The Degnish peninsula overlooks the wide mouth of Loch Melfort in Argyll, and it’s well worth the long and rambling drive to get to the end.   In spring, the hedgerows around there are studded with wild flowers – primroses, violets and the beautiful grass of Parnassus.

Degnish also has some pretty amazing rocks, which have been crushed and folded into wonderful shapes.   I am not a geologist but I would imagine from the layers that these were originally sedimentary, possibly lying on an ocean floor, and they have been transformed by heat and pressure.  And here’s an interesting thing:  in south-west Scotland there’s a whole cluster of metamorphic rocks called the ‘Dalradian series’, after the ancient kingdom of Dalriada.  Their name was given to them by Archibald Geikie, one of Scotland’s early geologists, and I’ve ‘met’ him through my research at the RSGS.

Meanwhile, if you’re a geologist and you can tell me more about the rocks shown here, please let me know!

Photos copyright © Jo Woolf

Why is it that the places closest to home are the ones that get overlooked on your list of where to go?

I’ve been dimly aware of an old church at Torphichen for a year or two now, and every so often I would look at it online and think, “That would be a good idea for a Sunday afternoon out.”    And then I’d forget about it again.  It’s shameful.  It is only 15 minutes down the road.

But I’ve finally put this to rights, and on the second Sunday in April I was gazing up at the gaunt stone edifice that is Torphichen Preceptory.

My first reaction was surprise, at how big it is.  This is no village church, nor was it ever designed as one.  In the 12th century, this was a very important place:  the Scottish home – in fact, the only home in Scotland – of the Knights Hospitaller of St John of Jerusalem.

When people mention the Knights of St John, the temptation is always to think of the Knights Templar.  After all, they lived around the same time, had a similar ethic, and served a similar purpose.  They also wore a similar outfit, and probably went to the same parties.   Well, no, probably not the parties.

But the welcoming and very knowledgeable custodian in the little kiosk at Torphichen swept any misconceptions from my mind before they’d had a chance to germinate.   The Knights Hospitaller, he told me, were wholly distinct from the Templars, and in fact in the 14th century, when the Templars were stripped of their lands, the Hospitallers were granted many of their estates.

So who were the Knights of St John?

19th century photograph by Sgt James M McDonald of the gate to the Hospital of the Knights of St John, Jerusalem (Image via Wikimedia)

Around 1080 AD, a group of Italian merchants established a church and hospital in Jerusalem to offer shelter for pilgrims, regardless of their religion or race.  It was run like a monastic community, although its members were laymen rather than monks, and all might have gone along quite happily if it hadn’t been for the broiling atmosphere of warfare and violence in the Middle East.  This was the start of the Crusades:  not the best time to visit the Holy Land if you wanted to come back in one piece.

The Hospitallers had taken a lifetime vow of poverty, chastity and obedience, but there was obviously a get-out clause when it came to sword-wielding and butt-kicking.  They took up arms to defend themselves and their patients, and they became so powerful that they were soon a force to be reckoned with throughout the Holy Land and beyond.  The Order of St John, which took its name from St John the Baptist, was recognised by Papal Bull in 1113 and over the next few centuries the Hospitallers established bases in Cyprus, Rhodes and then Malta.  The emblem of the Order, an eight-pointed white cross on a black background, is still preserved in the Maltese flag.

From Tripoli to… Torphichen?

Throughout history there is the curious but recurring truth that an order of men who take a vow of poverty often start to acquire great wealth.  From their humble beginnings, the Knights Hospitaller accumulated riches and power and suddenly every monarch in Europe wanted to be their best friend.

It might be a bit unfair to accuse David I of Scotland of this motive, because when he invited the Hospitallers to Scotland in 1132 the order was still comparatively young.  At Torphichen he granted them a charter to build a church;  they already had a priory at Clerkenwell in London, and new Preceptory would be their headquarters in Scotland.  David was also a supporter of the Knights Templar, to whom he gave lands for a church at Balantrodoch in Midlothian.

A church of St Ninian

Historians believe that an older church, possibly dedicated to St Ninian, may have stood on the site at Torphichen from around 400 AD;   if so, this could well have influenced the Hospitallers’ decision to build here.   There is a tradition that King Arthur visited St Ninian’s church during the 6th century.  Incidentally, the name of Torphichen, with the ‘ch’ pronounced as in ‘loch’, seems to have two alternative meanings:  either it stems from the Gaelic ‘Torr Phigheainn’ meaning ‘hill of the magpies’, or it may refer to St Feichin, an early Irish saint.

EXPLORING THE PRECEPTORY

If you wander around to the east end of the Preceptory, the sight that meets your eyes is slightly puzzling.  It doesn’t look like a church, but that’s because an important part of it is missing.  On the wall you can see traces of a roof line and a high arch:  this is all that remains of the choir, which would have extended eastwards.  The choir may have incorporated the much older church.

There’s no ‘grand entrance’ remaining, and you step inside through a small doorway in the north transept.  I found this slightly disorientating, because when I turned to the right and saw the large window I felt as if I was facing an altar – but in fact the altar would have been to my left, in the part that is now gone.  What I was looking at was the transept on the other side of the crossing, while above my head the superbly vaulted ceiling hinted at the bell tower high above.

Ceiling in north transept

The Crossing

The interior is empty and hollow… but what an atmosphere.  On the cold slabs of the floor the sunlight was being dissected into a thousand pieces, while in the shadows lurked the remnants of forgotten things:  traces of painting on the once-plastered walls emerge ghost-like after you have stared at them for a few minutes, and dusty window recesses still await the devotion of pious hands.   The place feels frozen like a tomb, and despite the soaring impression of space I didn’t feel much at home.

In each transept there would have been a small chapel with an altar;  a carved screen separated these from the crossing.   Beneath the south window there is an opening which once held an effigy, and to the left of it is a small piscina for wine or water.

Piscina (left) and effigy recess, now empty

Traces of paint work

Detail of archway to nave

“Towards the end of the 14th century the transepts were almost entirely rebuilt with new windows and vaulting and a new stair-turret was provided to the tower.  In the 15th century, upper storeys were built above the two transepts.”    Historic Scotland

I was slightly dismayed by the sight of a door leading to a tight spiral staircase, because my experience with these features is rather mixed.  Halfway up I wanted to chicken out, but I gritted my teeth and gripped my handbag in readiness to assault any spectral monks that might be waiting at the top.   After what seemed like an age, I emerged into one of three small rooms with interconnecting doorways;   mercifully, a stair leading further up, to the top of the bell tower, had been roped off.

In the biggest room a number of old grave slabs had been arranged, some with characteristic swords carved on them;  information panels were set out in each chamber, giving a detailed history of the Knights Hospitaller.  The panels were lit by yellow spotlights, because the daylight levels up there are practically nil.   But I was distinctly uneasy, so after a show of bravado that convinced no one – because no one was there – I sped back down again and took myself smartly outside.

Grave slab

To the north of the church, there would have been domestic buildings and cloisters arranged in a square about a central courtyard.   It must have been a big and impressive place, although the community of brethren here was never large.   To the west, down the longest ‘arm’, would have been the nave of the church, but again the entrance to this has been walled up, leaving behind a blind archway from the crossing.   Inside, in the stonework, the masons have incorporated part of a monument erected in 1538 by Sir Walter Lindsay, successor to Sir George Dundas, a Preceptor who died in 1532.  This reflects the obsession of that era with frolicking skeletons, although that is purely my slant on it.

Old carvings incorporated in walled-up nave arch

Edward I and William Wallace

In the late 13th century Torphichen sheltered two of history’s greatest warlords.  William Wallace stayed here before the Battle of Falkirk in 1298, and shortly afterwards the English king, Edward I, came to the Preceptory to receive treatment for a wound.

Inscribed on one of the stone vault ribs in the north transept are the words:

ANDREAS MELDRUM ORDINIS
S(AN)C(T)I JOHANNIS PRECEPTOR

This is a memorial to Sir Andrew Meldrum, Preceptor of Torphichen from around 1430.   It is known that he travelled to Rhodes in 1432, and also went regularly to the Hospitallers’ centre at Clerkenwell.   The vaulting is so high that you would need miraculous eyesight to see these letters, and I missed them altogether.

In the mid-1500s the Reformation began to wreak havoc with the beautiful medieval churches and monasteries of Scotland, but apparently Torphichen was saved because its Preceptor at that time, Sir James Sandilands, was a friend of the Reformer John Knox.  In 1563 Sir James yielded ownership of the Preceptory to Mary Queen of Scots, but he later bought it back and assumed the title of Lord Torphichen.  By that time, the Hospitallers had been forced to leave and seek homes elsewhere.

Looking at the former plan and comparing it to what is now on the ground, I wasn’t left with the impression that much of Torphichen had actually been ‘saved’ – but the damage was done 200 years later.  In 1756 the nave was demolished to make way for a new parish kirk, and the domestic buildings around the cloister were pulled down and plundered for building stone.  I would imagine that they were already in ruins by this time.

THE GRAVEYARD

Old headstones

Sanctuary stones

I was fascinated to read that in the land around the Preceptory were placed four sanctuary stones, one at every point of the compass, each a mile distant from a fifth stone which stood at the centre of them all, within the churchyard.  Also known as ‘refuge stones’, on a map they would have formed the shape of a cross.

Three of the outlying stones still remain, as does the one in the churchyard;   it is about two feet high, with a cross and a shallow depression carved in the top.  The little hollow may once have held holy water, but historians believe that this stone could be Neolithic, in which case the depressions on its surface are cup-marks.   Its original setting could have been the prehistoric site on nearby Cairnpapple Hill, and it may have had some deep significance which caused it to be moved here when the first Christian church was built in the 5th century.

Gatehouse to the graveyard

Dating from 1772, this little house has a chimney which suggests that it was put up as a watch house to guard against body snatchers.  If it was purely a store room, I wouldn’t have thought it needed to be kept warm!  Some poor soul, in the late 18th and early 19th century, would have had to spend every night in here, keeping an anxious watch on the churchyard to make sure that no one came to poke about in the newly occupied graves.

Just across the path from the gatehouse I noticed a small and very worn-looking stone which struck me as being just as old as the sanctuary stone – but as yet I can find no information about it.

THE 18TH CENTURY PARISH KIRK

The interior of the church reflects the strict rules of post-Reformation Scotland, when the focus of the congregation had to be on the preacher rather than the altar.  It is built in a T-shape, with three galleries above;  the furnishings consist of plain panelling and very little ornamentation.   It’s all carpeted, and the stall-like pews still bear the titles, lettered in gold, of the people who occupied them;  I believe this tradition is still upheld at modern-day services within the Order of St John.

“The Order and its legacy today embraces a Jerusalem eye hospital, a maternity clinic in Bethlehem, grand iconic ruins such as Krak des Chevaliers in Syria, leafy St John’s Wood and the St John’s Ambulance service.   All these derive in some direct way from a hospital for western European Christian pilgrims founded in Jerusalem…”  St John’s College, Oxford

Visiting Torphichen Preceptory

Torphichen is in West Lothian, about 20 miles west of Edinburgh.  From the A89 through Bathgate, follow the signs to Torphichen and then watch for the brown Historic Scotland signs to the Preceptory, which is in the centre of the village.  There’s a small car park by the churchyard.

The Preceptory is maintained by Historic Scotland, and in 2015 it is open on Saturday and Sunday afternoons from 1st April to 30th September.   A small admission fee applies.  Custodians are volunteer members of the Torphichen branch of the Order of St John of Jerusalem.

More information on Historic Scotland’s website.

Sources:

• Historic Scotland
• RCAHMS
• Undiscovered Scotland
• St John’s College, Oxford
• Knights Hospitaller
• Order of Malta

Regular services are held in the adjacent church – visit Torphichen Kirk for more details.

Photos copyright © Colin & Jo Woolf

When you drive along the wild and lonely road from Kilchoan to Sanna on the Ardnamurchan peninsula, you find yourself passing through a low-lying, almost moon-like terrain that is fringed on all sides by lumpy black hills.

There are no trees or landmarks to break up the flatness, and even the burn which cuts a shallow groove through the landscape seems to be unsure about its sense of direction.

You are, in fact, travelling through the magma chamber of an extinct volcano – or what remains of it.

About 60 million years ago, during the Palaeogene period, “things were far from quiet across the landscape that had just emerged from the bottom of the Cretaceous sea.”   The Atlantic was being stretched as America and Europe drifted further apart, and a line of volcanoes emerged along the western seaboard of Scotland, reaching right up to Iceland and Greenland.

Today, the mountains of Skye, Rum, Mull and Arran all stand as silent witnesses to the formidable power of volcanoes.   But what we are looking at in Ardnamurchan is slightly different, because during the ice ages the top part of this volcano was effectively scoured away by the ice.  It’s barely recognisable from the ground, but from space the picture is much clearer.

Ardnamurchan peninsula – NASA Landsat 7 image, via Wikimedia

“From the air, rings of once molten magma can be seen to define a series of almost perfect circles.   We are looking at the lower reaches of a volcano after the superstructure has been planed off by erosion.”

(‘Land of Mountain and Flood – the Geology and Landforms of Scotland’)

A short distance away, at Sanna, outflows of dark basalt punctuate the white sands, while throughout the peninsula, exposed rocky outcrops glitter with silvery mica.  For geology students, Ardnamurchan is like a textbook on a colossal scale, offering features such as ring dykes, cone sheets, ash flows, and even examples of ‘air-fall’ rocks which were formed from lava that was spat out of the heart of the volcano.

Volcanic rocks showing glacial striations

Sanna Bay

Seen from Ardnamurchan, the islands of Rum (left), Eigg (centre) and the Cuillin mountains of Skye (right)

How to get there

Corran ferry

From the Corran ferry across Loch Linnhe, follow the A861 along Loch Sunart to Strontian and Salen.  At Salen, take the B8007, a minor road with passing places, which leads through spectacular scenery to Kilchoan.  A short distance after Kilchoan, look out for the signpost to Sanna, which takes you on an even more minor road (if that’s possible!)   The last stretch of the road before Sanna, around Achnaha, runs through the middle of the volcano.

Quotes from:  

• ‘Land of Mountain and Flood – the Geology and Landforms of Scotland’ by Alan McKirdy, John Gordon and Roger Crofts

Other sources:

• ‘The Geology of Ardnamurchan’ by Peter J Mcfarlane
• More general information on Ardnamurchan

Photos copyright © Colin & Jo Woolf

On the south bank of the River Clyde in Glasgow is a district called Govan.  Shipbuilding was once a major industry here, and now it’s a busy urban area of houses, flats, businesses and shops.  Not the most obvious place to start looking for early medieval history.

But appearances can be deceptive.

Secreted within this concrete jungle is a little time-bubble in the shape of Govan Old Parish Church.  The building itself isn’t really that old – it dates from 1888 – but it’s surrounded by a much older graveyard;  and if you step inside, you’ll come face to face with some jaw-dropping medieval treasures.

“One of the best collections of early medieval sculpture anywhere in the British Isles.”   Gareth Williams, curator of the British Museum Viking exhibition

I’m not talking just about the fabulously carved Jordanhill Cross or the Sun Stone with its writhing bouquet of serpents, although in any other place they’d be the centre of attention.  Lurking darkly in one of the transepts are the strangest sculptures I’ve ever had the fortune to see.  They have such a presence that part of me wouldn’t even be surprised to hear that they got up and prowled around at night.

When you stand next to one of Govan’s enormous ‘hogback’ stones and run your hand over its scale-like surface, a horde of unanswered questions assail your mind like an invading army.   What on earth do they represent?  Who were they made for?   What was their purpose?

They might be a thousand years old, but there’s nothing half-hearted about these extraordinary sculptures.   Looking almost like prehistoric animals, they are solid, massive, dark and brooding.  But before I can tell you any more about the hogback stones, I had better explain what on earth they are doing in Govan, in the heart of Glasgow.  And it all comes back to the ancient but little-known kingdom of Strathclyde.

GOVAN AS A CENTRE OF POWER

When we think of early Scottish people, we tend to think either of the Picts or the Gaels, who later became known as Scots.   The Vikings added a third ingredient to the melting pot of cultures.  But there was a fourth, in the shape of the Britons of Strathclyde, who occupied a wide territory across southern Scotland and shared a common ancestry with the ‘Cymry’ or ‘Cumbri’ of northern England and Wales.   Until 870 AD the ancient heart of their kingdom was ‘Alt Clut’, a fortress on Dumbarton Rock in the Firth of Clyde;   but after a decisive defeat at the hands of the Vikings they moved their royal seat of power upriver, to Govan.  There was a safe crossing here, close to where the River Kelvin joined the Clyde.

The River Clyde showing ‘Meikle’ (‘Greater’) and ‘Little’ Govan with a suggestion of Doomster Hill, from Blaeu’s 1654 Atlas

Sadly, little archaeological evidence is left to us.   A fortified mound known as Doomster Hill is shown on some early maps, but this was obliterated by 19th century development.    The name ‘Doomster’ suggests the ceremony and rituals of early medieval kingship, where laws were passed and judgements handed out, and the site may well have had prehistoric origins.   Likewise, no trace remains of a possible royal residence on the opposite bank of the river, at Partick.   All we have is the graveyard at Govan – and these remarkable stones.

The language of Govan

At the time when the Govan stones were carved, the people here would have spoken a northern Brittonic language related to Old Welsh.  One theory is that the name comes from a Cumbric equivalent of ‘go’ meaning ‘little’ and ‘ban’ meaning ‘hill’.  The ‘little hill’ may refer to the low mound of Doomster Hill.  

So when was the first church built at Govan?   According to legend, the Christian missionary St Constantine came here around 500 AD and chose to build a church next to a sacred well.  His church would have been a modest wooden structure and no trace of it remains, but burials dating from the fifth or sixth century have been found in the graveyard, and the curving shape of the boundary hints at an ancient past.  The discovery of a finely carved sarcophagus, obviously intended to hold some very important relics, brings us tantalisingly close to the truth.  Did this ever hold the bones of St Constantine?  It would be wonderful to know.

The Govan Sarcophagus

Unearthed in the graveyard in 1855, the Govan sarcophagus is carved with a huntsman on horseback and a number of animals that look like deer.  It is richly embellished with beautiful interlaced knot-work.

THE HOGBACK STONES

“Archaeological evidence for early Christian burials… suggests continuity of an elite presence through the second half of the first millennium AD.”     Tim Clarkson, ‘Strathclyde and the Anglo-Saxons in the Viking Age’

For the kings of Strathclyde, Govan was a royal burial ground, and it’s quite likely that the hogback stones marked their graves.  Historians see a distinct Norse influence in their design, as they occur only where there has been a Viking presence – but strangely, there are no surviving examples in the Viking homelands of Scandinavia.  Various interpretations have been placed on their appearance, but the most popular opinion is that they represent the tiled roof of a house that has been placed over the dead for protection.

It’s not that simple, however.  The hogback stones at Govan have a central spine that seems quite animal-like – hence their name – and a couple of them are clasped at one or both ends by a carved beast that could be a bear or a serpent.  They are asymmetrical, and to me their profile is reminiscent of a ship, with a prow and a stern.

The hogback stones at Govan were carved sometime between 900 and 1100 AD.   Centuries of industrial pollution have blackened them, and when they were first made they would have looked quite different.  For a start, it’s quite likely that they were painted – but how, and in what colours, we can only imagine.  What we can say with more certainty is that they were intended to express the wealth, the power, and the importance of the people whose graves they marked.

What makes the hogback stones so strange?

Until now, all the medieval grave stones that I’ve seen have been long, rectangular and relatively flat, often carved with swords and low-relief effigies and the symbols of a person’s trade.  They convey an impression of pride, but also of someone having surrendered his soul to another realm and wishing to be remembered with respect and love.  There’s an openness and a feeling of trust.

Not so with the hogback stones at Govan.  Built to withstand the wrath of giants, they look as if their whole purpose is to keep something in!   You get a sense of someone being locked within the earth, safe from all kinds of unspeakable evil.  Far from trusting their dead to the tender care of angels, these people heaved a huge lump of sandstone over the grave and added some sinister-looking beasts for extra security.  The warning is clear:  mess with me at your peril.

There are more hogback stones dotted around Scotland and Northern England, but the five at Govan represent the country’s largest collection.   They are also the biggest and heaviest examples yet to be found.

The view from the balcony. You can glimpse the hogback stones through an arch on the left

GOVAN’S OTHER STONES

From left to right: The Cuddy Stane, the Jordanhill Cross, and the Sun Stone

Govan has such a rich heritage of carving that it has given rise to the term ‘Govan School’ to describe the craftsmanship in this particular area.  Three magnificent stones that stand just within the entrance of the church were designed to portray the beliefs and values of the Strathclyde Britons.

The Sun Stone

One of Govan’s earliest carvings, the Sun Stone has a large central boss from which four serpents are emerging.  This is thought to represent the Christian concept of redemption and resurrection, and it is a symbol that is found elsewhere in Scotland and Ireland.  On the other side is a decorated cross and a mounted warrior with a spear and possibly a sword;  his hair appears to be tied in a ponytail.    Was he a king of Strathclyde?

The Cuddy Stane

The top part of the ‘Cuddy Stane‘ is missing, but a drawing survives from 1856 which shows a horserider carrying a long weapon and mounted on an animal that looks more like an ass than a horse – hence the stone’s name, ‘cuddy’, which is Scots for ‘donkey’.   This has led to speculation that it may represent Christ’s entry into Jerusalem on Palm Sunday.

The Jordanhill Cross

This stone gets its name from the place where it was found – the garden of Jordanhill House just across the river, where it had been taken in relatively recent times.  It is carved with another mounted warrior amid some superb knotwork, almost as if the stonemason was challenged to showcase his skill.

To historians, the shaping of the slab at the top suggests that it was designed to fit into another stone, possibly a cross-head.   At the entrance to the churchyard stands a modern replica of the Jordanhill Cross, showing how it may have looked when complete.

Early medieval grave slabs

A surprising number of early grave slabs are dotted around the church, having been brought indoors for protection.   Between the 17th and 19th centuries some of these stones were re-used for contemporary burials and were inscribed with initials.   It is only recently that their historical significance has been put into context and fully understood.

Until the late 1900s these cross-carved slabs, along with the hogback stones, lay outside the church and were fully exposed to the elements.  Unfortunately, that is not all they were exposed to:   the demolition of the adjacent Harland and Wolff shipyard in 1973 sent rubble tumbling over the wall, and at least 16 of the recumbent stones were lost, while several more were damaged.   Historians are painstakingly trying to recover details about the missing stones, using evidence such as old black-and-white photos.

Old photo displayed on an exhibition panel, showing the church flanked by shipbuilding warehouses in 1900

What happened to the Britons of Strathclyde?

Around 1050, the kingdom of Strathclyde was conquered by the increasingly powerful Scots.  King David I founded a new diocese in Glasgow in 1114, and the old church at Govan was gradually abandoned.   As for the Britons themselves:  “They were no longer Cumbri but had become ‘Scots’ like their new political masters. Inevitably, as time wore on, the deeds of their forefathers began to fade from memory.  Soon only the sculptured stones remained, a handful of monuments scattered across the land, to bear mute witness to a forgotten people.”   (Tim Clarkson)

VISITING THE GOVAN STONES

If you haven’t already been to Govan, I recommend that you do so because there’s nothing like seeing these amazing stones at first hand.   Over the last few years the Govan Stones Project has undertaken a major new re-display scheme which shows off the stones within the church to their best advantage, accompanied by useful interpretation boards.

Govan Old Parish Church is open to visitors from 1st April to 31st October 2015, between 1 and 4 pm.  Admission is free, although donations are welcomed.  There’s lots more information on the Govan Stones website, including a map showing how to get there.

A service takes place in the church every weekday morning.  “The Old Church at Govan remains active, making it one of the most long-lived centres of Christianity in Britain.”

Sources:

• The Govan Stones
• Heart of the Kingdom
• ‘Strathclyde and the Anglo-Saxons in the Viking Age’ by Tim Clarkson
• Senchus – Early Medieval Scotland
• The Govan Stones – BBC feature
• Govan and Linthouse Parish Church

Photos copyright © Colin & Jo Woolf

Further reading…

If you enjoyed this, you might like to take a look at the magnificent Dupplin Cross which stands in St Serf’s Church at Dunning in Perthshire.

 

The new theme for my photography posts is Scottish islands, and my first choice is the beautiful island of Lismore.   This view was taken in May last year, looking south-west across the Sound of Mull.

Photo copyright © Jo Woolf

If you’d like to explore the history of Lismore, check out my post about Castle Coeffin.

Macbeth shall never vanquished be until
Great Birnam Wood to high Dunsinane Hill
Shall come against him.

               ‘Macbeth’, Act IV Scene I

Most of us know the story of Shakespeare’s ‘Macbeth’.   Set in the 11th century, it’s a dark and compelling tragedy in which a power-crazy Scottish general has a stormy encounter with three witches and then commits one murder after another in a fanatical quest for the Scottish throne.

Towards the end, immured in his fortress at Dunsinane, Macbeth takes comfort in the idea that he’s invincible.  Why did he listen to the witches in the first place?   They talked a load of rubbish about trees getting up and walking around on their own.   If that was a sign of his impending death, it was never going to happen.

No one would have wanted the job of telling Macbeth that his worst nightmare was about to come true, but someone had to do it:

Messenger:

“As I did stand my watch upon the hill,
I look’d toward Birnam, and anon, methought,
The wood began to move.”

Macbeth:

“If thou speak’st false,
Upon the next tree shalt thou hang alive,
Till famine cling thee:  if thy speech be sooth,
I care not if thou dost for me as much.
I pull in resolution, and begin
To doubt th’ equivocation of the fiend
That lies like truth:  ‘Fear not, till Birnam wood
Do come to Dunsinane’:  and now a wood
Comes toward Dunsinane.  Arm, arm, and out!”

Act V, Scene V

Macbeth is panicked into action, and from then onwards things start to go very badly pear-shaped.  As for the trees of Great Birnam Wood which are apparently marching against him, these are in fact the soldiers led by his rival, Malcolm, who have cut down some branches and are carrying them as camouflage.   For me, it works better if I imagine it on an epic scale, like something out of ‘Lord of the Rings’.

A few years ago I was surprised to learn that a relic of Birnam’s Great Wood was still standing, a solitary veteran of a forest that was once the pride of Scotland’s kings.

Now, one thing should be explained first of all:  the Birnam Oak, ancient though it is, does not date from the 11th century.   It could, however, have been a mature tree by the late 1500s, which is when Shakespeare is rumoured to have visited Scotland at the request of James VI.   Did Shakespeare walk in Birnam Wood, and find inspiration for a new play?

I was expecting the Birnam Oak to be a fragile, crippled relic, but this is not the case at all, although its longer branches are supported by crutches.   Presenting the picture of health, it stands 90 feet high and has a girth of more than 24 feet, with a hollow at the bottom that is comfortably big enough for one person to sit inside.

The Birnam Oak is a sessile oak, Quercus petraea, distinguished from the pedunculate oak by its acorns which are not borne on stalks but grow directly on the twigs.

A few sycamore seedlings have cheekily taken root on its lower branches, but it’s big enough not to care.  On a sunny morning in early May, when the leaves were just coming out, the upper branches were alive with woodland birds looking for nest sites and feeding on insects.

Lichens on the bark

It’s staggering when you try to imagine the great historical events that this tree has lived through.  The birth of Mary, Queen of Scots in 1542;   the Reformation;  the Civil War in the mid-1600s;   all three Jacobite uprisings, and the hopes of Bonnie Prince Charlie, dashed forever at Culloden in 1746;   the Union of the Crowns;  the Highland Clearances;  the building of roads, and the advent of steam power and railways.   How many generations of people have passed under its branches?   If it has absorbed any memories, how good it would be to be able to tune into them!

THE BIRNAM SYCAMORE

Standing next to the Birnam Oak, but at a respectful distance, is another veteran:  the Birnam Sycamore.

The girth of this retainer is slightly bigger, at 25 feet, and you might be forgiven for thinking that it’s even older – but you’d be wrong.  Sycamores grow and mature more quickly than oaks, and this one is 300 years old – a fantastic age, yet it’s still a stripling when compared to its near neighbour.

In Birnam Wood I also found some of the tallest aspen trees I’ve ever seen.  Their straight trunks supported a coronet of leaves high above, fluttering in the wind.  It was exhilarating just to stand and stare up at them.  The ground beneath was carpeted with wood sorrel and wood anemones.

Visiting the Birnam Oak

The Birnam Oak and Sycamore stand on the south bank of the River Tay in Birnam, just below Dunkeld in Perthshire.  Look out for the brown signpost which points to the path down Oak Road, next to the Milton Birnam Hotel.

Birnam Sycamore (left) and Birnam Oak

Sources:

• Visit Scotland
• Big Tree Country
• Undiscovered Scotland
• Dunkeld and Birnam Tourist Information
• The Woodland Trust

Photos copyright © Colin & Jo Woolf 

While you’re in Dunkeld, be sure to visit the beautiful old cathedral! 

This was going to be a photo-feature, but then I made the fatal mistake of starting to read about the place!  So instead of just a photo, I have a ghost story to share…

Glen More is a beautiful valley that cuts across the Isle of Mull from east to west.  From the ferry at Craignure, you’ll head down this way if you’re travelling to places like Bunessan or Fionnphort where another ferry leaves for Iona.   It’s a place of many moods – blissful on a summer’s day, wild in winter with the wind scouring down from the slopes of Ben More.  We’ve seen short-eared owls here, and golden eagles;  in spring the verges are dotted with primroses, violets and orchids.

But in the 16th century all was not well in this tranquil glen, and in particular with the Maclaine clan whose seat was at Lochbuie on the east coast of Mull.  Iain Og, the 5th Clan Chief, had a son named Ewen (Eoghann a’Chinn Bhig, meaning ‘Ewen of the Little Head’) who lived on a crannog in Loch Sguabain.   Ewen was a fearless warrior, but his wife, a MacDougall of Lorne who was known as ‘the Black Swan’, wasn’t content with her existence;   she was ambitious for wealth and status, and wanted more lands to add to her husband’s estate.   Shades of Lady Macbeth!

Loch Sguabain, with crannog

Ewen petitioned his father for more property, but to no avail.   Disappointment turned into anger, and it all came to a head – quite literally – one day in 1538, when Ewen and his father arranged a mass duel in Glen More between themselves and their followers.

On the day before the battle, legend says that Ewen encountered a fairy woman who was washing blood-stained clothes in a burn.  He asked her if she could foretell his fate, and was taken aback by her reply:  she confided that, at breakfast in the morning, if Ewen’s servant failed to place the butter on the table and he had to ask for it, he would be killed.

Ewen forgot about the prophecy but it all came flooding back the next morning, when his servant forgot the butter.  He must have felt a horrible creeping sense of doom.  But what else could he do?  As his kinsmen gathered in the glen, he mounted his horse and led them into the heat of the battle.   It didn’t last long.  Standing on a rock, one of Iain Og’s soldiers brandished his claymore in the direction of Ewen, and managed to sever his head from his shoulders.   The terrified horse galloped off with the headless rider still in the saddle and eventually came to a standstill several miles away, above the Lussa Falls.

As a temporary measure, Ewen’s followers buried his body at the place where it fell from the horse, and marked the spot with a small cairn or pile of stones among the heather.  They came back later to reclaim it, and carried him to the island of Iona for an honourable burial.   It was said that when Ewen’s hunting dog saw the body of its master, it suffered such a shock that all its hair fell out.

But Ewen’s ghost is unable to rest in peace, and ever since that day the spectre of a headless rider on a black horse is reported to ride through Glen More between dusk and dawn.   In particular, it is believed that his appearance to one of the Maclaine clan, or the sound of his horses’ hooves galloping around the clan seat at Moy by Lochbuie, is an omen that a member of that family is about to die.

Where did Ewen’s body fall?   The location was known only to a few people and the secret was handed down over the centuries.   P A Macnab, writing in ‘The Isle of Mull‘, reveals that he was told where to find it by the West Highland naturalist Seton Gordon, who died in 1977.   Macnab followed Gordon’s directions and was delighted to discover a small cairn beside the Lussa burn, just as folklore remembers.

Sources:

• Clan Maclaine of Lochbuie
• ‘Mull and Iona‘ by P A Macnab
• ‘The Isle of Mull’ by P A Macnab

Photos copyright © Colin & Jo Woolf

More about crannogs…

The island dwelling of Ewen Maclaine is known as a crannog.  Occupied from the Bronze Age right up to the 1700s in some cases, crannogs doubled as secure fortresses in times of turmoil.  Click on the image to read more!  

It is a popular rhyme of the district that “a loop of the Forth is worth an Earldom in the north”.

R W Billings, 1908

If you were a monk living in Cambuskenneth Abbey in late medieval times, you probably never knew a minute’s peace.   Nestling in a loop of the River Forth within sight of Stirling Castle, it enjoyed the patronage of Scotland’s kings but this very fact also made it a prime target for an invading army.

The battles of Stirling Bridge, Bannockburn and Sauchieburn all took place within shouting distance of Cambuskenneth Abbey.  After Bannockburn in 1314, Robert the Bruce held a parliament here;  and after James III was killed at Sauchieburn in 1488 his body was brought to the Abbey for burial.  In 1383 the building was sacked by the army of Richard III of England, and had to be re-built.  The only possible consolation is that the occupants of Cambuskenneth had a good high tower from which they could see them all coming.

Cambuskenneth dates from 1140, when David I of Scotland founded an abbey here for a community of Arrouaisian canons;  this religious order sprang from the Abbey of Arrouaise in northern France.  Cambuskenneth was later absorbed into the order of Augustinians.

Looking towards Stirling, with the Castle on the far right

Why ‘Cambuskenneth’?

Alternatively spelled ‘Campuskenneth’, the name refers to the land in the loop of the river, and means ‘the field of Kenneth’, after a battle in the 9th century when Kenneth II clashed with the Picts.  The Abbey was in fact dedicated to St Mary, but it is the name of Cambuskenneth that has stood the test of time.

At first glance it seems that the monks of Cambuskenneth must have been squashed into one rather claustrophobic space, but when you walk around the grounds you see that the rest of the monastery – the cloister, living quarters and church – now exist only as rubble foundations.   It was, in fact, quite a large establishment, overlooked by a free-standing bell tower or campanile, “a detached structure for which there are no parallels anywhere else in Scotland.”   (Historic Scotland)

The tower stands 65 feet high, and it has obviously been restored to a certain extent because a painting from the early 20th century shows bushes growing out of a broken window in the upper storeys.  It has a mesmerising presence, and it’s fascinating to gaze up at the ranks of grotesques below the parapet, which are either grinning defiantly or screaming in horror at some unseen and obviously unwelcome arrival.

When you step inside, all you can see in the gloom of the small square chamber is a vaulted ceiling with a central hole, and a few relics of old stonework laid around for inspection.  Although there is a stairway leading to the upper floors and the roof, this is not open to the public.

Beside the tower is a ruined gateway leading into what is now a graveyard, and in my eagerness I overlooked this before I realised what all that ornamentation is about.  This is not an entrance to the graveyard at all, but a doorway of a long-lost building – in fact, it is all that remains of the magnificent west entrance into the Abbey church.

Historic Scotland information board suggesting the original layout of the abbey. The west doorway is at the bottom left, next to the tower

The Abbey was bounded on three sides by the river, an important defensive feature, and on the fourth side a bank and ditch were added.   There would, however, have been river crossings, so that travellers to and from Stirling Castle could be ferried across the Forth.  In the BBC TV programme ‘The Quest for Bannockburn – Digging Deeper’ archaeologists Neil Oliver and Tony Pollard searched for a lost water-gate which appears as a ruin in an old engraving.   This is a link to the programme on YouTube:

The destiny of kings

In 1304, Cambuskenneth witnessed an event which Neil Oliver describes as “the turning point in the history of a nation.”   As Edward I of England terrified the garrison in Stirling Castle with Greek fire hurled from his giant trebuchet, Robert the Bruce made a secret pact with William de Lamberton, Bishop of St Andrews, who swore to support his claim to the throne:

“Within sight of the castle – close enough to hear the relentless bombardment – the Bishop of St Andrews met with the future King of Scotland, on 11 June 1304…  There at Cambuskenneth they put their names to a bond ‘of mutual friendship and alliance against all men’.”

From ‘The History of Scotland’ by Neil Oliver

In 1306 the Bruce was crowned King of Scotland, and he summoned a Parliament at Cambuskenneth after his victory at Bannockburn in 1314.   A local history website reveals that one chamber in the Abbey became known as ‘Parliament Hall’.   In 1326, it was here that Bruce decided on the rights of succession that would give Scotland its long line of Stewart monarchs.

The Battle of Sauchieburn

In 1488 the unpopular James III was forced to take up arms against his 15-year-old son, who would soon become James IV.    On 11th June a battle took place at Sauchie, about two miles south of Stirling, and James III was killed.  Some rumours hint at an assassination as he fled the field, and others suggest that he was murdered before the fighting even started;  all we know for sure is that his body was brought back to Cambuskenneth, where it was laid to rest beside his wife, Margaret of Denmark, who had died two years before.

In 1865, bones thought to belong to James and Margaret were exhumed from the site of the high altar and re-interred in a suitably impressive Victorian-style tomb.   Alongside it lies an open sarcophagus of the type that I’ve seen in places like St Andrew’s Cathedral, although I can find no confirmation that this contained the royal remains.

The Reformation

In the mid-1500s the Reformation struck doom into the heart of so many lovely churches and monasteries, and it seems that Cambuskenneth was no exception. There is an alternative story, however, which states that the Abbey was demolished on the orders of one man – the 17th Earl of Mar, who plundered the rubble to build a new town house for himself in Stirling.  Whichever version is true, it is lucky for us that at least the tower has survived unscathed – possibly, as one source suggests, because it was useful as a look-out post.

‘Campuskenneth Abbey’ from ‘The Baronial and Ecclesiastical Antiquities of Scotland’ by R W Billings, 1908

A RURAL IDYLL

The tranquil setting of Cambuskenneth Abbey certainly beguiled travellers of the early 1900s who loved nothing better than a romantically decaying pile set amid rolling countryside.

In 1908 the architect Robert William Billings noted that the River Forth made “…a succession of circular sweeps, in which two parts of the river, miles distant by the course of the stream, sometimes come within not many yards of each other across the land.  More descriptively they are termed ‘links,’ or ‘loops,’ and in one of these stand the remains of the Abbey – the old tower with its staircase nearly complete, the broken Gothic arch of a gateway, some crumbling walls, and the hoary remnants of an orchard, which in their green old age still annually recall to remembrance the proverbial proficiency of the monks in the science of horticulture.”

I could see no signs of an orchard, but part of an old building, perhaps a dovecot or living quarters, stands in a field by the river.

Remains of the cloister

Ghosts of Cambuskenneth

Protected by its own natural ‘moat’, Cambuskenneth has a serene, almost island-like feeling as if it’s one step away from the real world.  Some visitors have glimpsed the shadowy figures of monks on the first floor of the tower and on the turnpike stair.   Apparitions thought to be James III or his queen, Margaret of Denmark, have been seen.   I must admit that I didn’t sense anything otherworldly or threatening about the place, but that’s easy to say on a lovely spring morning with the birds singing and caretakers cutting the grass.   On a dark evening with mist hugging the river, I’m sure it’s a different story.   It would be good to go back there, and find out.

There’s also a legend of a curse being placed upon John Erskine, 17th Earl of Mar, by an Abbot of Cambuskenneth, which caused the family to fall from grace with the loss of all their land and titles.  Apparently the Abbot wanted to avenge the destruction of Cambuskenneth Abbey.   It’s interesting to read that the Earl’s house, called Mar’s Wark, was never finished.

VISITING CAMBUSKENNETH ABBEY

In 2015 the Abbey will be open from 1st April to 30th September, between 9.30 am and 6 pm, 7 days a week.

To find it, take the A907 out of Stirling and after about half a mile turn off towards Cambuskenneth.  Follow the short road which leads through a quiet residential area and the abbey is at the end, set within a field.  More details about visiting can be found at Historic Scotland.

Sources:

• Historic Scotland
• ‘The History of Scotland’ by Neil Oliver
• Undiscovered Scotland
• ‘The Baronial and Ecclesiastical Antiquities of Scotland’, by R W Billings, 1908
• National Archives of Scotland
• Cambuskenneth local history

Photos copyright © Colin & Jo Woolf

Further reading…

Check out my post on Stirling Castle which overlooks the floodplain of the River Forth

The Mealt falls on the Isle of Skye:   from Loch Mealt on the north-east coast, an outflow (it’s too short to be called a river!) takes a dramatic plunge of about 180 feet into the sea below.  You can see the basalt columns of Kilt Rock in the distance.

Photo copyright © Jo Woolf

When does an enclosure become a stone circle?   This is a question I’ve been pondering recently, while trying to find out more about an intriguing site that I came across in Knapdale.

Just to the north-east of Tayvallich, the road snakes around a couple of tight bends before skirting the tip of Loch Coille-Bharr and heading north towards the Crinan Canal.  On one of the bends a grassy mound meets your eye, and suddenly you see that there is a stone poking out of it.    It is angled like a grave stone, but the overall impression isn’t of a graveyard.     If you’re intrigued enough to stop the car and walk up to it, you will realise that there is a second stone in the shadow of the woodland – but the identity of the site is no clearer.

On consulting the website of the Royal Commission on the Ancient & Historical Monuments of Scotland, I found that the site takes the name of a nearby abandoned village:  Kilmory Oib.  I’ve never come across ‘Oib’ before, but apparently it stems from a Gaelic word meaning ‘bay’ or ‘inlet’.  ‘Kilmory’ denotes a church, dedicated to a saint – perhaps St Maelrubha, like the one at Kilmory Knap.

Kilmory Oib

A township of about 17 buildings, including houses and byres, once stood nearby, on the shore of Loch Coille-Bharr.  Somewhere in those woodlands are the remains of these buildings, together with a cross-marked stone dating from the 8th or 9th century.  It isn’t known exactly when the settlement was abandoned, but it may have been in 1848, when tenants at Kilmory and the neighbouring village of Arichonan were evicted by their landlords.   This was the time of the Clearances, when thousands of people across Scotland were turned out of their homes to make way for agriculture.  The tenants at Kilmory rioted, and it is recorded that among them were two brothers named McMillan.

But this doesn’t really solve the riddle of these stones, because they look as if they pre-date the Clearances by at least a thousand years.  When the site was first surveyed it was described as a ‘stone circle’, but now it is more warily classed as an ‘enclosure’.  The bank to the east is thought to have been artificially raised, to create a level area.   But for what?

The mound measures about 20 yards across at its widest, narrowing to 12 yards;  the standing stones are both roughly four feet high, and are aligned north-east to south-west.   As you walk around the site you are aware of a few other stones lying scattered about, partly buried in the turf, and along the western edge of the enclosure is an arc of boulders “at least one of which appears to be a fallen upright.” (RCAHMS)

In January 1904, when David Christison described Kilmory Oib in the Proceedings of the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland, he noted that there were 13 recumbent stones among bracken and briars, varying from between three and six feet in length.   He was convinced that he was looking at a stone circle of an unusual if not unique shape, and he took a rather dim view of what had happened to it:

“Whether the south-east side was originally lined by stones like the north-west side must remain doubtful… it is likely enough that they did exist and have been used up for road metal, as the circle stands temptingly, almost touching the highway.”

Over 100 years later, we don’t know a great deal more.   I agree with the RCAHMS that you can’t call two standing stones a circle, nor is there anything to say for sure that they are a deliberate alignment.   The RCAHMS also points out, with good reason, that the platform isn’t wide enough to support a circle 20 yards in diameter (because this is the distance between the two standing stones) and there is nothing to suggest the existence of a central cairn.  It doesn’t look as if the site has ever been excavated, and no one seems to have made any attempt at dating it.

When I photographed the south-west stone from a certain angle, it looked like a little old woman emerging from the woodland, carrying a sack over her back;   she has a rich ‘hood’ of soft green moss and a silvery apron of lichen.  The other stone is leaning drunkenly, and the ground between them is a mass of lumps and bumps, suggesting the possibility of further stones beneath the turf.

So many questions… so few answers!   It feels like a jigsaw puzzle of which only a handful of random pieces remain.  If you open a large-scale map of this area you’ll see it is dotted with cairns, crannogs, cup-marked stones and the small forts known as duns.   Just a few miles to the north is Kilmartin, another ancient landscape where you can scarcely walk 50 yards without stumbling over a burial cairn or a stone row.   At one time, people would have passed these stones and known them, touched them, and perhaps stopped at them to leave an offering, a blessing, or even a curse.  They would have been like old friends.  Where has all that wisdom gone?

Sources:

• Royal Commission on the Ancient and Historical Monuments of Scotland
• Proceedings of the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland, January 1904

Photos copyright © Jo Woolf, March 2015

Nearby sites in Kilmartin Glen

• Dunchraigaig burial chamber
• Nether Largie stones
• Standing stone at Kintraw

I’ve noticed this pretty little plant growing on the stone walls of places I’ve visited – in fact, wherever there’s a ruined church or castle, ivy-leaved toadflax seems to have secreted itself happily among the crevices.

I always imagined that it had been there since the time of the buildings themselves – but I was wrong.

Ivy-leaved toadflax has only been growing in Britain since the 1600s, and in fact it may have come here as a stowaway, arriving here as seeds on marble statues that were shipped from Italy.   You’ve got to admire its style!  In its native Mediterranean countries it seems to have a long-standing affinity for old places, as suggested by its French name, ‘ruine-de-Rome’.

This is a trailing plant with evergreen leaves – shaped like ivy, as its name suggests.  Its pretty mauve flowers are like tiny snapdragons, veined in deeper purple with a lemon yellow ‘throat’.  It has a long season, flowering from May through to September.

Ivy-leaved toadflax is also known as Kenilworth ivy, wandering sailor, Oxford ivy, Aaron’s beard, thousand flower, mother of millions, and coliseum ivy;   its Latin name is Cymbalaria muralis.

Colonising old stonework is a skill that this plant has honed to perfection.  The flowers are borne on long tendrils that stretch out towards the sunlight, but once they have been pollinated the stalk starts to curve back towards the shade of the wall and the seeds are pushed into a dark damp crevice where they can germinate.

A rock climber in action…

Scaling the walls at Castle Campbell

Growing with a small fern called maidenhair spleenwort

Kilmory Knap Chapel

Ivy-leaved toadflax has spread throughout Britain (except the far north of Scotland) and to the United States.   It’s edible, too – in the past it has been eaten as a salad leaf, with a strong taste like watercress.  It is high in Vitamin C and was once used as an antidote to scurvy.

One source I came across suggests that ivy-leaved toadflax offers protection against hostile activity and evil spells – what a shame that it arrived just too late to save many of our wonderful old churches!   In Italy it is known as the ‘plant of the Madonna’, and its flowers always remind me of innocent faces gazing at the sun.

Sources:

• Plantlife
• Naturespot
• First Nature
• Botanical.com
• The White Goddess

Photos copyright © Colin & Jo Woolf

For more spring flowers, take a look at…

• Bird’s foot trefoil
• Thrift – coastal jewels
• Early purple orchid
• Windflowers – tears of Aphrodite

If we could hold back the soft curtains of time for a few minutes and glimpse the hilltop fort of Dunadd as it was about 1,300 years ago, we might witness a ceremony that shaped the history of Scotland.

On a flat slab of rock just below the summit a footprint is carved in shallow relief.   As he gazed across the lands that were his by blood and sword, a new ruler of Dal Riata would place his foot in this hollow and swear to protect his people against all invaders.   An abbot of Iona – Columba himself, perhaps – was there to bless the king and witness the oath.

That much we think we know… the rest is conjecture.   Close by, the faint image of a boar, carved in Pictish style, and two lines of Ogham script have a significance which we can only grasp at like straws in the wind.   A second footprint, now hard to see except in slanting light, was carved a good stride behind the first;  and a couple of yards away a small boulder has been hollowed out, perhaps for use as a basin.  What did it contain?   What was dipped in it?

The low rocky mound of Dunadd captures your gaze as you travel north from Tayvallich through the ancient landscape of Kilmartin Glen.   Below it, the River Add, from which the fort gets its name, snakes around in lazy curves through the flat peatland of Moine Mhor, the ‘great moss’, before flowing out to sea.   A couple of whitewashed farmhouses nestle around its base, and away to the south are the oak woods that mark the beginning of Knapdale.

But if you were visiting Dunadd 2,000 years ago, you wouldn’t have arrived by land at all.  The site was first chosen as a natural fortress around 300 BC, and at that time the sea would have lapped at its feet.  How do we know?  Scientists have measured the gradual uplift of the land since the last ice age, a natural reaction after the weight of ice was finally removed;   and pollen samples taken from the surrounding peat have allowed them to measure fairly accurately the rate at which the island became a peninsula and then a landlocked hill.   Today, the sea lies a couple of miles to the west.

Whatever significance Dunadd might have had to the first inhabitants of Kilmartin – the shadowy people who set up the stones of Nether Largie and Temple Wood and buried their people in the chamber at Dunchraigaig – its status in the early 6th century seems to have taken a huge leap up, thanks to the arrival of some new settlers.  These were the Gaels, also known as the Scoti or Scots.

Who were the Gaels?

Most historians believe that the Gaels came from Ireland, just 20 miles across the sea, perhaps spurred by the need for more land or the desire to expand their territory.   Curiously, their nickname, ‘Scoti’, has roots that stretch back beyond memory, to the legends that describe the birth of Ireland’s people.

“…Scoti also had unfavourable connections.  For some users of the word it meant something like ‘pirates’ – and it holds within it an echo of a time when these people were viewed, at least by someone else, as marauders who came from the sea.”    Neil Oliver, ‘A History of Scotland’.

The Gaelic kingdom of Dalriada encompassed parts of Ireland and much of western Scotland from Kintyre right up to Ardnamurchan and Lochaber;   and for its people, Dunadd became a prime focus of ceremony and power.

“Dunadd has produced the largest, most diverse range of imported pottery of any site in the Celtic West.”   Historic Scotland

We can sense the wealth of the people who came to Dunadd through the things they left behind.  Precious metals were worked here – gold and silver, as well as copper, lead and tin.   Findings include fragments of moulds for penannular brooches, sherds of crucibles, pieces of pottery and glass, and a 7th century garnet and gold jewel of the quality found at Sutton Hoo.  Traces of orpiment, a yellow mineral used for painting illuminated manuscripts, have also been discovered – evidence, perhaps, that the occupants of Dunadd were recognising the teachings of Christianity.   Did the monks of Iona obtain their pigments here as they worked on the Book of Kells?

There is also the interesting possibility, fuelled by the writings of the Anglo-Saxon chronicler Bede, that Northumbrian kings might have sought refuge at Dunadd when their lives were endangered by their own people.

I photographed the illustration on one of the information boards at the site, because I think the artwork is fantastic.  It shows the fortress alive with the light of fires and humming with people.  In the distance, the woods and salt marshes stretch away towards the Firth of Lorn.

The footprint stone, looking in roughly the same direction

The fortifications at Dunadd were wrapped around the summit of the hill in successive layers so that visitors must have had the impression of progressing through three or four distinct tiers before they gained the king’s presence.   Natural passages in the rock were enhanced to make an easily guarded gateway, and you still get a sense of entering a special place as you walk up there.   Ruined ramparts and the remnants of buildings can be made out, and there’s a well, now seemingly dried up, whose water – according to legend – used to rise and fall with the tide.

Traces of ramparts

The well, left of centre

Interesting split stone (most likely natural)

Looking west

At the summit

“When kings of Dal Riata placed one foot in the footprint to be inaugurated, they were betrothing themselves to the land that fed their people.  In Ireland, where six such royal footprints are known, records claim that the stone recognises and proclaims the rightful king.”  Historic Scotland

“Tradition says that this is the footprint of Oisin or Fergus Mor Mac Erca, the first King of Dál Riata who died in 501…  Colmcille [Columba] is said to have taken part in the inauguration ceremony of King Aidan here at Dunadd in 574.”   St Columba Trail

It’s impossible to resist imagining the ceremonies that took place here.   But we know so little.   To me, the footprint looked small enough to be a child’s, although records say that it’s approximately a size seven.   Try as I might, I couldn’t make out the full extent of the boar carving – you probably need the slanting light of morning or evening to photograph it successfully.   The Ogham symbols continue to baffle archaeologists as to their meaning.

The faint boar carving

And then I learned something else, half-remembered from reading ‘A History of Scotland’, which I dismissed as being impossible the first time I heard it.  In recent years, Historic Scotland has carefully placed a replica slab – complete with carvings – over the top of the original one, after laser-scanning it and preserving it with a protective layer.  This was necessary to protect the old stone from constant erosion, as increasing numbers of visitors were naturally tempted to try their own feet for size.   I would imagine that lichens were also beginning to obscure the carvings.

I’m a bit ambivalent about this.  I can fully appreciate the decision, because no one wishes to see a unique part of Scotland’s heritage being worn away.   The work has been done exceptionally well, and after all the original footprint is still there, in its original spot.   But at what stage in time will someone think it’s safe to remove the top layer and expose the old stone again?   It’s always a compromise, I can see that… but part of me wishes that we didn’t have to make it.

While I was taking photos from the summit, Colin was wandering around the lower slopes in search of wild flowers and insects.   He stumbled upon a carving that he first thought was graffiti, but I’m not so sure.   It looks like Ogham to me.   It’s on a vertical rock face, above head height.   It would be so good if it said ‘mind your head‘ in Ogham!   If you are an expert on this period of history, I’d be grateful for your opinion.

Just like the tide, with every rise there has to be a fall.   In the Annals of Ulster it is recorded that Oengus, son of Fergus, King of the Picts, seized Dunadd in 736 AD;  and although this may not have been the end for Dunadd, and it may well have been regained by the Scots, it was a sign that change was coming.   In the late 9th century Dalriada and Pictland were absorbed into the newly powerful kingdom of Alba;  the details are hazy, and the process can’t have been peaceful, but the result was that the old Pictish centres of Scone and Dunkeld were preferred to Dunadd.   By this time, anyway, the island of Dunadd was probably being reclaimed by the land, making it appear more vulnerable.   Some sources state that the Stone of Destiny, upon which all British monarchs are still crowned, was taken from Dunadd to Dunstaffnage for safe keeping, and then moved to Scone.

Dunadd may not have been abandoned immediately.   British Archaeology says that “one radiocarbon date suggests use of the summit as late as the 11th/13th century”, and the site was still important enough to warrant the reading of royal proclamations here in 1506.

The kings and their court have long gone, and the priests and the goldsmiths, the cooks and servants and the splendid visitors with their rich robes and jewels, but the sense of purpose is still here.  At midsummer, with a cuckoo calling from the oak woods across the marsh and the scent of bluebells and hawthorn drifting on the breeze, Dunadd holds you in its thrall.

Visiting Dunadd

Dunadd is in the care of Historic Scotland, and is open all year;  admission is free.   To get there, follow the A816 north from Lochgilphead for a few miles and keep an eye open for the signpost which directs you down a narrow road to a car park by the river.   You’ll see Dunadd from the main road.

After that, you can drive a bit further north and explore all the other archaeological wonders of Kilmartin Glen!

More information about visiting can be found on Historic Scotland’s website.

Sources:

• Historic Scotland
• ‘A History of Scotland’ by Neil Oliver
• Royal Commission on the Ancient & Historical Monuments of Scotland
• BBC History
• St Columba Trail
• British Archaeology
• The Heroic Age:  Sea Level Change Around Dunadd and Dumbarton Rock

Photos copyright © Jo Woolf

Dunchraigaig burial chamber

More ancient sites in Kilmartin Glen and nearby…

• Nether Largie – secrets in stone
• Dunchraigaig – the darkness of time
• Kintraw’s lonely watcher

On the afternoon of 20th December 1462, a bridal party walked down the short path from Dunstaffnage Castle to a little chapel in the woods.

It was to be a joyful occasion:  Sir John Stewart, 3rd Lord of Lorn and a widower, was marrying his mistress, a MacLaren of Ardvech.   The couple already had a son, Dugald, and their marriage would seal his inheritance.

But before the groom could even enter the church, disaster struck.   A vengeful relative, the kind you don’t want to see at any wedding, had been lying in wait.  His name was Alan MacCoul, and he was hell-bent on murder.  He and his men ambushed the wedding party and stabbed the groom several times.   Struggling for breath, Sir John was carried into the church where he had just strength enough to make his wedding vows before he died.

What on earth provoked such a hateful act?   Jealousy, of course, and greed.

The MacDougalls were the ancestral owners of Dunstaffnage, and hereditary holders of the title ‘Lord of Lorn’.  But somewhere along the line, when no heirs had been produced, the inheritance had passed to the Stewarts through marriage with a MacDougall daughter.   Alan MacCoul was a MacDougall by descent;  he believed himself and his clansmen to be dispossessed, and he hatched an evil plan.

Nor did it end there.   As Sir John received the last rites in the presence of his horrified family and guests, MacCoul seized the castle, which of course was conveniently empty.  If a banquet had been prepared, you can almost imagine him revelling in his own good luck.  This was a real-life Game of Thrones!

But he who holds the castle doesn’t necessarily win the game.  Thanks to some careful networking, Sir John’s title passed not to his son but to his brother, Walter Stewart.  It took Dugald another five years to bring down the man who murdered his father;  according to folklore, he struck the fateful blow himself, during a fight between the two clans near Stalcair Bay.

Walter Stewart relinquished his claim to the Lordship of Lorn, but Dugald never held it.   Instead, he received a share of the land, and became the first to bear the title ‘Stewart of Appin’.

Today, the little chapel at Dunstaffnage stands in ruins, its unquiet spirits lulled by birdsong.   Like a spectral bride, an old larch bedecked in lichen stretches long gaunt fingers towards the doorway.   As the breeze stirs the fresh leaves of midsummer, thousands of downy willow seeds dance in the shafts of sunlight.  The tranquillity is deceptive:   this is a forgotten place, remembering old wounds.

Is Dunstaffnage Chapel haunted?   I don’t know for sure.   But the castle is, and under an ancient law its Hereditary Captain is obliged to spend three nights there every year.   I’ll be telling you more very soon!

Dunstaffnage Castle and Chapel can be found at Dunbeg, just a few miles north of Oban.  For more information on visiting, go to Historic Scotland’s website.

Sources:

• Historic Scotland
• Castle Stalker
• McLaurin History
• ‘Changes in Medieval Lorn‘ by Diarmid Campbell via Lorn Archaeological & Historical Society

Photos copyright © Jo & Colin Woolf

The third in my photo-series on Scottish islands focuses on Islay, with a winter sunset seen from Portnahaven.   This little village of white-washed houses sits on the westernmost tip of the Rinns, a long peninsula of rough grassland with rocky outcrops and hidden coves.   On the far horizon is the coast of Ireland – by my reckoning it should be Malin Head in County Donegal.

Photo copyright © Colin Woolf

There can be few more magical landscapes than the oak woodlands of the Taynish peninsula in Argyll.  In summer, with the leaves filtering a cool emerald light through to the forest floor, and birdsong all around you, it feels like a sanctuary – enchanted and timeless.

You only have to set foot within the moss-shaded world of Taynish woods to know that they are ancient.  Pollen taken from peat samples has revealed that these oak woodlands have been growing here for about 7,000 years.  They would have heard the footsteps of the first farmers who settled in Knapdale, those same people who set up the stones of Nether Largie and Temple Wood in Kilmartin Glen, and carried their dead to Dunchraigaig for burial.   Few landscapes have truly stayed the same over thousands of years, but if one of our Neolithic ancestors came back to Taynish I’d like to think he would recognise it and feel at home.

Although oak is the predominant species there is a wide range of other trees, including rowan, birch, hazel, hawthorn, alder and wild cherry.  Scottish Natural Heritage is carefully monitoring the encroachment of non-native species such as sycamore, lime and rhododendron.   With water all around and wildlife in abundance the woods are rarely silent, but a deep feeling of peace settles on you as you walk beneath the canopy.

A SUPPLY OF CHARCOAL

Taynish woods were the focus of some unexpected industry in the early 19th century, when the Napoleonic wars created a keen demand for iron and leather.  Oak bark was used for tanning hides, and charcoal fuelled the iron furnaces;  both of these processes took their toll on the woodlands, and trees were coppiced to encourage the quick growth of new branches.

Dotted around the woods are old charcoal-making platforms, where stacks of logs were covered in turf and then burnt to produce charcoal.  This was shipped to the iron furnace at Bonawe on Loch Etive.  The industry flourished until 1876, when the furnace was closed down.

Wood sorrel

Campion, stitchwort and bluebells

Water lilies in Lochan Taynish

There’s a good reason for all the lush foliage:  Taynish receives over 60 inches of rainfall every year, and the mild, moist air allows mosses, lichens and ferns to thrive.  A quarter of all Britain’s bryophyte species (mosses and liverworts) are found here, and about 500 species of lichen;   the woodlands also support 300 species of wild flowers, and a whole host of dragonflies, damselfies, butterflies, moths and beetles.

Lichen on rowan branch, with hazel in background

MARSH FRITILLARY

Taynish is the northernmost stronghold of the marsh fritillary, one of Europe’s most threatened butterflies and the only British butterfly protected by European law.

Birch bark with lichen

Milkwort

Stitchwort

TAYNISH MILL

Taynish water mill was built around 1720 and for 150 years it was used to grind the grain produced by the farmers who lived around Loch Sween.  The ruins stand in a little clearing, beside a clear-flowing burn.

Knapdale is a landscape of low rocky hills or ‘knaps’, and at Taynish the woodlands give way to clear hilltops where you can rest for a while and drink in the glorious views.   There are about 500 acres of woodland, with areas of salt marsh and fen meadows.  In summer, the reedy fringes of Lochan Taynish are literally buzzing with the neon colours of dragonflies and damselflies.

Large Red Damselflies

Four-spotted Chaser

Common Blue Damselflies mating

You’re never far from water, and from some of the paths you can catch the sparkle of Loch Sween through the trees.   The walk past the Mill brings you out on the rocky shore, where a burn bubbles its way happily into the loch.  As you listen to the oystercatchers’ piping calls, keep an eye open for otters, which are often glimpsed here.

As for the woodland birds, in mid-June we saw – or heard – warblers, chaffinches, robins, blackbirds and thrushes;   I watched a great spotted woodpecker at its nest hole, but it became agitated at the sight of me even at a distance, and I retraced my steps to leave it in peace.

Thrift and silverweed

Ragged Robin

Thyme

Common Lizard

Visiting Taynish oak woods

Taynish is situated about one mile south of Tayvallich.  The woodlands are a National Nature Reserve, managed by Scottish Natural Heritage.  It’s open all year, and admission is free.

More information:   Scottish Natural Heritage

Photos taken 11th June 2015, © Colin & Jo Woolf

I’ve always been fascinated by the art of dowsing.  To me, it seemed to hold the answers to a lot of questions.   Was a stone circle, for example, located at a key point in the earth’s energy field?   Was a church deliberately placed on a hilltop because it was on a ley line, and did it disguise a more ancient site, one that contained a blind spring or a well?  And more curiously still, did these places actually affect the earth’s energy, simply by being there – and are they still doing it?

I’m a long-standing fan of Alfred Watkins, whose book ‘The Old Straight Track’ changed my perception of the landscape forever;  and of Guy Underwood, author of ‘The Pattern of the Past’, who taught himself the skill of dowsing and was among the first to map out the energy lines around ancient sites in great detail.   The way in which they interpreted landmarks and buildings has always resonated with me at a very deep level.

So when I finally got the chance to try some dowsing, I couldn’t say no, could I?  Besides, it was all happening just down the road!

The two-day course on 27th and 28th June was held in Torphichen, West Lothian, and it was organised by Grahame Gardner of Western Geomancy.  The activity was focused on two places:  Torphichen Preceptory, which I’ve already written about here on The Hazel Tree, and Cairnpapple Hill, where there is a Bronze Age burial chamber and traces of a Neolithic henge.

Gathered in the village hall on the Saturday morning were 13 ‘students’, a roughly equal mix of men and women.  Most of them already had some kind of dowsing experience, and I was one of only two who had none at all.   I do, however, practise reiki, and so the concept of working with energy wasn’t entirely unfamiliar.

After watching a slide show which gave us a thorough grounding in the history and uses of dowsing, we equipped ourselves with our rods of varying sizes and headed hopefully in the direction of the playing field.  Here, Grahame lost no time in flagging out the route of an underground water course and other energy lines, so that we could practise ‘finding’ them.   Across the road, a lady watched from the front window of her house.  Luckily, I couldn’t see her expression.

This is the principle:  you carry your two L-shaped rods with the long ends pointing straight out in front of you, and parallel to each other.   When you walk over an energy line, they generally respond by either crossing over, or moving outwards.  The action is slightly different for everyone – you have to work out your own positive response, and then trust it.   You don’t always need two rods – sometimes one is sufficient.   I also learned how to use a pendulum, to answer questions before and during the dowsing activity.  At times Grahame was working with an aurameter, which is designed to be even more sensitive.

If there’s one thing to bear in mind when you’re dowsing, it’s this:   don’t over-think it.  If you walk confidently and with an open mind, you’ll get a firm and consistent response.   It took a few minutes for me to get my head around this, and then I was surprised to see that my rods crossed, time and again, right on the lines but without any prompting – and even with my eyes shut.   It was a lovely, friendly group and I was helped by a couple of members who just gave me the boost of confidence I needed to stop doubting and start dowsing!

After that, we moved on to the graveyard in Torphichen, where two energy lines, a ‘male’ and a ‘female’, both enter the Preceptory and converge in the south transept.   Don’t get carried away with thinking that I found this out myself – this is what Grahame told us!   But before we could even get to them, our attention was taken by an old yew tree, apparently standing on a blind spring.   (A blind spring is a rising source of water which never reaches the surface but radiates out in different directions below ground.)  Several of the more experienced dowsers had already discovered a vortex around the tree, and even visually I could see that one of the smaller branches had doubled up on itself in an attempt to find the water.   I approached the tree with two rods, and was astonished when they both started spinning quite fast.  It was a strong and positive reaction.  For me, no more proof was needed.

Contorted branches

My rod, spinning like crazy

A wedding was being held in the Preceptory, so we had to wait until the next day before venturing inside the building.   Here, I discovered the strange and rather draining feeling of standing right on top of the blind spring in the south transept.   As we were practising crossing and re-crossing the spring, Grahame’s aurameter was quietly picking up on some other energy in that area, which he followed and found to take the form of a Maltese cross:  quite appropriate, considering that the Preceptory was once the Scottish home of the Hospitallers of St John!   To dowsers this energy is known as a ‘manifestation’, a kind of by-product left behind after centuries of visualisation by worshippers in the church;  to my mind, it is akin to a memory being held within the building.

As I’ve explained in my earlier post, the Preceptory at Torphichen has a missing choir, which is what gives it that weird truncated shape.  It’s thought that this is where the original early Christian church would have stood.  But if that’s the case, why do the energy lines converge in the south transept, which was added later?   The answer is that they have probably moved, as the focus of worship changed.   Energy lines seem to behave in the same way as a river, which is constantly shaping and re-shaping its meanders through a flood plain.

Our experience here was further enhanced by a talented guide called Liam, who brought his Irish pipes into the church and showed us just how a medieval hymn could swell and resonate in the great hollow space.   It was wonderful to hear, and it immediately added a different dimension, bringing a stone-cold building back to life and reminding me that these great churches were designed not just for the eyes but for their acoustic properties.

The rain held off for our walk up Cairnpapple Hill, an important Neolithic and early Bronze Age site whose burial cairn, once topped with a capstone, has now been covered with a concrete dome to protect it from the elements.  You can climb down a vertical metal ladder into the chamber, where a large upright stone marks the main grave.   I spent just a few minutes in here before getting the distinct impression that I should leave, which I did.

NATURAL GEOMETRY

Cairnpapple Hill lies on an important east-west axis that runs through Arthur’s Seat in Edinburgh to Traprain Law in East Lothian.   All are natural hills, but Cairnpapple and Traprain Law are almost equidistant from Arthur’s Seat.  At the spring and autumn equinox, a viewer on Arthur’s Seat would see the sun rise over Traprain Law and set over Cairnpapple Hill.

Quite widely spaced around the summit of Cairnpapple is a ring of 24 post holes, marking the position of a late Neolithic timber henge.   The whole site is surrounded by a circular ditch and a low bank with entrances to the south-east and north-east.   But, as Grahame pointed out, if it had been designed for defence, the ditch would surely have been on the outside of the bank.  So what was the ditch for?

This is where Grahame, and his buddy, Tom, pulled a new card out of their sleeves, metaphorically of course.  After walking up and down for a few minutes they diagnosed a toroid, and then they stood and looked at it in quiet admiration, like two blokes with a Harley Davidson.  Failing to see anything except grass and daisies, I demanded to be shown the toroid, and they immediately sprang back into teacher mode, so that they could help me find it for myself.   Could I see it?  Yes, kind of.  My rods certainly could.

They explained that a toroid is a ring of energy, three-dimensional and shaped like a flattish doughnut with a hole in the middle.  The lower part of it was resting in the ditch, which might have been shaped just for that purpose, and it ran all around the summit cairn.   Why?   Possibly to divert a major earth energy line which was coming in from a distant hill, so that it had less of an impact on any ceremonies that might have taken place at Cairnpapple.  So, I asked, was there any earth energy on the inside of the toroid?   Grahame felt that this was a good question, and took himself off to look for a Hartmann Grid, so that he could attempt to answer it.

Meanwhile, I rested my new-found skills for a few seconds in contemplation of the surroundings, which were beautiful.  Skylarks were pouring out their rapturous songs as they parachuted down to earth;   on all sides, the rolling green countryside of the Lothians stretched outwards before dissolving into a bluish haze;  and the ground, still damp from recent rain, seemed to bask gratefully in the warm sunshine.

Three American visitors had noticed our activity – it would have been hard not to – and were genuinely intrigued, the older gentleman even having a go himself with some rods, and being delighted with the result.   Around the other side of the summit, the young woman – his daughter, I think – approached me tentatively and asked what I was doing.   Since I was not entirely sure on a logical level, I surprised myself with the confidence of my answer.   At this point I realised that I was quite comfortable with dowsing, and in fact I wanted to learn more.  All I need to do now is practise.

I should emphasise that the course I’d chosen was the next step up from a beginner’s course, and I didn’t try to absorb everything at once;   there was a lot to take in, purely because the possibilities with dowsing are endless.   You can even dowse on a map, although for me this skill is very much a work in progress.

Grahame is an intuitive teacher, and as a former President of the British Society of Dowsers he is dedicated to passing on the principles and best practices of this ancient art.  The atmosphere was relaxed and friendly and welcoming.   I was sorry that it had to end!   My sincere thanks to Grahame, his partner, Elspeth, and to everyone else on the course for such a lovely experience.

(l to r): Cathy, Christine, Robert, Brian, Christine, Elspeth (seated), Jim, Niall, Amanda, Irene, Tom, Gill, Fiona, Jon, Grahame

Will I continue with dowsing?  Yes, is the answer.   When I booked this course, I didn’t realise just what it might open up.  Dowsing teaches you to see the earth very much as a living being;  and when you do this, everything else makes perfect sense.  It will enhance my intuition about the places that I visit, and it has given me an even deeper respect for our ancestors, whose wisdom and connection with the earth knew no boundaries.

“The earth energy system is its nervous and meridian system… the same as ours but much more complex.  It’s a cobweb of energy lines all over the surface, and under and above the earth… we are cosmically connected to everything else in the universe.”

Hamish Miller, ‘The Spirit of the Serpent‘

TRY IT FOR YOURSELF!

If you are interested enough to find out more, I’d advise you to go on a course organised by Western Geomancy or another member of the British Society of Dowsers.   You could also look at Grahame’s book for beginners, ‘Dowsing Magic‘, which is available on his website (you can buy it together with some L-rods for £30).

Grahame also offers services for people suffering from technopathic stress, caused by over-exposure to the electromagnetic radiation from computers and other devices;   and he will help to ‘heal’ your home or building if it is experiencing the effects of negative energy.

Photos copyright © Jo Woolf

Kerrera is the long, low island that sits like a natural storm barrier between Oban Bay and the Firth of Lorn.  It has a marina on its eastern side, and the CalMac ferries are constantly coming and going around its northernmost point, on their way to the outer islands.   Taking your car to Kerrera isn’t really an option, and there are no real roads there anyway – you are better exploring it on foot.

On the south coast of Kerrera stands Gylen Castle, built by the MacDougalls in 1582.   It’s on my list of places to visit!  This photo was taken from the sea, on our way to the Garvellachs a couple of years ago.

Photo copyright © Jo Woolf

Described by Historic Scotland as a “brute mass of masonry”, Dunstaffnage Castle rises up out of a solid lump of dark grey conglomerate rock, looking almost as if it has grown out of the ground itself.

It’s a solid monster of a place, built for defence and defiance.  You get the distinct impression that if you were approaching this castle in the 13th century, it wouldn’t be the kettle they’d be putting on to boil – it would be the buckets of tar.

At first glance, there doesn’t even seem to be an entrance:   it only becomes visible when you walk around to the eastern side, past the small ticket shop which stands in the grounds.  Somewhat incongruously, three dormer windows peer warily down at you over the curtain wall as you make your way over the grass.

With places like this I usually start with the earliest date and work forwards – but this time I’m going to start with those windows, partly because I feel as if I’m being watched.

From the inner courtyard, it becomes clear that they belong to a four-storey tower house, one that has been modified several times since its earliest incarnation in the 13th century.   Around 1500 the original two-storey gatehouse was replaced with a square tower, and two further floors were added about a century later.   This tower house was – and still is – the residence of the Captain of Dunstaffnage, although he does not live here permanently.   His title comes at an intriguing cost:  I’ll tell you more about this presently.

Who built Dunstaffnage Castle?

It’s likely to have been Duncan, grandson of the legendary Norse-Gaelic warrior Somerled, in around 1220 (other sources suggest that the builder was Duncan’s son, Ewen).   Duncan was the son of Dubhgall, and their descendants were known as ‘MacDougall’ or ‘McDougall’, the first Lords of Lorn.  Dunstaffnage occupied a commanding position on the west coast, with sea trading routes to all the islands and further afield to Ireland and Norway.

But there are strands of legend that go back another 600 years, to the kingdom of Dalriada and the enigmatic Stone of Destiny.   Was this powerful relic – the traditional throne of Dalriada’s kings, now confined to a darkened chamber at the heart of Edinburgh Castle – once held at Dunstaffnage?   All we have to go on are fragments of stories and our own imagination.

“It has long been said that the Stone of Destiny, used at the coronation of Scots monarchs and removed for that reason by Edward I to Westminster, originally rested here, until Kenneth mac Alpin… moved it to Scone.”    ‘Keepers of the Ancient Offices of Britain’

When you gaze up at the impossible ramparts of Dunstaffnage from the foot of its base rock, you realise that its builders had to compromise themselves slightly with the design, even if they compromised with nothing else.  The shape of the castle was governed by the shape of the outcrop upon which it was placed, meaning that the towers, which would normally have jutted out at each corner, were contained partly within the curtain walls.   I still wouldn’t have wanted to be the builder who had to explain to Duncan MacDougall that his ground plan wouldn’t be quite as extensive as he at first thought.

The Death of a King

With their strong Norse ancestry the MacDougalls owed allegiance to Hakon IV of Norway.  They snapped their fingers in the face of Alexander II of Scotland, which may not have been a good idea.  In the 13th century Norway controlled much of the coast of Scotland and Ireland, but in July 1249 Alexander reckoned that he would set the matter straight, and gathered a fleet of ships in Oban Bay, ready to attack Dunstaffnage Castle.  Having seen Oban Bay in all seasons and all weather, I would still love to have witnessed this sight, of its sheltered waters bristling with Scottish galleys.

But then disaster struck.  Alexander, it turned out, had had a dream.    In it, he was visited by not one but three saints:  St Olave, St Magnus and St Columba.  All of them advised him gently but firmly to abandon his mission and go home.

If Alexander had listened to these medieval versions of Gloria Gaynor, everything might have been fine.  But unfortunately, he didn’t.

As he strode around the island of Kerrera in Oban Bay, possibly waiting for the wind to change, Alexander was struck down with a mysterious illness.  Within hours he was dead.  His glorious army, eager and poised for combat, had to prepare instead for his funeral.  He is remembered on Kerrera in the place name of Dail Righ, ‘the King’s Field’, which leads down to Horseshoe Bay, just south of the landing for the present-day ferry.

Kerrera, with the edge of Dail Righ just visible on the far left

So the MacDougalls of Dunstaffnage lived to fight another day – not that they would have been particularly worried, with such a stronghold to protect them.   But in 1309 they met their match in the shape of Robert the Bruce.  After a battle in the Pass of Brander, at which the MacDougalls were defeated, the king laid siege to Dunstaffnage Castle and subsequently captured it, appointing as its Constable the Chief of Clan Arthur.

By 1338 the MacDougalls had regained many of their original lands, including Dunstaffnage;  but when no male heir was produced to carry on the line, the title fell to the Stewarts through marriage with a MacDougall daughter.  This was asking for trouble, and the blow came at the worst possible moment, in December 1462, at the dreamy little chapel that lies in the woods below Dunstaffnage.  (You can read the full story here on The Hazel Tree.)

In 1470 Dunstaffnage was granted by James III to Colin Campbell, 1st Earl of Argyll.  The Earl created a new title, that of Hereditary Captain of Dunstaffnage, which he bestowed upon his cousin;  and his descendants still hold that title today, in an unbroken line that stretches back over 500 years.   In my much-treasured book, ‘Keepers – the Ancient Offices of Britain’, I was interested to read that, under an archaic law, the Captain is obliged to spend at least three nights of every year in the Castle.   It’s not the most enticing prospect, but it is obviously no hardship for the present incumbent, Michael Campbell, who is photographed by a blazing log fire, barefoot and wrapped in a tartan blanket, with a wee dram in his hand to fortify him against the noisy stumblings of the castle’s “heavy-footed ghost”.

The Ell-maid of Dunstaffnage

So whose restless spirit stalks the ramparts of Dunstaffnage?  In some reports, this supernatural inhabitant takes the form of a lady dressed in green, and her appearance is said to herald news of either joy or sadness.   It would be most helpful if she could indicate which it was.   Another source says that the presence is that of a ‘gruagach’, something akin to a hobgoblin or a brownie, who used to help around the house and may be unaware that it is no longer occupied.

Dunstaffnage was occupied by government forces during the Jacobite uprising of 1745, and Flora MacDonald was imprisoned here in 1746, after she had successfully assisted Bonnie Prince Charlie to escape from Benbecula to Skye.   She may have been held in the ‘new house’ in the courtyard, built in 1725 (the remains of it are seen on the right of the photo, above).  The structure in front of it is a well, surrounded by 19th century stonework.

“Galleys were beached in Dunstaffnage Bay…. a ‘noost’ (old Norse) was a simple form of dry dock where carpenters could work on a damaged birlinn.”    Historic Scotland.

Cannon recovered from wrecked ships of the Spanish Armada were once mounted on the ramparts.

Below:  The approach to the castle, showing the ruined stables in the foreground

Above:   A short walk through the woods brings you out at this pebbly beach.  The name of Dunstaffnage is believed to come from the Gaelic word ‘dun’, meaning ‘fort’, and the Norse ‘stafr nis’, meaning ‘headland of the staff’.

Below:   The castle, seen from the path to the Chapel

Dunstaffnage is an awe-inspiring place to walk around, and its ramparts give far-reaching views on all sides.   There was quite a difference in atmosphere between this visit – in June, when all the above photos were taken – and our first, on a cold evening in November, when the castle was about to be locked up and not a soul was stirring apart from the caretaker.   I’m including an album of these images below, for contrast.   Somehow, I think it looks best in the near-twilight, against a moody sky!   Do you agree?

A final word about Alexander’s mysterious death…

I found this extract, taken from contemporary Norse chronicles, transcribed in ‘Lives of Scottish Worthies’ by Patrick Fraser Tytler:

“King Alexander, then lying in Kiararey Sound, dreamed a dream, and thought three men came unto him.  He thought one of them was in royal robes, but very stern, ruddy in countenance, something thick, and of middling size.  Another seemed of a slender make, but active, and of all men the most engaging and majestic.  The third, again, was of very great stature, but his features were distorted, and of all the rest he was the most unsightly.  They addressed their speech to the king, and enquired whether he meant to invade the Hebrides.  Alexander thought he answered, that he certainly proposed to subject the islands.  The genius of the vision bade him go back, and told him no other measure would turn to his advantage.  The king related his dream, and many advised him to return, but the king would not;  and a little time after he was seized with a disorder, and died.  The Scottish army then broke up, and they removed the king’s body to Scotland.*  The Hebridians say, that the men whom the king saw in his sleep, were Saint Olave, King of Norway;  Saint Magnus, Earl of Orkney;  and Saint Columba.”   (Norse Chronicle of the Expedition Against Scotland).

*The islands and most of the western seaboard were controlled by the Lords of the Isles, independently of the Scottish crown

Visiting Dunstaffnage Castle

Dunstaffnage Castle can be found at Dunbeg, a few miles north of Oban.  The property is maintained by Historic Scotland.   It is open all year, and admission fees apply.   See Historic Scotland’s website for detailed visitor information.

Sources:

• Historic Scotland
• RCAHMS Canmore
• Undiscovered Scotland
• Clan Campbell Society
• Clan Arthur Association
• The Island of Kerrera
• ‘Keepers:  The Ancient Offices of Britain’ by Alastair Bruce, Julian Calder and Mark Cator
• Contemporary Norse chronicles, mentioned in ‘Lives of Scottish Worthies’ by Patrick Fraser Tytler (1831)

All photos copyright © Colin & Jo Woolf

Dunstaffnage Chapel

Further reading…

• Dunstaffnage Chapel, in the woods below the castle
• Dunollie Castle, another seat of the MacDougalls of Lorn
• Ardchattan Priory on Loch Etive, founded by the MacDougalls and home of the MacDougall Cross

When we took a trip over to Ardnamurchan in May, we stopped a few miles west of Glenborrodale and walked down to a beautiful little bay called Camas nan Geall, or ‘the Bay of the Strangers’.

There’s a layby overlooking the bay, and a farm track leads to the field below.  The path runs parallel to the coast and then turns at right angles, heading straight for a fascinating group of archaeological sites:  a Neolithic chambered cairn, a standing stone and a small burial ground.   You can see the last two in the left of the photo, above.

The setting is nothing short of idyllic.   But it seems that it’s easier to read the geology of the nearby mountains – which is in itself fascinating – than it is to interpret with any accuracy the significance of the stones that were placed here, perhaps as much as 5,000 years ago.

THE CHAMBERED CAIRN

The fact that the RCAHMS considers the burial chamber to be ‘largely destroyed’ pretty much speaks for itself.   A handful of upright stones lean against each other like drunken revellers, trying to support a capstone that has now collapsed;  and a huge flat slab, one of two which are believed to have stood at the entrance to the chamber, lies on the ground just a few yards away.

The second entrance stone has fared better, and appears to be still in place.  Wide at the bottom, it tapers upwards to a rounded point and bears some very interesting markings on its lichen-mottled surface.   To me it appeared almost like a benevolent guardian, although what it once stood to protect has been prised open to the heavens and scattered beyond all recognition.

Small stones litter the ground around the cairn, but it’s impossible to make any sense of them.   Close by are the low ruins of a structure which the RCAHMS describes as a ‘township building’ of a later date, possibly a sheep fank or a byre;  it’s very likely that rubble from the cairn was used in the construction of this.

The burial chamber stands at the end of a row of sycamore trees, which may at one time have marked a field boundary.  They offer a shady processional route, but a modern one because they must be less than 100 years old.  I noticed that the last tree was bending its branches over the site, as if to shield it from public view.   One of the lower branches was curiously twisted, having changed direction to grow towards something unseen.   With hindsight, I am tempted to wonder if the cairn is sited over a blind spring.

THE STANDING STONE

About 50 yards further down, even closer to the shore, is another enigma:  a standing stone, inscribed with a cross.   According to several historical sources it seems that the stone itself may have been put there in the Bronze Age, and carved with a cross in the 6th century, or maybe slightly later.   There are, in fact two crosses on its seaward-facing surface – a much smaller one has been squashed in above a carving of an animal.   One site suggests that the animal is a dog, although the combined effects of lichen and weathering have made it pretty indistinct.   If there were ever any carvings on the landward side, they have not survived.

Local tradition says that this stone marks the resting place of an early Irish saint known as St Ciaran (also spelled Ciarain or Kieran), who died in 549 AD – hence its name in Gaelic, Cladh Chiarain, or Ciaran’s grave.  A couple of sources identify him as Ciaran mac an t-Saeir, (‘Ciaran, son of the carpenter’), who was an abbot of Clonmacnoise in County Offaly.  But I was dismayed to learn there were no fewer than 22 saints by the name of Ciaran, and after a little bit of reading I found that St Ciaran of Clonmacnoise instructed his followers to leave his bones on a hillside after his death, rather than preserving them as relics.  So, presumably there was no burial for him.  Nor was he, as far as I can tell, ever linked with Ardnamurchan in his lifetime, although these early saints were known for their wanderings;   there seem to be quite a few churches dedicated to a St Ciaran dotted around Scotland.

THE BURIAL GROUND

The cross-carved stone stands in front of a small rectangular building – or what remains of it.   The RCAHMS says that this is “the burial ground of the Campbells of Ardslignish, 18th century, with lime-mortared rubble masonry enclosing, among other fragments, two fine ogee-pedimented headstones carved with cherubs’ heads.  One stone depicts the Crucifixion… the other, dated 1737, a Campbell coat of arms flanked by reeded pilasters.”

The bay is overlooked by Beinn Hiant, which at 1,700 feet is the highest peak in Ardnamurchan;  its name translates as ‘holy mountain’, but the word ‘hiant’, derived from ‘shiant’, can also mean ‘magic’ or ‘enchanted’.   This may well have been the reason why this secluded place was first chosen as a burial site.  And Camas nan Geall, the ‘Bay of Strangers’… who were they?

The little bay faces south-west across the mouth of Loch Sunart, towards the north-east coast of Mull which has its own standing stones and an early chapel just outside Tobermory.   Maybe we shouldn’t view this site in isolation;   our ancestors were seafarers, and for all we know this could have been a familiar stopping point on a well-travelled and much-loved coastline.

Such tantalising fragments – but it’s like picking up a couple of twigs and trying to make a tree.   You just can’t do it, at least on a purely logical level.   Yet there’s still something about this place.  Flanked on three sides by hills, the green fields of Camas nan Geall feel protected, as if cradled in a cupped hand.  How many tides have come and gone since the first people were buried here?   Maybe that has something to do with it, too.  Ever-present but ever-changing, the water’s edge echoes the line between the known and the unknown, between this world and the next.

Information about visiting Ardnamurchan can be found at www.ardnamurchan.com

Sources:

• RCAHMS (Canmore) – Cladh Chiarain
• RCAHMS (Canmore) – chambered cairn
• Am Baile

Photos copyright © Jo Woolf

Kintraw standing stone

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• Dunchraigaig burial chamber, Kilmartin
• Standing stone at Kintraw
• Nether Largie stones, Kilmartin
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• Croft Moraig in Perthshire

‘Bring my niece,’ Prior Hepburn thundered.  ‘At once.’

Sister Maryoth pressed her hands together.  It grieves me greatly to tell you,’ she said, trying to suppress a smile cracking her face.  ‘But the novice Elisabeth has eloped.’

Scotland, 1513.  For many people, especially those of the court of James IV, life was about to change forever.   As soldiers began massing in the Borders, ready to depart for the ill-fated Field of Flodden, a young woman by the name of Elisabeth Hepburn was fighting for the heart of the man she loved, before it was all too late.

Marie Macpherson is the author of ‘The First Blast of the Trumpet’, an absorbing book which I’ve been reading over the last few weeks.   With the skill of a born writer and the detailed knowledge of a historian, she weaves together fact, fiction and magic to conjure a story that draws you in on first contact.

This is a story of love and war, destiny and divided loyalties.  The main characters are carried like flotsam on a rip tide, crashing together momentarily before being torn apart with a force stronger than their own will.  Women were governed by men, suppressed by men, and often manipulated by men;   childbearing was their first duty, even if it also proved to be their last.   When they ceased to be useful, there was always the convent.

Rebellious and dangerously outspoken, Marie’s heroine, Elisabeth Hepburn, has to fight for her dreams.  And at the heart of her stormy relationship with poet Davie Lindsay is a bud that will open into a strange and distorted flower.  The young John Knox, orphan and godson of Elisabeth, is swayed by impulses that he knows he must fiercely suppress.   Riveted with the hindsight of history, we watch Elisabeth persuading, pondering, pleading and hoping, and we wonder if we would have done the same.

‘John, please don’t consider us as monstrous creatures.  It is my wish that, one day, you will be our herald and trumpet to the world the worth of women.’

(Nice thought, Elisabeth, but don’t bank on it!)

Most of the characters are based on fact, and only a handful are entirely fictional.   James IV, Margaret Tudor, James V, Marie de Guise, David Beaton, George Wishart, Patrick Hamilton… all are here, tied together in a web of fate.  Although little is known about Elisabeth Hepburn, sister of the 2nd Earl of Bothwell, Marie has instinctively portrayed her as a woman of compassion, independence and courage.  Life deals her some harsh blows, but she’s never scared to speak her mind:

‘Why, then, do they closet themselves in a university with only other men and young lads?  I’ll tell you why.  Because these impotent men are afeart of women…’

The sweeping stage on which this drama takes place is the restless landscape of early 16th century Scotland, where religion holds the key to power and the iron fist of the Reformation is taking hold.  We see the castles of Tantallon, Edinburgh and Hailes vibrant with candlelight, lavishly decorated and thronging with people, and we’re taken on a heart-pounding flight down dark corridors where there’s no real escape.  Dreadful poverty jars against rich decadence, illuminated by sudden flashes of humour.

Marie draws on the vocabulary of the Scots language, weaving a rich texture into her dialogue and descriptions.  At first I wondered if I might struggle with some of the Scots words, but I found that I understood them instinctively most of the time.  The colour, the sounds and even the smells of the Stewart court are all here;   some of the scenes are difficult to read, and if you’re at all familiar with Knox’s story you’ll be expecting them.  But equally vivid is the life, hope and passion running through the characters.   You want the best for them, even though you know that, for some at least, the end won’t be pretty.  ‘Keep Tryst’ is the Hepburn motto:  belief is everything.

‘The First Blast of the Trumpet’ is published by Knox Robinson Publishing, and is also available at Amazon.co.uk and Amazon.com.   Read on for my in-depth interview with Marie Macpherson…

Why John Knox?   What was it about him that made you curious enough to dig deeper?

Why John Knox – the founding father of the Scottish Reformation?  I must admit I never set out to write about him.  The so-called pulpit-thumping misogynist is not exactly the obvious choice for the hero of a novel and so I’ve the spooky feeling he chose me.  With his 500th birthday in 2014 or 2015, perhaps he needed someone to sound the fanfare.

I was researching St Mary’s Abbey where the Treaty of Haddington was signed (betrothing Mary Queen of Scots to the Dauphin in 1548), and became fascinated by the Prioress, Elisabeth Hepburn.  Knox snuck into the the scene when I realised he’d been a notary apostolic and Catholic priest in Haddington before being ‘reformed’ by George Wishart.  After the siege of St Andrews he was imprisoned by the French in the galleys.  I became curious to know how he’d ended up there.  Knox was tantalisingly silent about his early life and so I had to make a lot of conjectures.

There seems to be so much knowledge required in order to draw a realistic picture of any era in history.   What was the most time-consuming aspect of the research?

Finding out about the minutiae of daily life!  Historians dwell on events and the broad sweep of history but don’t tell you what people ate, drank, wore, how they travelled, etc.  Thankfully there are more and more social historians delving into this such as Everyday Life in Medieval London or Everyday Life in Medieval Scotland.  In order to paint a realistic picture I have to imagine in my mind’s eye every detail of a scene – as if I were writing a screenplay with stage directions.  What are they drinking, and in what kind of vessels?  No tea or coffee in Knox’s time!  There’s always some beady eye out there ready to jump on anachronisms (‘scuse the mixed metaphor!) 

How did you choose Elisabeth Hepburn?   What was it about her that first attracted you?

I came across her when I found out that the Treaty of Haddington (1548) was not signed at the large collegiate church of St Mary’s in Haddington – as many historians mistakenly state – but the Cistercian Abbey further along the River Tyne.  Sadly nothing much remains of the abbey although the site is being excavated. Prioress Elisabeth – a member of the powerful Hepburn family – would have been in her mid-forties in 1548 and a powerful woman in her own right.

You can imagine my delight when I found out that this feisty dame had an interesting past – she’s mentioned in record as riding to the hunt with the court of James IV and later accused of ‘carnal dalliance’.  Not a pious prioress, then!

Research threw up more interesting info – that she was appointed prioress at the very young age of 24 by her ‘uncle’ John Hepburn, Prior of St Andrews – no doubt to secure the Hepburn family’s financial interests at the abbey.  The character of the reluctant nun forced into the convent appealed to me – but rather than pine away under a veil she forged a successful career, dealing with many of the major political figures of the time including Cardinal Beaton, King James IV and Marie de Guise.   She may even have been the inspiration for Sir David Lindsay’s immoral prioress who justifies her behaviour in his ‘Satire of the 3 Estates’ by moaning that she had no wish to be a nun but her family forced her into the nunnery.

You’ve probably guessed that she’s my favourite character.  In fact, the first title of the novel was ‘The Abbess of Unreason’ but the publisher didn’t think that would sell!

I loved the colour added by all the Scots words and phrases.  How many of these did you know, and how much did you have to learn?   Are there some still in use today?   (Can I go around saying ‘Haud yer wheesht?’)

Though speaking Scots was frowned upon in school we spoke it in the playground. Besides there are some things that can only be expressed in Scots – e.g. “today’s weather is dreich”  I did a course on Scottish literature at Strathclyde and I loved the Scots makars, David Lindsay, William Dunbar, Robert Henryson, etc. I mined Lindsay’s work for many of the less well-known, 16th century expressions.  Only a few readers have commented on the difficulty, but I did try to ensure the words were understandable in the context.

A secret – when the American editor asked me to take out all the Scots words, I did so reluctantly. The ms was returned, asking me to put them all back in – saying it had lost its unique magic.

PS  Have you told anyone to haud their wheesht yet?   (No.  I’m saving it up!)

How did the plot evolve?   Did you find that you were making adjustments as the characters developed?

Entrance to St Leonard’s College, St Andrews, where Knox was educated

I felt like an investigative journalist following clues, Jo – picking up leads, filling in the gaps, asking and answering myself questions.  For example, there were rumours at the time about the death of Archie Douglas’ first wife, Margaret Hepburn, who died in mysterious circumstances, leaving him free to marry the widow queen, Margaret Tudor.  Coincidence or what!  Poor Meg has been airbrushed out of history.  How did she meet her untimely end?

And who were Knox’s parents?  How did a poor orphan lad – the son of a tenant farmer whose father died at Flodden and whose mother (a Sinclair) died shortly afterwards – afford to get a university education?  Some rich patron must have financed him at St Andrews – but who?  I speculate that it might have been his liege lords, the Hepburns, especially since John Hepburn, Prior of St Andrews, founded St Leonard’s College.   It was exciting to come across coincidences and tie them all up!

Did you find yourself becoming almost too absorbed into some of the characters – feeling their emotions?  If so, did you need to disconnect?   (This is something I’ve always wondered about writing fiction).

John Knox statue, Haddington

It’s probably obvious that I have the most affinity with Elisabeth Hepburn, whose life at the abbey was clearly not one of quiet contemplation.  She overcomes personal disappointments to carve out a life in a male dominated world.  I didn’t find it difficult to empathise with her.  (What I found – and many writers say the same – is that if you try to make your characters do something for the sake of the plot and it doesn’t ring true, they rebel and you have to rewrite.)

More tricky is Knox – a love-him-or-loathe-him character.  For some he’s a pulpit-thumping bigoted misogynist – a cross between Ian Paisley and the ayatollah – for others he’s the great iconoclast, the ‘saint’ of the Reformation who challenged the power of the corrupt Roman Catholic church.  Though maligned as a misogynist, he was no worse than most men of his time in his low opinion of women.  And women loved him!  Not Mary Queen of Scots, of course – but all that will be revealed in ‘The Second Blast of the Trumpet’!

How many times did you go to places like Hailes Castle, Tantallon and St Andrews – was it essential for you to stand there and imagine the scenes?   Did you get any particular feelings coming to you, that you weren’t expecting?

I’m lucky to live in East Lothian within striking distance of so many castles.  Hailes Castle is one of my favourites, and because it’s out of the way and up a quiet country road it gets few visitors – unlike Tantallon, perched on a cliff overlooking the Firth of Forth.   Tantallon is a scary place.  I always get a dizzy feeling of vertigo there, which I used to describe Meg Hepburn’s fearful premonition in the novel.  I’m convinced the ghost that haunts Tantallon is that of tragic Meg.  St Andrews to me is an ill-fated place, smeared with the blood of the murdered Beaton and the air riven by the screams of martyrs burnt at the stake – never mind hapless golfers!

I wish I had a Time Machine to go back in history and see how my characters lived.

Tantallon Castle

With this book (and its sequels) do you hope that people will gain a better understanding of Knox and the motives that drove him?

Whether or not readers sympathise with Knox will no doubt depend on their point of view and preconceptions.  I was brought up to regard him as a bogey man but he wasn’t a monster like Stalin.  I’ve always been drawn to characters who are driven by conviction and prepared to give their lives for their ideals.  I’m curious to know what makes them tick.  Knox certainly believed he had a mission to accomplish in bringing down the corrupt RC church.  His life turned out to be much more fascinating and interesting than I was given to believe – especially his relationships with various women which I explore in ‘The Second Blast of the Trumpet’. John Knox in love!  Knox the husband, father and hen-pecked son-in-law!

My thanks to Marie for sharing this insight into what drives and inspires her as an author.    I’m looking forward to her next book!

‘THE FIRST BLAST OF THE TRUMPET’

‘The First Blast of the Trumpet‘ is the first in the ‘Knox Trilogy’, and was published in 2013 by Knox Robinson Publishing.  It is also available from Amazon, priced £12.99 in paperback, £19.99 in hardback and £9.37 on Kindle.   If you’re not familiar with the historical background of the book, there’s an excellent five-minute documentary, presented by Marie herself, here on YouTube.

Marie is now working on ‘The Second Blast of the Trumpet‘, due out on 6th October.  Follow her on Facebook and Twitter for regular updates.