Here we are as faint wisps of May remain and with June duly
arriving: exam programs are now in full
swing, bringing the academic year to its final stages. This is a lovely time of
year when the atmosphere begins to warm up, gardens become a splash of bright colour
and everyone wishes each other a ‘kalo
kalokairi’ : the hope that our summer will be a good one.
Our Orthodox Easter was late this year, falling as it did on
the 5th of May. This meant that instead of the customary 23rd
April which fell within the fast period, we celebrated St George’s day on the 6th,
ie the first Monday after Easter. Meanwhile, May Day was beset by many strikes
globally and, as a spring holiday, was celebrated by some public sector
employees on Tuesday 6th April.
This chronological rearrangement took me back to Edinburgh in
the 1974/5 when I was teaching English at Forrester High School, then the
largest comprehensive school in the country. After much soul-searching, many of
the teaching staff had decided to go on strike. As part of the rank and file
movement of Scottish teachers, we took part in action that went on for three
months, with the central demand of a 15 pound flat-rate pay increase. To incur
minimal salary deductions our strikes were confined to mid-week otherwise week-end
‘allowances ‘ were somehow to be factored
in….and lost, so our full working days were Mondays and Fridays. This
arrangement meant that students were missing out on their full range of
classes, and an ingenious working-week schedule was devised to overcome that
drawback, whereby we imposed the weekly timetable over these two days : thus
Week 1 :
actual Monday was as was, but Friday was
worked as a Tuesday
Week 2 : Monday was a Wednesday , while Friday
was a Thursday and, of course, in
Week 3 : Monday was a Friday while Friday
became a Monday.
Incidentally we were successful in eventually getting the
government to concede to our pay demand, and later continued to push for better
conditions, viz. clearly defined maximum working hours and caps on class size.
Fond, fond memories!!
I was delighted that my Highland Haj episode 1 proved to be
so popular, so here is its sequel: following the path of our wee family
get-together, mainly an introduction to the area of Tarbert, Lochfyne, where we
were based. A beautiful fishing village - which I never tire of saying or of
seeing!- situated on the narrow neck of land which separates the east and west
lochs as well as the areas of Kintyre and Knapdale, its name is said to come
from the Gaelic ‘Tairbeart’ or ‘carry
across’, reference to its geographic importance in that goods, produce and even
boats could be transported more speedily and safely across the isthmus rather
than round the Mull of KIntyre.
Being only a short distance away, it was natural that in this
area there were settlers from Ireland. In fact, the name of the old Kingdom
here, Dalriada, comes from an Irish tribe, the Dal Riata, or the Scotti, who
came from County Antrim to Argyll around 400 AD. By the end of the 5th
century they were strong enough to have established a kingdom and by then the
indigenous Iron Age Pictish tribe of the Epidii were no longer in evidence
there.
With Tarbert being an
agriculturally rich area, its seas blessed with rich shoals of herring, the
‘silver darlings’, and of strategic significance, we can understand why the
wily Magnus Barefoot, erstwhile Viking who assumed the Norwegian throne in
1093, wished to annex the lush Kintyre peninsula to his expanding colony. Taking
advantage of the weak rule of Edgar Malcolmsson and the fact that the west –another
Wild West? - was generally an unruly area, Magnus consented there be neither
war, nor Danegeld, a ‘peace payment’, but that he be paid in kind. What were
under negotiation with the Scottish ambassadors were the Western Isles, the
Inner Hebrides -‘whatever land he could round with his ship’.
And so the doughty Magnus had local trees felled to serve as
rollers placed under his ship and, rounding the isthmus in his ship albeit on
dry land, claimed the Kintyre peninsula along with the Western Isles as his
own! Incidentally, his name, Barefoot or
Bareleg, is said to come from his adopting the kilt in his youth as he grew up
in the Western Isles. Today a local farm, Barfad, honours his memory still.
Proudly surveying the bay and beyond from its high vantage
point is the castle, bearing witness to Tarbert’s past and present. A castle is
known to have been there from the 13th century as part of a fortification
system of protection from the Lords of the Isles. In the 1320s, Robert the
Bruce reinforced and extended the structure. These recalcitrant Lords must have
coveted Kintyre as they regained control of it, thus forcing James IV to take a
stand and recapture it. In 1494 he sent them a strong message: he repaired the
castle and built the Tower House, brought in a military unit, and stocking the
castle with arms and food supplies, summoned parliament to meet in Tarbert. So,
no question as to who was in charge, and how important this base was for him in
maintaining his authority.
The castle fell into disrepair and was so for many
years. Fortunately, from 2010-11 a repairs project, funded by the Scots
Government Development Fund, was carried out. Now the castle stands firm and an
artist’s impression transports us back, allowing us to see it as it was in its
full glory.
Enough of the history!
The picture of us striding out to the castle was to burn off some calories – we
managed to arrange a ‘Meet up of Old Muckers, Mark II’ and enjoyed a delicious
lunch at the Anchor Hotel’s Sea Bed Restaurant. Again, like the Kilberry Inn,
sourcing choice local, seasonal produce, their meals are ‘Tarbert Fare’ at its
best! There I sampled one of my favourite dishes which may not readily entice
everyone, having as it does blood as a main ingredient! Here it is:
Stornoway black pudding on a bed of pea and mint puree, topped with pan-seared local
scallops and crispy bacon: absolute bliss !!
This shot of sunrise I love for the wonderful warm tones in
the sky as Tarbert awakes. If you engage your imagination and concentrate hard,
you can hear the cocks crow and the seagulls greet the morn. I swear the
resident gulls have a particularly plaintive, almost accusatory mewl, as if
airing a grievance- perhaps it’s all in the Gaelic!
Strange to
end on a sunrise? Well, we haven’t finished with Tarbert – there’s more to
come!
Bye for now or, as they say in the Gaelic, Slan leat !
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