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The
Onset of Winter in Pennygown, 1760
All Hallow’s
Eve or by its old name Samhain has passed and St. Martin’s day is upon us. It’s windy today as I write so it looks like we’ll
get heavy winds all winter. Rents from the tenants and other debts are due on this day. Another practice on this day is to
put on the heavy coarse woolen shirts that will keep us warm all winter.
With regard to All
Hallow’s Eve, nothing particularly upsetting occurred. This was not always the case. Old Calum remembers when the village
stayed up at the All Hallow’s Eve bonfires and not only were unusual sounds to be heard but sights as well. “It
is a fearsome time a’ year,” Bridhe reminds us. “What you hear are the sounds of our ancestors. The veil
between this world and the “otherworld” is the thinnest now. The dead, they walk among us on this day.”
The bonfires are
brightest on our own Beann Dubhmoor. All the lads of Pennygown and neighboring Krionach and St. Fennich gather everything
they can find to burn in anticipation of that last glimmer of daylight that means that Samhain has arrived. This neid fire
is then ignited in the customary way by means of friction of dry wood creating enough heat to ignite a fire. It’s then
maintained in a crafty manner by two old hands--Alastair and Jeb. A curious sight is to witness is the farmers bringing their
cows to the site in order to sain them with fire, ammonia, water, and salt. This serves to protect the cattle from evil forces
and some say that it increases fertility in the stock. Meanwhile, we all watch this and other customs such as the young people
dancing and leaping about the fire. Eventually they run off with torches with which they circle the fields and eventually
light fires in their own hearths. All of this is for good luck for some or fertility to others.
In the village old
dames burn rowan tree branches to keep the witches at bay, they assert. On a lighter note, on All Hallows Eve, young maids
pull kailstocks from their gardens and place them under their pillows. During the night, they’ll dream of their future
husbands. Lads steal eggs and crack them over a basin. Their future wives will be revealed in the pattern the egg whites take.
Old superstitions linger, I was told that the fairies hate blackberries. It’s good to keep some on hand.
Presently, work
outdoors must be completed. Winter is around the corner. On the mainland and close-in islands, I recall lads this time of
year asking at the alehouses if they could glimpse some of the cattle thereabouts. Drovers, they were called. They’d
pay a handsome price for the hardiest and drive them to markets in the south. Here in Pennygown, farm animals must be thinned
in number although few can keep heads of cattle. Most are slaughtered and the meat salted. There is no one in the village
that is accustomed to meat, however, thus villagers don’t eat it. In the dead of winter, some take to bleeding the cows
that they’ve kept alive and blood pudding is made from it. This sustains a number of villagers through the lean months.
But for the moment we have oatmeal, cheese, butter and still have garden stuff
Speaking of work,
threshing has been completed while we had the advantage of strong winds and moderately warm days. Most of the corn keeps better
unthreshed, however.
Blind Rory recently
stopped me on my way to the alehouse (the Fox and Hen) to tell me that he was bringing someone to look at the underground
chambers he discovered. He described the person as a Druid and the only thing that came to my mind was a wizard of sorts making
pronouncements at human sacrifices. When the Druid arrived, I could see that instead of wearing a gaudy multicolored robe
and holding a wand, he was a wizened old man, stooped by advancing years and unable to walk more than a step or two. He carried
a heavy sack which must have contained all of his earthly belongings. Blind Rory told me that in the old days, they would
buy a kindling called a holy fire from a Druid. Such kindling could be used to light the neid fire on All Hallowsday
Upon encountering
me, the Druid grabbed me by the shoulders, looked into my eyes and declared me to be trustworthy. Then he looked up into the
sky and made a note of a cloud formation. Calling out “clundeter!” he took a stick and etched a shape resembling
a shellfish on the earth before us. He then fell to the ground putting his ear atop the form he’d etched as if listening
for a sound coming up from below. Springing up onto his feet he gestured and instructed us to find the underground cavern
that Rory had found. Once there the Druid entered the cave, put down his sack, and found a place to lie down. Making himself
as comfortable as conditions would allow, he proceeded to fall asleep. Hours later, Rory and I could wait no longer for him
to emerge and returned to our homes.
That’s it. More news from Pennygown soon.
PENNYGOWN,
HARVEST 1760
Today, Eimod’s
son Muirdoch and other young people returned from the shielings with the cattle, fattened by having grazed on the green grass
of the hills. I believe Muirdoch’s a head taller than when he left at Beltane. There are no pregnancies this year, but
then it might be too early to tell. Joccles’ wife Peigi greeted the youth with food she gleaned from her store of greens
that she keeps hidden somewhere. Molly made sure the lads and lasses consumed her famous bannochs ’til they like to
burst and there was a wee bit of cheese left over from Beltane to go with them. Muirdoch’s return along with the others
means that they’ll be available to help with the harvest. Plus the return of the cattle back to their summer pasturage
assures that there’ll be cows to sell off. This benefits all of us. There’ll be food on the table and provisions
over the winter this year, including potatoes lifted from beds that the farmers such as Eimod have dug. Maybe that’ll
call for another supper to be held in Anna Morrison’s big house.
Old Calum remembers
when the young lads of the village were called to the side of the Jacobites in battle and many never returned. As a result,
there were few able hands to harvest the barley and the corn. This was in addition to the disaster at sea, when two fishing
boats capsized in a storm. All Calum’s sons were lost. The village took an awful blow and many were reduced to starvation
over the winter for lack of food.
Harvest is a grueling
time, when all hands must stoop for hours to cut the oats and bind them into
bundles. Barley
is pulled up by the roots. Hay is cut even to the extent of gleaning the hay amidst the machair grasses that line the island.
Reaping is a lot of work, but at the end of it all, food and ale will be eagerly consumed by the residents of the village.
Grey-beardie, the three gallon jug of whisky will magically show up - we hope.
Fishermen, too, will share in the bounty. Who will be the first farmer who will bring in his share of the harvest? Who’ll
be the last to bring in the last sheaf of corn, for all the farmers compete and it’s a disgrace to be last. What lassie
will craft the corn dolly from the last sheaf. Annie fashioned the dolly last
year but not without a little disagreement with Mahreen, my landlady. The dolly is displayed proudly on the door of Annie’s
small but and ben.
I see that Thomas Mackenzie, the laird’s ground officer has been courting Tibbie MacDonald. The two
ride over to the Bay of Tathe and sit for hours watching the
waves dash against the shore. This in itself is not newsworthy except that Fergus, son of Seamus and Marie Morrison is also
interested in Tibbie. The concern here is that Fergus has the features of a changeling and others are put off by his looks.
The gossip I heard was that Marie was not churched promptly after the wee bairn was born, and it was snatched by fairies leaving
Fergus in its place. Yes, the people of Pennygown still believe in fairies. It’s said that the fairies make a powerful
liquor right about now from grain they feel they’re entitled to.
I must stop. I agreed
to help my host Eimod with the thatching of the roof and with the repair of some dykes. They didn’t feel it was right
to ask me to help haul away (to be used on the fields in the spring) the muck from the barnyard. Thank the good lord.
This, then, is Pennygown,
blessed by fertile soil, proximity to the sea, a moderate climate, people banded together into a village and because of changing
times, able to work their own plot of land. Villagers are still tenants but our new tacksman, Rovie MacLeod and the laird’s
ground officer, Thomas Mackenzie, the same Thomas who’s courting Tibbie, give us a lot of say over the products of our
work.
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Pennygown, Summer
1760
There is as always the necessity of putting food on the table, not only for
the bairn, but the laborers who work the fields. Weeding is the backbreaking chore at present for men and the women who must
also attend to the dairy and household chores. But then, young sprouts are beginning to appear. I long for the oats that will come in soon. Still, I can scrape up enough oat meal for my breakfast. Porridge
is the only way to start the day.
These are not the desperate times our relatives faced although they could have
enjoyed a better climate. Things seem to have turned colder. Winters are harsher. Dig more peat, Jud says. This is summer,
though, and soon it’ll be harvest time and the jollity that comes with it.
I see from my window the cows grazing in the nearby pasture, so I’m assured
we can have milk and butter. The MacLeods are truly blessed. There are shell fish from the bay, and there’s the early
harvest of bere from which the wives of the village make a bread of sorts. Or they may make coarse bread of barley flour.
Fish are possible to obtain, but very occasionally. Herring, ling or cod can be gotten off the boats docked at the harbor
in exchange for some bread, milk, or whisky. This has to be done secretively. The penalty for being caught is severe. All
fish must go to markets elsewhere.
We had a visitor a fortnight ago in the person of a tinker and storyteller.
He had lots of gossip and in exchange, we supplied him with some gossip. All this took place around Shearer Morrisons’
large hearth. What we had to say was most interesting to the traveler. For example, a blush on the skin that we see in some
of the lasses may be caused by skinlark due to eating berries of the ghostflower bush according to Marie Ross. She reported
that it can be cured by rubbing the red areas with the unwashed wool of a newly shorn sheep. The traveler was appreciative
of the advice and shared with us the fact that a pox in other isles he’s been on has sickened some so beware. Never,
never eat the root of the prickly pepperplant.
I feel duty bound to reveal Blind
Rory’s latest finds. He has now uncovered some boulders that were moved at one time to create a dyke, but they obviously
had served another function. The stones could have formed a circle around an underground tomb according to Rory. Auld Bridhe
says that such plots of earth are sacred and shouldn’t be tampered with. She contends that anyone digging in sacred
ground will bring upon himself a curse. Rachel, her sister, was cursed she said and went around the village ever after swooning
and carrying a dead black rooster she said had been placed in the ground to protect her household. No longer buried, it no
longer protects. Auld Clootie and his horde of devils residing in the dark recesses of this island are on alert, claims Bridhe.
Aben MacDusey, the tacksman for the lands immediately north of Pennygown has deposited a young lad at the door of Andrew Mackenzie and his guidwife to be fostered until the lad reaches the age when
he can be educated properly. He hales from somewhere in the east, probably Edinburgh. Aben reports that the lad refuses to learn Gaelic
and is a nasty sort. The other children are bent on making sport of him. This will not set well with the laird.
I must close. I can see the fires of midsummer on the horizon.
This means that there is the flax in the garden needing my care. Working at soaking and beating the fibrous plant as a stage
in producing good linen is all I can do to compensate my kind landlords for my stay.
I even have some experience combing the fibers in preparation for spinning. All of this requires some hard work. The
MacLeods are counting on my handiwork. I’ve promised that the linen will buy them a fine cupboard for their dinner ware
some day. The one they have is terribly old.
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PENNYGOWN,
MAY 1760
This is the second
entry in my diary for the Pennygown we know of today. We are well into the period known as Beltane, the second of the seasonal
festivals, the other being Samhain. It is spring and the farmers are already pulling up the poor barley that comes early and
finds itself in bere bannocks and bere porridge that substitutes in the diet for oats. Oats will come along soon. The potato is what we all look forward to as farmers try to cultivate the growing of the crop here on the
island.
For the most part,
however, people are celebrating this Beltane period with festivities that begin on the eve of the 1st of May. At
a particular moment when a great deal of light has been lost, a bonfire of immense proportions is set afire by first creating
the need fire worked into a flame usually by Cuss Calum, Farmer Jock, and some
others from Krionach Village. This flame is introduced to the considerable collection of branches and tree limbs that has
been accumulating for weeks in preparation for the event.
On this occasion
which just passed, I took part in the singing and dancing around the fire. Then hours later at daybreak, all of us who were
able climbed Beann Balamnan to watch for the first glimmer of sunlight. In days gone by, people attributed that gleam of sunlight
to the god Michael. The last burning embers of the fire were divided and the next day, cattle were driven between the divided
fires. This is a blessing of sorts to assure health and fertility to the cows.
Molly, a superb
baker, insisted on choosing the King of the May by the time-honored method of presenting unmarried lads of the village with
bannocks she bakes composed of many knobs. This year was no exception.
The knob on one
of Molly’s bannocks is by custom--black. The lads, eyes covered, made a selection. In this instance, Allan, Alastair’s
oldest son, selected the black knob and thus became the King of the May. Later, he was persuaded to leap over the fire--perhaps
to re-enact a sacrifice of the king--an ancient custom. Allan was a magnificent King as he chose Morag to be his queen. The
two reigned over the May festivities for days to come.
In the morning of
May Day, I witnessed a surprising number of young maidens emerging from their humble houses in order to wash their faces with
May dew. Following this all the youths of the village frolicked together in on the hillside, flirting unabashedly. Later there
was a greeting of the May with a parade, then dancing around the May pole, Displays of flowers adorned every door in the village.
Even the cattle were bedecked with flowers and ribbons in the parade. I noticed Bridhe standing by her door gesturing to the
paraders that they should watch for the evil that’s rife during the gloaming later on. Shaking her head vigorously and
wagging her finger, the wise ones of the village knew what she was referring to.
Young maidens are
alert to the young lads that may have had their eyes on them. What all of the young people look forward to, however, is leading
the cattle up onto the sheilings where the hillsides are rich with new grass. The young people will remain up there for the
entire summer, and for them it’s a period of freedom and fun as they devote idle time to singing, playing their pipes,
whistles, and fiddles, and telling tales around the bonfire at night.
Blind Rory is still
carryin’ on about the stones at Beagmonthe bearing some inscriptions. He’s insisting that we dig up the ground
around the stones. “We’re going to have to remove them ‘cause they might be cursed,” he contends.
“Father Mack should take a look.” Father Mack has been dead for several decades, I should add. Rory may not be
able to see what we see but senses some things we should take a closer look at. He can also warn us of the visits of Ole Crooked
Grey who loves to steal into gardens and scare the wee ones. It is said that years ago he carried off Isabel McLeod who’d
fallen in love with him. She was never seen again. So they say.
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APRIL 1760
After many years of wandering, observing village life elsewhere, listening to people along the way, sleeping and breaking
bread in their humble houses, and keeping careful note of their customs, I'm back here in Pennygown. Let me say that I slept
in many a farmstead, hovel and even numerous monasteries in my travels, so I have a lot to tell you.
As I traveled, I collected observations and some stories which I'm eager to tell if you'll supply the hearth and a blazing
fire. You'll also be interested in my observations regarding small things like tools and plenishings suitable for the kitchen.
Hear ye hear ye! Nails for your houses, I'm willing to give out freely. I carried them in my pack. Now I look about Pennygown,
and I'm amazed at the changes. What more could we have asked for than this sturdy land the sea has coughed up thereby restoring
what has become the new village of Pennygown?
I wish to report village news just as always. Of course, we're all older. I hear reports that Old Hamish has passed as
have Berla, Ewan MacLeod the elder and tragically his son, and even Seth the farmer and his wife Biddie have been taken. Perhaps
many more are gone as I will no doubt find out. In kirktown Krionach where many had moved after the great storm and many still
live, Tibbie the brewster has recently passed. Perhaps she should have been warned not to drink her own ale. Forgive me for
such a cruel thing to say. Regarding deaths, I don't know the state of the fishing village of Lollach yet.
Of note as I talk to the folk of Pennygown, tacksman Rovie MacLeod is strictly enforcing an order by the laird that all
farms must be mucked and fenced (with dykes) in ways that the new agriculture board has set forth. As far as I can tell, this
order is in force for the old farmers and the new. Alexander MacKenzie has passed so his heirs now make these demands on the
tenants and Rovie has no choice but to make sure they're followed. At no time in my memory has so much order been evident
in how we maintain our fields. I understand no new tacks will be available in Pennygown or Krionach. Incidentally, I see that
the land is being worked and even the poorest tenants are plowing the arable land with their foot plows. Not eagerly will
I describe plows being used elsewhere that make their foot plows so terribly primitive. To the west, oxen are pulling the
plow and parting the earth in neat tidy run rigs. This will come to Pennygown some day.
The first person I was to come upon when I returned to the village was blind Rory. He told me that where he was sitting
he could feel the tender leaves of nettles growing between the rocks at his side. He said this means that this small plot
of ground had been altered by humans, and it might be the remains of the church that had stood in Pennygown many years ago.
I will find this out as soon as I am able. By the way, Rory has an uncanny sense of things that are below the ground.
I must go now. I am staying with Sibeal, Ewan's widow. In return I agreed to rework her garden by planting some kail. She
also wants me to plant flax seed. "Will you be willing to supervise the cottars working Ewan's field," she asked me earlier
in the day. I will think about this. Thankfully, Sibeal will still take care of the dairy chores.
So scribes Seamus the Seannachie
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