrìobh,
>>On Sun, 22 Feb 2004 01:50:44 +0000, Lachie <noos@[127.0.0.1]> wrote:
>>
>>>Exodus 22:19. Quisquis concubuerit cum animali, morte moriatur.
>>
>>I was once startled to hear Mahatma Ghandi referred to by a Sikh as a
>>'Bakri choat' (Goat f*cker)
>>
>Do you think he did?
I honestly don't and uncharacteristically, was somewhat shocked at the
idea, to the Sikh's delight as he was trying to get a rise out of me.
I suppose I'm a little naive in some ways, but I was amazed to find
that India also uses that American perennial, 'm*th*r f*ck*r', which
in Hindi is 'Maddar choat', This fits neatly with the Russian 'Yop
vayu mat' which is affirmative, i.e. 'f*ck your m*th*r'.
I suppose the lesson is that most humans have very little imagination
when it comes to insults.
>
>>However it seems to be okay for the lion to lie down with the lamb.
>>Exactly like Scottish society - it's the animals who get all the fun!
>>
>>The prophet Hezakiah, a favourite in the Highlands, was very strong on
>>that subject -
>>
>>Hezakiah 14:10 Na sanntaich na caoirich do choimhearsnaich, oir tha'n
>>Tighearna do Dhia 'n a Dhia eudmhor...
>>(Do not covet thy neighbour's sheep, for the Lord thy God is a jealous
>>God...)
>
>Excellent for a sig, I don't suppose you have got it in Welsh.
Sure.
Hezakiah 14:10 - Na chwennych dafad dy gymydog, oblegid myfi yr
Arglwydd dy Dduw, wyf Dduw eiddigus...
My Welsh isn't great but that should be fairly close.
>>Bit of a shady background there if I'm not mistaken. Of course the
>>whole book should be banned - it's totally unfit for decent people and
>>especially children - it's entirely obsessed with murder, robbery,
>>rape and incest, not to mention all sorts of other vices - it's a soap
>>opera from beginning to end. No wonder our ancestors spent all their
>>spare time drooling over the damnable thing until that TV show "Sex
>>and the City" came along to knock it out of the ratings...
>
>I prefer MacGowan's alternative, "Sex and Manchester City", especially
>the Scottish version of Nigella, Ronnie Ancona. Cold shower anyone?
Sounds interesting - haven't run across that.
>--
>Lachie.
>Hezakiah 14:10 Na sanntaich na caoirich do choimhearsnaich, oir tha'n Tighearna do
>Dhia 'n a Dhia eudmhor...
Murchadh
Séimí mac Liam
>>I prefer MacGowan's alternative, "Sex and Manchester City", especially
>>the Scottish version of Nigella, Ronnie Ancona. Cold shower anyone?
>
> Sounds interesting - haven't run across that.
>
>
Phwaar! http://www.ronniancona.com/gallery.php
--
Saint Séimí mac Liam
Carriagemaker to the court of Queen Maeve
Prophet of The Great Tagger
Canonized December '99
Murchadh
wrote:
>murc...@shaw.ca (Murchadh) wrote in news:4038fa16.2571267@news:
>
>>>I prefer MacGowan's alternative, "Sex and Manchester City", especially
>>>the Scottish version of Nigella, Ronnie Ancona. Cold shower anyone?
>>
>> Sounds interesting - haven't run across that.
>>
>>
>
>Phwaar! http://www.ronniancona.com/gallery.php
I think this is something you should tell Unki about. He has a mad
passion for Nigella and now you can ask him if he's always attracted
to blokes. Should be safe enough - he's in Dublin, you're in Oregon -
he can't hit you from that far away with a stone!
>
>--
>Saint Séimí mac Liam
>Carriagemaker to the court of Queen Maeve
>Prophet of The Great Tagger
>Canonized December '99
Murchadh
Séimí mac Liam
He may have a very long string for his conker.
Lachie
>wrote:
>
>>murc...@shaw.ca (Murchadh) wrote in news:4038fa16.2571267@news:
>>
>>>>I prefer MacGowan's alternative, "Sex and Manchester City", especially
>>>>the Scottish version of Nigella, Ronnie Ancona. Cold shower anyone?
>>>
>>> Sounds interesting - haven't run across that.
>>>
>>>
>>
>>Phwaar! http://www.ronniancona.com/gallery.php
>
>I think this is something you should tell Unki about. He has a mad
>passion for Nigella and now you can ask him if he's always attracted
>to blokes. Should be safe enough - he's in Dublin, you're in Oregon -
>he can't hit you from that far away with a stone!
Ronni Ancona, is a lassie from Troon, that, among other things, used to
work on the Waverley.
As I said cold shower anyone.
--
Lachie Macquarie,
Helen Ramsay
> Murchadh <murc...@shaw.ca> sgrìobh,
> >Bit of a shady background there if I'm not mistaken. Of course the
> >whole book should be banned - it's totally unfit for decent people
and
> >especially children - it's entirely obsessed with murder, robbery,
> >rape and incest, not to mention all sorts of other vices - it's a
soap
> >opera from beginning to end. No wonder our ancestors spent all their
> >spare time drooling over the damnable thing until that TV show "Sex
> >and the City" came along to knock it out of the ratings...
>
> I prefer MacGowan's alternative, "Sex and Manchester City", especially
> the Scottish version of Nigella, Ronnie Ancona. Cold shower anyone?
Ah think Lachie's puin yir leg:) Naughty boy Lachie!
--
Cheers, Helen
hramsay at cogeco dot ca
Murchadh
I must say the new sig looks very handsome. I'll have to send it on to
a certain minister in Lewis for the official scaith (berating). After
all, if you haven't been condemned from the pulpit, nobody takes a
sig. seriously these days, and if you're going to be condemned, you
don't want a mere mention; you want a solid hour of comprehensive
coverage of your ancestry, habits, flaws and vices that we can all
cluck over when the review appear in scs.
I see a big future for you in ovine pornography. You might solicit the
views of Alan Hardie and Tom as they are both from Aberdeen and thus
by locationary definition, avid connoisseurs of the woolly lovelies.
Murchadh
JackieMulheron
>>Phwaar! http://www.ronniancona.com/gallery.php
>
>I think this is something you should tell Unki about. He has a mad
>passion for Nigella and now you can ask him if he's always attracted
>to blokes. Should be safe enough - he's in Dublin, you're in Oregon -
>he can't hit you from that far away with a stone!
That your tactics for invective tirades Mikey?
JackieMulheron
>>>I was once startled to hear Mahatma Ghandi referred to by a Sikh as a
>>>'Bakri choat' (Goat f*cker)
Sure you were.
>>Do you think he did?
>
>I honestly don't and uncharacteristically, was somewhat shocked at the
>idea, to the Sikh's delight as he was trying to get a rise out of me.
A rise out of you?
>I suppose I'm a little naive in some ways,
A little?
>but I was amazed to find that India also uses that American perennial,
>'m*th*r f*ck*r', which in Hindi is 'Maddar choat', This fits neatly with the
>Russian 'Yop vayu mat' which is affirmative, i.e. 'f*ck your m*th*r'.
>
>I suppose the lesson is that most humans have very little imagination
>when it comes to insults.
Speak for yourself.
>>>Hezakiah 14:10 Na sanntaich na caoirich do choimhearsnaich, oir tha'n
>>>Tighearna do Dhia 'n a Dhia eudmhor...
>>>(Do not covet thy neighbour's sheep, for the Lord thy God is a jealous
>>>God...)
>>
>>Excellent for a sig, I don't suppose you have got it in Welsh.
>
>Sure.
>
>Hezakiah 14:10 - Na chwennych dafad dy gymydog, oblegid myfi yr
>Arglwydd dy Dduw, wyf Dduw eiddigus...
>
>My Welsh isn't great but that should be fairly close.
Not enough time to search the net Mikey?
>>I prefer MacGowan's alternative, "Sex and Manchester City", especially
>>the Scottish version of Nigella, Ronnie Ancona. Cold shower anyone?
>
>Sounds interesting - haven't run across that.
A car is such a useful weapon when one has no military training.
Lachie
No, Lachie is not pulling abodies leg or anything else for that matter.
It is an ongoing sketch in MacGowan's, Big Impression, taking the piss
out of SatC, MacGowan, an impressionist, plays Kevin Keegan and Ronni A
plays the blonde in SatC. Very, very funny.
--
Lachie.
"Suerte que mis pechos sean pequenos, y no los confundas con montanas."
Ripoll.
Murchadh
wrote:
No, I think it's on the level. Lachie wouldn't do that to a puir ould
fella who spent so many hours slaving over his Gaelic and Welsh
translations, would you, Lachie?
Murchadh
Ian Morrison
news:4036aff2.4602538@news
> Famous Hebrideans - Eileanaich Ainmeil
> John Wayne (1907-1979)
>
> In the 1950s John Wayne remarked to a Hollywood reporter that he was
> 'just a Scotch-Irish little boy.' In the ancient past, the Morrison
> clan had originated on the Isle of Lewis in the Hebrides. They moved
> to Northern Ireland Ulster with the Great Migration during the
> seventeenth century when tens of thousands of Scots Presbyterians, at
> the invitation of the English, crossed the Irish sea and crushed the
> Roman Catholic peasants who occupied the land.
My Morrison ancestors have no connection whatsoever with crushing
Catholics in Ulster or anywhere else. As far as I can tell, mine just
drifted down from Comrie to Campsie and pursued their natural
inclination to make clothes.
On the other hand, my McCallum ancetsors probably did play a part in
crushing MacDonalds....
There are many more Hebrideans who made an impact on society than those
you list. When I recover from my jet lag I'll post some of them.
------
Ian O.
--
Posted via Mailgate.ORG Server - http://www.Mailgate.ORG
Helen Ramsay
> No, Lachie is not pulling abodies leg or anything else for that
matter.
> It is an ongoing sketch in MacGowan's, Big Impression, taking the piss
> out of SatC, MacGowan, an impressionist, plays Kevin Keegan and Ronni
A
> plays the blonde in SatC. Very, very funny.
Right then! My mistake. Sorry:) I'll need to watch it when I come home.
Is it suitable for my 88-year old Mother?
> "Suerte que mis pechos sean pequenos, y no los confundas con
montanas."
> Ripoll.
You and John/Sean! Could you translate that for the peons please?
Helen Ramsay
> >> I prefer MacGowan's alternative, "Sex and Manchester City",
especially
> >> the Scottish version of Nigella, Ronnie Ancona. Cold shower anyone?
> >
> >Ah think Lachie's puin yir leg:) Naughty boy Lachie!
>
> No, I think it's on the level. Lachie wouldn't do that to a puir ould
> fella who spent so many hours slaving over his Gaelic and Welsh
> translations, would you, Lachie?
>
Seems he didn't :)
Murchadh
I have to agree, it was a pretty poor list, but I was tired and ran
out of sources and thought of adding a couple of iffy ones and decided
not to... Your help will be welcomed!
Murchadh
Lachie
Indeed not. Helen has obviously spent to much time in the nether regions
of Tronta or some such and is now unable to see the truth when it is
apparent to everyone and that I am incapable of allowing any
dissimulation to slip from my mouth.
--
Lachie.
"Oats: A grain, which in England is generally given to horses, but in Scotland
supports the people." Samuel Johnson.
Thomson McFarlane
and well Ronnie Ancona is ....
Thomson
--
Thomson McFarlane
Tampere, Finland
"Ahm no a cynic, Jim, cynicism is fur the rich.
Us poor punters are jist cautious, cannae afford
tae be onythin else. Cautious an no sae stupit."
- Christopher Brookmyre
Helen Ramsay
> Murchadh <murc...@shaw.ca> sgrìobh,
> > "Helen Ramsay" <r...@hotmail.com>wrote:
> >>"Lachie" <noos@[127.0.0.1]> wrote
> >>> City", especially the Scottish version of Nigella, Ronnie
> >>< Ancona. Cold shower anyone?
> >>Ah think Lachie's puin yir leg:) Naughty boy Lachie!
> >No, I think it's on the level. Lachie wouldn't do that to
> >a puir ould fella who spent so many hours slaving over
> >his Gaelic and Welsh translations, would you, Lachie?
>
> Indeed not. Helen has obviously spent to much time
> in the nether regions of Tronta
Tronna! Please! Nether regions indeed! I just visit my daughter and two
of my grandchildren there occasionally.
> or some such and is now unable to see the truth when it is
> apparent to everyone and that I am incapable of allowing any
> dissimulation to slip from my mouth.
Pu the ither wan. It's playin Hail Caledonia the day!
> "Oats: A grain, which in England is generally given to horses,
> but in Scotland supports the people." Samuel Johnson.
And who was it that said in response ... Ah! but great horses and great
men!?
Helen Ramsay
especially
> > > the Scottish version of Nigella, Ronnie Ancona. Cold shower
anyone?
> >
> > Ah think Lachie's puin yir leg:) Naughty boy Lachie!
> >
> No, I agree with Lachie, Sex and Man City is much better,
> and well Ronnie Ancona is ....
I stand corrected... again! :) We don't get that out here in the
colonies. At least, I don't think we do. He still didn't tell me if it
was suitable for me to watch with my 88-year old Mother. Maybe I just
haven't come across it yet.
JackieMulheron
>>Ronni Ancona, is a lassie from Troon, that, among other things, used to
>>work on the Waverley.
>>As I said cold shower anyone.
>>--
>>Lachie Macquarie,
>>Hezakiah 14:10 Na sanntaich na caoirich do choimhearsnaich, oir tha'n
>Tighearna do
>>Dhia 'n a Dhia eudmhor...
>
>I must say the new sig looks very handsome. I'll have to send it on to
>a certain minister in Lewis for the official scaith (berating).
But you have to know one first.
>After all, if you haven't been condemned from the pulpit, nobody takes a
>sig. seriously these days, and if you're going to be condemned, you
>don't want a mere mention; you want a solid hour of comprehensive
>coverage of your ancestry,
Let's have it then Mikey. The real one.
>habits,
Der--chunk--twaaang.
>flaws
Just an hour? Your optimistic. Take a sleeping bag when it's your turn.
>and vices
Der--chunk--twaaang.
>that we can all cluck over when the review appear in scs.
Like your review to Congress which you haven't posted a link to?
>I see a big future for you in ovine pornography.
How would you know?
>You might solicit the views of Alan Hardie and Tom as they are
>both from Aberdeen and thus by locationary definition, avid
>connoisseurs of the woolly lovelies.
Tell us about your experiences in sheep infested areas then?
Oh, and the "civilian auxiliaries".
Lachie
She probably would have seen most things in 88 years. I would commend it
to your mother. She would at least not have to have a cold shower when
the wifie that worked on the Waverley came on.
--
Lachie.
I am nobody's little weasel. AP
Lachie
Why Murchadh, I was a shepherd myself for a number of years on an
Argyllshire hill park, only 275 Blackie ewes, however, as you can
probably imagine there were some real dolls in that lot.
Happy days. Not the programme but the times.
--
Llachie.
Helen Ramsay
> She probably would have seen most things in 88 years.
Och aye! but you know how modest that generation is:)
Murchadh
>
>Why Murchadh, I was a shepherd myself for a number of years on an
>Argyllshire hill park, only 275 Blackie ewes, however, as you can
>probably imagine there were some real dolls in that lot.
>Happy days. Not the programme but the times.
>--
>Llachie.
>Hezakiah 14:10 - Na chwennych dafad dy gymydog, oblegid myfi yr Arglwydd dy
>Dduw, wyf Dduw eiddigus...
>
Me too as a child, (well, more an assistant shepherd) wandering lonely
as a cloud amid the barren Cuillins of Rum.
My family wasn't thrilled at the idea of my having time to look
around, so I was provided with a sack inside which I had to place any
wool wisps I found sticking to heather or bracken; plus my cromag
(shepherd's crook); plus my spyglass (telescope) to look for sheep
stuck on ledges; plus a .300 hunting rifle and twelve rounds to shoot
any seal I spotted (I never did because they had such appealing eyes);
plus my knapsack containing my rations for the day, a bottle of cold
tea and a piece (sandwich).
If this sounds harsh, it was the standard lunch for workmen then. The
sandwich was usually bread, butter and jam. To this day I loathe plum
jam (the standard fare) and adore strawberry (a sort of high holiday
treat.)
No one inspecting my meals would ever have guessed that we were not on
the edge of financial ruin. Groans of horror echoed around the table
if I tried to sneak sugar onto my porridge and tongues clucked
disapprovingly if the suspicion of butter on my bread exceeded five
microns in depth.
A crumb dropped on the floor created the same sort of fuss that would
have accompanied the QE2 going down with all hands in Loch Scresort,
and anything left on one's plate, like a hunk of "delicious" gristle
drew lectures about how lucky we were compared to "Starving Europe".
I was incredulous and refused to take Europe seriously.
To give you some idea of how tightly the rations were controlled, the
leftovers from the porridge we ate non-stop was what our sheep dogs
lived on. That and whatever they could steal.
I learned to keep my mouth shut when a black and white head appeared
at the open kitchen window and silently removed a chop or a chicken
leg and then made for the hills like the wind with a posse of
uninvited guests howling and yapping at his or her heels.
The thief always saw me looking, but apparently assumed that a tie of
food thievery bound us together and I could be relied on not to draw
authority's attention to the theft in progress.
For a while the dogs and I were partners in crime, until the press of
yapping, slavering collies at the larder door was recognized as a hint
that another attempt by me to feed us all unofficially was underway.
If the hint didn't take, my little brother would be gone like Mercury
on winged feet to babble the happy news to anyone who looked like they
might be persuaded to punish me.
With reluctance I finally had to let the dogs forage on their own
while I attended to my personal nutritional problems.
Returning to business, because I had the smallest hands on the island,
I was always shoved forward whenever dead lambs had to be removed from
inside unlucky ewes.
This was the only occasion on which I ever got an official dram -
Queen Anne, the cheapest whisky available, of course - although I
stole all I could get my hands on, expertly topping up the bottle with
cold tea until the level returned to the hopelessly primitive secret
pencil mark on the label.
It worked too, my grandfather and a guest once emptied a bottle
between them - there must have been enough whisky left to disguise the
taste of the tea - and my grandfather then said that maybe he would
cut back on his consumption for a while as the whisky was no longer
even affecting him, (surprise! surprise!) to my shameless delight!
Returning to the official dram; this overwhelming gesture was intended
to stiffen my resolve and thereafter one of the shepherds would puff
pipe smoke in my face to counter the awful stench of rotted flesh as I
removed the lambs, piece by piece from the poor ewes.
They all lived though and my grandmother explained that I was saving
their lives with what I was doing, which made me feel better about the
whole horrifying experience in retrospect, but never aroused my
enthusiasm when the call went out for my immediate attendance.
Dipping the sheep was another grisly task as many of the sheep
(Blackfaces) had backs alive with maggots, which had to be brushed and
scraped off before dipping to ensure the dip got in and sterilized
everywhere. I didn't mind that so much because I felt I was rescuing
the sheep from the constant agony of having their backs slowly eaten
away by the maggots.
I diod however mind the amusing custom of throwing me into the dipping
tank at the end of the season. I was less than thrilled by that.
They never picked on my brother because he had developed a whole range
of protective techniques, like screaming, faking drowning and/or
seizures, weeping endlessly, etc., while I could be depended on to
behave normally, i.e. by kicking everyone involved and then running
while screaming vile swear words.
We were famous for swearing. Some men once came off a fishing boat and
asked if we were the famous boys who swore. We demonstrated our art
for their amusement, which pleased them immensely and they gave us a
bucket of mackerel as a reward, which was happily received back home!
I must report with pride that one winter in Toronto a taxi splashed me
thoroughly and a man standing nearby said to me, "Please stop cursing
like that - you're making me feel sick!"
Lamb castrating was another jolly occasion. In those days the elastic
band method had not been invented, so the lamb was held in a sitting
position on its behind by one shepherd, while another cut off the end
of the scrotum with his sheep knife and pulled the testicles out with
his teeth, spitting them into a bucket. I was frequently invited to
take over and learn the technique, but I always declined.
The testicles were divided up later among all participants and taken
home to be fried and eaten, being considered a tasty treat. Very few
people know what horrifying meals people eat in the Western Isles.
Again, I was able to participate in an amusing vignette at the end of
that delightful mass castration when the head shepherd would test the
edge of his knife and say, "Hé Mhìcheil, thig a seo..." (Hey,
Michael, come here...) and helpful hands would grab me and fiddle with
my trouser buttons but, thank God, never actually undo them...
My grandfather would stand by filling his pipe while all this was
going on, saying nothing but presumably hoping that all this was
making a man out of me.
He had already told me he feared I would grow up to be a "homeysexual"
as I had once forgotten the correct English word for that white stuff
sheep had growing all over them and bombed out with two stabs at it,
to wit, "hair" and "fur". A shepherd once told me that my grandfather
knew more about sheep than any other living Scotsman, so I suppose the
Botach (old man) was unhappy that it didn't seem to be running in the
family.
I do remember an extraordinary conversation betwen him and a shepherd,
when they were debating whether a particular sheep was the
granddaughter of one now dead ewe or another.
The shepherd finally conceded that my grandfather was correct in his
judgement and said admiringly, "You have a fine eye for the sheep!"
and my grandfather said, "I know them better than I know my own,"
(family) a remark that was repeated widely at the time as a sign of
his vast knowledge of sheep.
And of course many shepherds can tell you which family a sheep belongs
to and who his or her mother and aunts were and so on.
One year I got extremely hostile about this constant ribbing and
pulled a knife and stabbed one of the shepherds in the arm. There was
a deathly silence and then it was agreed that my grandfather had to be
informed. He looked at the shepherd's bandaged arm and then handed him
his cromag and said, "Beat him with this". He did.
There were encouraging moments. One day my grandfather suddenly
decided it was time I learned to swim, so he picked me up (he was a
huge man) and threw me off the end of the pier into the sea with a
sort of "putting the weight" action that took me well out to sea (at
least 10 feet).
As I desperately tried to make it ashore - I kept going under - my
grandfather started wandering off, having lost interest in my fate and
I was amazed on one of my broaches to see my uncle discreetly taking
off his trousers, presumably with the idea of rescuing me. This was
one of the few indications I had that somebody in my family either
cared or possibly that he didn't want the police sniffing around for
reasons of his own if I drowned. In the event, the boatmen, a real
gentleman from Skye called Hughie MacKinnon, expertly sculled a dinghy
towards me and hauled me aboard.
I never did learn to swim well, but my uncle suggested I learn
something about it, if only to prevent our mutual ancestor from
drowning me.
Other than all that, being a shepherd was pretty cool. I once lay on a
toman (small hillock or knoll) and watched the wiild ponies gather in
a group, then gallop round the toman to scare the sheep away and take
over their grazing.
I also spent hours on the Cuillins with my spyglass, keeping a
neighbourly eye on Skye and scanning Canna for girls. There were no
girls in our generation, so we tended to fall madly in love with
anything female that came ashore, especially if it was human.
We also maintained a regular beach patrol, our own initiative after
learning that the Admiralty was paying £5 each for drowned sailors. We
never did find one.
I did get stuck in a tiny tunnel we found which turned out to be a
Neolithic mine for the bloodstone found on the island. I lay trapped
while my hopeless broher pulled futilely at my foot for a while and
then left for home (tea time), promising to mention my predicament to
someone in authority.
He didn't of course because he was a total halfwit - how he ever
became a self-made millionnaire I'll never know; the power of
overwhelming greed and self-interest, I suppose - but luckily for
posterity I eventually managed to wriggle my way out.
Neolithic men must have been really tiny - and also lazy as they
didn't bother to remove boulders sticking downwards into their
miserable tunnel, which meant I constantly struck my head against some
very hard rock.
As I had also omitted to bring any form of lighting with me, the whole
expedition had a certain hopeless quality to it which I now recognize
as characteristic of Highland people.
It was the same story with a toman I found which had exactly the same
shape as a Viking burial I had a picture of in a book. I was all set
to start excavating, but was told to leave well alone. If a Viking
chief was buried there he should be left in peace was the verdict and
if there wasn't, then I wouldn't have wasted my time, especially when
there were so many more mundane tasks awaiting my eager hands...
So there you have it. Luckily I got out of the trade, as had I not, I
would probably be living in some dismal bothy today, both ears like
cauliflowers from being slapped silly every time I came home drunk as
punishment for having married some beefy local girl called Màiri nan
Cìchean Lìontach (Mary of the massive hooters), plus with all the
weans I wouldn't have been able to afford the Internet and you would
never have read this, thereby impoverishing your inner life...
Murchadh
JackieMulheron
>On Wed, 25 Feb 2004 09:31:56 +0000, Lachie <noos@[127.0.0.1]> wrote:
>>
>>Why Murchadh, I was a shepherd myself for a number of years on an
>>Argyllshire hill park, only 275 Blackie ewes, however, as you can
>>probably imagine there were some real dolls in that lot.
>>Happy days. Not the programme but the times.
>
>Me too as a child, (well, more an assistant shepherd) wandering lonely
>as a cloud amid the barren Cuillins of Rum.
Cuillins of Rum?
>In the event, the boatmen, a real gentleman from Skye called Hughie
>MacKinnon, expertly sculled a dinghy towards me and hauled me aboard.
Hector MacKinnon.
Lachie
>In article <403cd42b.3288819@news>, murc...@shaw.ca (Murchadh) writes:
>
>>On Wed, 25 Feb 2004 09:31:56 +0000, Lachie <noos@[127.0.0.1]> wrote:
>>>
>>>Why Murchadh, I was a shepherd myself for a number of years on an
>>>Argyllshire hill park, only 275 Blackie ewes, however, as you can
>>>probably imagine there were some real dolls in that lot.
>>>Happy days. Not the programme but the times.
>>
>>Me too as a child, (well, more an assistant shepherd) wandering lonely
>>as a cloud amid the barren Cuillins of Rum.
>
>Cuillins of Rum?
>
Is that because of the s?
Askival
The traverse of the Cuillin of Rum is one of my favourite ever walks -
in fine visibility, every quarter of the compass is taken up with
mountain, island, and ocean views. The ridge itself is also full of
interest, narrow
with bits of scrambling, but all avoidable. A cracker. I'd really like
to do the round of Dibidil Glen next time I go back. Oh yeah - the
Western Hills on Rum are also worth a look, because not only do they
look over the same area as the Rum Cuillin, they look onto the Rum
Cuillin as well.
>>In the event, the boatmen, a real gentleman from Skye called Hughie
>>MacKinnon, expertly sculled a dinghy towards me and hauled me aboard.
>
>Hector MacKinnon.
--
JackieMulheron
<noos@[127.0.0.1]> writes:
>>>Me too as a child, (well, more an assistant shepherd) wandering lonely
>>>as a cloud amid the barren Cuillins of Rum.
>>
>>Cuillins of Rum?
>>
>
>Is that because of the s?
What else would it be?
The image of a range of mountains on Rum was a rather bizarre one.
Lachie
Sorry I am not with you. There is a range of mountains on Rum and they
are called the Cuillin. Askival is nearly a Munro. There are another
five or six in the group
--
Lachie Macquarie.
Bait presentation is critical to sharp, biting, whiting?
drkir
"Lachie" <noos@[127.0.0.1]> wrote in message
news:T$Wmf9MrA...@paradise.by.the.dashboard.light...
> JackieMulheron <jackiem...@aol.com> sgrìobh,
> >In article <SeI23WPr...@paradise.by.the.dashboard.light>, Lachie
> ><noos@[127.0.0.1]> writes:
> >
> >>>>Me too as a child, (well, more an assistant shepherd) wandering lonely
> >>>>as a cloud amid the barren Cuillins of Rum.
> >>>
> >>>Cuillins of Rum?
> >>>
> >>
> >>Is that because of the s?
> >
> >What else would it be?
> >
> >The image of a range of mountains on Rum was a rather bizarre one.
>
>
> Sorry I am not with you. There is a range of mountains on Rum and they
> are called the Cuillin. Askival is nearly a Munro. There are another
> five or six in the group
The Cuillins are in Skye, Lachie. The range in Rum is The Cuilinn. They are
quite separate.
Margaret
PS I think the original posting might well have been a typo.
Murchadh
>JackieMulheron <jackiem...@aol.com> sgrìobh,
>>In article <SeI23WPr...@paradise.by.the.dashboard.light>, Lachie
>><noos@[127.0.0.1]> writes:
>>The image of a range of mountains on Rum was a rather bizarre one.
>
>Sorry I am not with you. There is a range of mountains on Rum and they
>are called the Cuillin. Askival is nearly a Munro. There are another
>five or six in the group
Ainshval, Trollaval, Askival and Hallival.
Hallival is the one the geologists love because it is the world's only
source of allivalite, a type of lava. Once some geologists sneaked
ashore by canoe and camped out, thinking they were undetected. Half a
dozen spyglasses checked them every day to make sure they were okay
and not in trouble. Eventually they came in from the hill to ask for
help, defeated by the midges. I met one of them years later and he was
amazed that I was now an adult. "It seems like it was only yesterday,"
he said, talking about the horror of the midges. He was a nice man and
equally amazed that I remembered his name.
>Lachie Macquarie.
>Bait presentation is critical to sharp, biting, whiting?
Murchadh
Lachie
sophisticated disposition of Archibald Leach, drkir <dr...@onetel.com>
sgrìobh,
I know that their is the red Cuillin and the black Cuillin in Skye, so
that would be the Cuillins, would the plural be in English or Gaelic?
Would it not end up being cuillinach or something like that. I was
corrected by my friends mother, a Sgitheanach when I referred to the
Skye Cuillin in the plural.
Just for the record I have not managed the Sgurr Dearg, maybe in May.
I was actually asking what Jackie meant by "the image of a range of
mountains on Rum was a rather bizarre one."
--
Wee Lachie.
Well I might ride along the border
With my tweezers gleamin' in the moon-lighty night. FZ
Lachie
>On Wed, 25 Feb 2004 09:31:56 +0000, Lachie <noos@[127.0.0.1]> wrote:
>>
>>Why Murchadh, I was a shepherd myself for a number of years on an
>>Argyllshire hill park, only 275 Blackie ewes, however, as you can
>>probably imagine there were some real dolls in that lot.
>>Happy days. Not the programme but the times.
>>--
>>Llachie.
>>Hezakiah 14:10 - Na chwennych dafad dy gymydog, oblegid myfi yr Arglwydd dy
>>Dduw, wyf Dduw eiddigus...
>>
>
>Me too as a child, (well, more an assistant shepherd) wandering lonely
>as a cloud amid the barren Cuillins of Rum.
>
>My family wasn't thrilled at the idea of my having time to look
>around, so I was provided with a sack inside which I had to place any
>wool wisps I found sticking to heather or bracken; plus my cromag
>(shepherd's crook); plus my spyglass (telescope) to look for sheep
>stuck on ledges; plus a .300 hunting rifle and twelve rounds to shoot
>any seal I spotted (I never did because they had such appealing eyes);
>plus my knapsack containing my rations for the day, a bottle of cold
>tea and a piece (sandwich).
>
>If this sounds harsh, it was the standard lunch for workmen then. The
>sandwich was usually bread, butter and jam. To this day I loathe plum
>jam (the standard fare) and adore strawberry (a sort of high holiday
>treat.)
>
Ditto but not plum, gooseberry or black currant.
>No one inspecting my meals would ever have guessed that we were not on
>the edge of financial ruin. Groans of horror echoed around the table
>if I tried to sneak sugar onto my porridge and tongues clucked
>disapprovingly if the suspicion of butter on my bread exceeded five
>microns in depth.
>
>A crumb dropped on the floor created the same sort of fuss that would
>have accompanied the QE2 going down with all hands in Loch Scresort,
>and anything left on one's plate, like a hunk of "delicious" gristle
>drew lectures about how lucky we were compared to "Starving Europe".
>I was incredulous and refused to take Europe seriously.
>
>To give you some idea of how tightly the rations were controlled, the
>leftovers from the porridge we ate non-stop was what our sheep dogs
>lived on. That and whatever they could steal.
>
The sheep dogs were always fed on porridge, apparently made them less
aggressive with the sheep. Didn't make their shite smell any nicer, the
most appalling job I had was clearing their pens. God it makes me gag
even now.
>I learned to keep my mouth shut when a black and white head appeared
>at the open kitchen window and silently removed a chop or a chicken
>leg and then made for the hills like the wind with a posse of
>uninvited guests howling and yapping at his or her heels.
>
>The thief always saw me looking, but apparently assumed that a tie of
>food thievery bound us together and I could be relied on not to draw
>authority's attention to the theft in progress.
>
>For a while the dogs and I were partners in crime, until the press of
>yapping, slavering collies at the larder door was recognized as a hint
>that another attempt by me to feed us all unofficially was underway.
>
>If the hint didn't take, my little brother would be gone like Mercury
>on winged feet to babble the happy news to anyone who looked like they
>might be persuaded to punish me.
>
>With reluctance I finally had to let the dogs forage on their own
>while I attended to my personal nutritional problems.
>
>Returning to business, because I had the smallest hands on the island,
>I was always shoved forward whenever dead lambs had to be removed from
>inside unlucky ewes.
A lovely job, my piece de resistance was when on my practical, I had to
cut a deid calf inside the coo with a cheese wire. The day before the
farmer had had the vet in to do the same thing. Not with a cheese wire
but of the something of the same ilk.
Save money get me to do it. Result.
Vet, dead calf removed,
Lachie, dead calf and dead coo. I was appalled.
>
>This was the only occasion on which I ever got an official dram -
>Queen Anne, the cheapest whisky available, of course - although I
>stole all I could get my hands on, expertly topping up the bottle with
>cold tea until the level returned to the hopelessly primitive secret
>pencil mark on the label.
>
>It worked too, my grandfather and a guest once emptied a bottle
>between them - there must have been enough whisky left to disguise the
>taste of the tea - and my grandfather then said that maybe he would
>cut back on his consumption for a while as the whisky was no longer
>even affecting him, (surprise! surprise!) to my shameless delight!
>
We got whisky when we were clipping. Great when you are 15 or 16.
>Returning to the official dram; this overwhelming gesture was intended
>to stiffen my resolve and thereafter one of the shepherds would puff
>pipe smoke in my face to counter the awful stench of rotted flesh as I
>removed the lambs, piece by piece from the poor ewes.
>
My father always reckoned that he always had the best pipe after he had
skinned a lamb and then rolled some Thick Black.
Ye cannae beat it.
>They all lived though and my grandmother explained that I was saving
>their lives with what I was doing, which made me feel better about the
>whole horrifying experience in retrospect, but never aroused my
>enthusiasm when the call went out for my immediate attendance.
>
>Dipping the sheep was another grisly task as many of the sheep
>(Blackfaces) had backs alive with maggots, which had to be brushed and
>scraped off before dipping to ensure the dip got in and sterilized
>everywhere. I didn't mind that so much because I felt I was rescuing
>the sheep from the constant agony of having their backs slowly eaten
>away by the maggots.
>
>I diod however mind the amusing custom of throwing me into the dipping
>tank at the end of the season. I was less than thrilled by that.
>
Ditto, organo phosphates any one. No wonder I am as mad as a tree.
>They never picked on my brother because he had developed a whole range
>of protective techniques, like screaming, faking drowning and/or
>seizures, weeping endlessly, etc., while I could be depended on to
>behave normally, i.e. by kicking everyone involved and then running
>while screaming vile swear words.
>
>We were famous for swearing. Some men once came off a fishing boat and
>asked if we were the famous boys who swore. We demonstrated our art
>for their amusement, which pleased them immensely and they gave us a
>bucket of mackerel as a reward, which was happily received back home!
>
>I must report with pride that one winter in Toronto a taxi splashed me
>thoroughly and a man standing nearby said to me, "Please stop cursing
>like that - you're making me feel sick!"
>
>Lamb castrating was another jolly occasion. In those days the elastic
>band method had not been invented, so the lamb was held in a sitting
>position on its behind by one shepherd, while another cut off the end
>of the scrotum with his sheep knife and pulled the testicles out with
>his teeth, spitting them into a bucket. I was frequently invited to
>take over and learn the technique, but I always declined.
>
My father used to do it like that. I never saw him do it mind, however a
friend who is now the heidie in a Canadian school thrilled us in a
college practical with his teeth, testicle removing technique.
>The testicles were divided up later among all participants and taken
>home to be fried and eaten, being considered a tasty treat. Very few
>people know what horrifying meals people eat in the Western Isles.
>
Yes, the old man spat them into tin and then took them home to his
mother to cook. He always said how good the were.
>Again, I was able to participate in an amusing vignette at the end of
>that delightful mass castration when the head shepherd would test the
>edge of his knife and say, "Hé Mhìcheil, thig a seo..." (Hey,
>Michael, come here...) and helpful hands would grab me and fiddle with
>my trouser buttons but, thank God, never actually undo them...
They can do the same with the rings mind. It always induced panic in me.
Do shepherds ever change?
>
>My grandfather would stand by filling his pipe while all this was
>going on, saying nothing but presumably hoping that all this was
>making a man out of me.
>
>He had already told me he feared I would grow up to be a "homeysexual"
>as I had once forgotten the correct English word for that white stuff
>sheep had growing all over them and bombed out with two stabs at it,
>to wit, "hair" and "fur". A shepherd once told me that my grandfather
>knew more about sheep than any other living Scotsman, so I suppose the
>Botach (old man) was unhappy that it didn't seem to be running in the
>family.
>
Did you crog, i.e. dragging the sheep from the pen. An Argyll word I
believe. Also can you remember what the dirty wool around the sheep's
arse was called? In Australia it is known as dags, also packing the wool
into the big hessian sacks hung from the rafters, what was that called,
any ideas.
Funny what you forget.
You can't beat handsome looking Blackface ewe, pronounced yow, there is
something about their nonchalance and cheeky disposition that always
turns a mans head?
>We also maintained a regular beach patrol, our own initiative after
>learning that the Admiralty was paying £5 each for drowned sailors. We
>never did find one.
>
Did they have to be RN or would the merchant marine have sufficed?
My old fellow spent a lot of time his time pulling RAF tractors and the
like out of the bogs with the Clydesdales.
>
>I did get stuck in a tiny tunnel we found which turned out to be a
>Neolithic mine for the bloodstone found on the island. I lay trapped
>while my hopeless broher pulled futilely at my foot for a while and
>then left for home (tea time), promising to mention my predicament to
>someone in authority.
>
>He didn't of course because he was a total halfwit - how he ever
>became a self-made millionnaire I'll never know; the power of
>overwhelming greed and self-interest, I suppose - but luckily for
>posterity I eventually managed to wriggle my way out.
>
>Neolithic men must have been really tiny - and also lazy as they
>didn't bother to remove boulders sticking downwards into their
>miserable tunnel, which meant I constantly struck my head against some
>very hard rock.
>
I got stuck in a lead mine. Not pleasant. Fortunately I was pulled out
in a few panic laden minutes.
>As I had also omitted to bring any form of lighting with me, the whole
>expedition had a certain hopeless quality to it which I now recognize
>as characteristic of Highland people.
>
>It was the same story with a toman I found which had exactly the same
>shape as a Viking burial I had a picture of in a book. I was all set
>to start excavating, but was told to leave well alone. If a Viking
>chief was buried there he should be left in peace was the verdict and
>if there wasn't, then I wouldn't have wasted my time, especially when
>there were so many more mundane tasks awaiting my eager hands...
>
>So there you have it. Luckily I got out of the trade, as had I not, I
>would probably be living in some dismal bothy today, both ears like
>cauliflowers from being slapped silly every time I came home drunk as
>punishment for having married some beefy local girl called Màiri nan
>Cìchean Lìontach (Mary of the massive hooters), plus with all the
>weans I wouldn't have been able to afford the Internet and you would
>never have read this, thereby impoverishing your inner life...
>
We had lots American totty to be completely ignored by and the Scottish
gurls preferred the Yanks. Where was Betty the sheep when you needed her
haunch to cry on?
Happy Days, the time, not the programme.
--
Lachie.
JackieMulheron
<noos@[127.0.0.1]> writes:
>JackieMulheron <jackiem...@aol.com> sgrìobh,
>>In article <SeI23WPr...@paradise.by.the.dashboard.light>, Lachie
>><noos@[127.0.0.1]> writes:
>>
>>>>>Me too as a child, (well, more an assistant shepherd) wandering lonely
>>>>>as a cloud amid the barren Cuillins of Rum.
>>>>
>>>>Cuillins of Rum?
>>>>
>>>
>>>Is that because of the s?
>>
>>What else would it be?
>>
>>The image of a range of mountains on Rum was a rather bizarre one.
>
>Sorry I am not with you. There is a range of mountains on Rum and they
>are called the Cuillin. Askival is nearly a Munro. There are another
>five or six in the group
Sorry I'm not with myself. Must have been imagining Eigg all over my face
instead.
JackieMulheron
>>JackieMulheron <jackiem...@aol.com> sgrìobh,
>>>In article <SeI23WPr...@paradise.by.the.dashboard.light>, Lachie
>>><noos@[127.0.0.1]> writes:
>
>>>The image of a range of mountains on Rum was a rather bizarre one.
>>
>>Sorry I am not with you. There is a range of mountains on Rum and they
>>are called the Cuillin. Askival is nearly a Munro. There are another
>>five or six in the group
>
>Ainshval, Trollaval, Askival and Hallival.
>
>Hallival is the one the geologists love because it is the world's only
>source of allivalite, a type of lava. Once some geologists sneaked
>ashore by canoe and camped out, thinking they were undetected. Half a
>dozen spyglasses checked them every day to make sure they were okay
>and not in trouble. Eventually they came in from the hill to ask for
>help, defeated by the midges. I met one of them years later and he was
>amazed that I was now an adult. "It seems like it was only yesterday,"
>he said, talking about the horror of the midges. He was a nice man and
>equally amazed that I remembered his name.
That's nice.
Murchadh
wrote:
No need to apologize - you're already totally discredited after your
ridiculous statements about Lochaber and Glen Coe. It's perfectly
clear to most of the posters here that you have no idea where anything
is north of Glasgow - except of course for your hurried research via
Google had taught you. Despite all the rushing around, you're really
not very bright, are you? Have you got a job yet?
Murchadh