Thursday, 23 December 2010

(46) Loch Maree

‘O restless heart and fevered brain,

Unquiet and unstable,
That holy well of Loch Maree
Is more than idle fable!’

– John Greenleaf Whittier, ‘The Well of Loch Maree’

Our Yamanka is Isle Maree

Our hot springs is the legendary well on Isle Maree

Our already become legend is the ‘Gairloch bard’ Uilleam Ros (William Ross) who, like Kemenosuke’s father, also died young

Our pain of one who goes, emptiness of one left behind is the ‘Tragedy of Loch Maree’ recounted in Dixon's Gairloch in North-West Ross-Shire (1886)

Our pair of wild geese, lost in clouds is the V of wild geese overhead

Our Sora, stomach ailing, is Ken's tick and midge bites, and Eck’s old trouble, reumy and glandy from his soaking at the outdoor poetry reading at H-I-C-A, where the poems turned to papier-mache in the rain

Our Basho and Sora’s names don’t have to appear in the Hotel Register as ‘Aliens’, as used to be the case


This is the last blog to write. It’s as if I’ve been putting it off.

Nick said, you don’t take anything off the island. There were larches to be felled in van Vlissingen’s time, and he could have got good money for them, says Nick, but he chose not to remove them. The Teeside fishermen at Loch Maree Hotel tell us of a friend who took home a sapling oak from the island, and had a really dreadful time of it that winter. Next trip north he returned the tree, and life regained its equilibrium.

Does the tabu include even the photographs of the poems we wrote and left there?

Setting Out

46 Loch Maree Hotel dining room
Ken Cockburn, 2010

46 hokku-label
(‘the window into the world out the’, circle poem, AF)
Ken Cockburn, 2010

46 Loch Maree, early morning
Ken Cockburn, 2010

We breakfast in the bay-window of the dining room, watching mists lift from the loch, as if we’re in a Swedish painting, lacking colour but with infinite tonal gradations. Our life here is Spartan-Victorian, scenes from one of the less-well known Buchan novels.

This was the best sea trout loch in the world, until they put the salmon farm at the mouth of the Ewe. The meds swilled all the lice off the caged fish onto the migrating trout. Now it’s been moved further out maybe things will pick up.

In the spring planning phase there’d been much research about how to float our way to Isle Maree, where to hire a boat. Turns out Nick is all things – manager, chef, stalker, guide, ex-badminton pro, tennis coach, boatsman. I’ve an old Edwardian postcard that seems to show exactly the same rowboats at anchor.

46 skyline
Alec Finlay, 2010

That dawn out my window cloud lifted from water level up until the bands of cloud revealed bands of mountain. It was so still the boat pair floated stem to stern.

calm defined by anchored boats
pointing different ways

in the
clear loch

there are
deep fish

watching the trout

the ripple unfurl its

46 Loch Maree, silver & azure
Ken Cockburn, 2010

Overhead what to the eye is grey, with patches of blue, the camera sees as silver and azure.

Nick casts off and sets the motor north. Wild mountains, gentle wooded islands. Soon we’re winding our wake between Eilean Sùbhainn and Eilean Eachainn. He points out a fragment of the rough path on the Letterewe shore, route of the old postie whose round took 3 days, the spot where a hiker slipped recently and had to be rescued. Then slows to let us see a wee bundle of floating greenery, camouflage for an SNH des-res nesting platform, constructed for black-throated divers. Their habit’s to scrape a nest on the shore, but the loch level rises fast when there’s a rain squall. They only lay a couple of eggs, and too many were being flooded out.

46 Nick
Alec Finlay, 2010

Loch Maree islands
Ken Cockburn, 2010

46 On the map
Alec Finlay, 2010


46 Sora on Loch Maree
Alec Finlay, 2010

Instead of the other islands’ rocky edges, at Isle Maree waves lap a gentle pebbly beach.

46 Offshore oaks
Ken Cockburn, 2010

46 Air root
Alec Finlay, 2010

46 The Money Tree
Alec Finlay, 2010

The island’s smooth holly, offshore trees, aerial roots, a range of species found on none of the loch’s other islands.

46 hokku-label
(‘indigenous pines before / Druids planted oak & rowan / before Maelrubha planted holly / before Vikings planted larch / before whose birch and chestnuts?’, KC)
Ken Cockburn, 2010

Nick explains this as successive religious plantings. Some even say the shingle was brought here, as it occurs nowhere else nearby. The wood is a model of ecumenical diversity, each religious culture adding its own sacred tree – Druidic oak circle, Viking line of larch pointing toward Norway – leaving the others to flourish. In the same way the Church allowed bull sacrifices to continue here, shifting the calendar from Lughnasa to Saint Maolrubh’s feast day.

46 Enclosure
Ken Cockburn, 2010

46 Viking grave-slabs
Alec Finlay, 2010

Away from the shoreline’s the tumbled enclosure, the grave-slabs said to be those of the tragic lovers, more recent gravestones, barkbooks older even than the Newton beeches. We drink today’s tea, Phoenix Honey Orchid, perfect for such a rich woodland. Sora wears a garland of oak. Nick tells us the tale of the Viking lovers.



46 audio, Nick’s Viking tale
Alec Finlay, 2010

46 Sora garlanded
Alec Finlay, 2010

46 Barkbook, ‘LFH’
Ken Cockburn, 2010

46 Barkbook, ‘MWW 1850’
Ken Cockburn, 2010

46 Barkbook, ‘PETE WARD’
Ken Cockburn, 2010

46 Barkbook, ‘MICK 1904’
Alec Finlay, 2010

And there’s the ‘money tree’ which, fragile though it’s become, still draws supplicants, like Munlochy’s clootie well. The coins and the oak-leaves each seem to have changed colour so as to camouflage the other. There’s also an old well here said to cure insanity – lughnasa, lunacy, a connection with moon worship? Or as SNH have it, a cure for ‘metal illness’– would that relate to the greeny coins? After sipping you’d to be rowed round the island and ducked three times.

46 hokku-label
(‘the coins have / camouflaged themselves / among oak leaves’, KC)

Ken Cockburn, 2010

Maybe like the swordsmiths, islands deign to guard their secrets too.

Isle Anthology

46 Eck at the Money Tree
Ken Cockburn, 2010

46 Eck & Nick
Ken Cockburn, 2010

I don’t know how long we spend on the island, but Eck seems to be poeming throughout. Here is his Loch Maree anthology.

46 hokku-label
(‘a deer path / leading in / from the edge / of the lochan’, AF)
Ken Cockburn, 2010

46 hokku-label
(‘a line / of larch / pointing / north’, AF)
Alec Finlay, 2010

46 hokku-label
(‘don’t / give / up, AF)
Alec Finlay, 2010

46 hokku-label
(‘holding / off the / rain // letting / in the / light’, AF)
Alec Finlay, 2010

46 hokku-label
(‘life is a path / of light and shade / a raindrop / about to fall’, AF)
Alec Finlay, 2010

46 hokku-label
(‘mountain / cloud / lochan’, AF)
Alec Finlay, 2010

46 hokku-label
(‘rotten rags / but coins’ / silent wishes’, AF)
Alec Finlay, 2010

46 hokku-label
Ken Cockburn, 2010

46 hokku-label
(‘the cloud threads cloud threads cloud threads’, circle poem, AF)
Ken Cockburn, 2010

46 hokku-label
(‘the lichens prove / the present air’, AF)
Ken Cockburn, 2010

46 hokku-label
(‘watching the trout rise / until the ripple / unfurls its circle // (Loch Maree)’, AF)
Alec Finlay, 2010

I haven’t brought the whisky with me, so back on shore we libate, tippling Ardbeg from the jetty into the loch water.

46 Ardbeg in Loch Maree
Ken Cockburn, 2010

46 Isle Maree libation
Alec Finlay, 2010

(AF, KC)


As a guide to the Loch and its surroundings, Nick has recommended John H. Dixon’s Gairloch in North-West Ross-Shire, first published in 1886. We read in it the tale Nick had told on the island, of the tragic Viking lovers – though ‘tragic’ strikes me as a polite way of describing a corrosive jealousy.

Rereading Dixon back in Edo I enjoy his phrase-making – ‘the elastic conscience of the age’, ‘aeriel chaos’, ‘streams debouch into it’ – and from his prose extract these found poems.

The Money Tree

an oak tree
studded with nails
hundreds of nails
a faded ribbon
still fastened to one

we also found
two bone buttons
and two buckles
nailed to the tree

pennies and halfpennies
driven edgeways
into the wood

over many the bark
is closing, over many
it has already closed

(Part I, Ch.11)

Isle Maree

everywhere on
the island grows

the sacred holly
loaded with fruit
the oak
the larch
the alder
the beech
the mountain-ash
the sycamore
the willow
the dog-rose
the juniper
the honeysuckle
the heather

all abound and form
a most charming grove

(Part I, Ch.11)


'Every superstition,’ says Archbishop Whately, in order to be rightly understood, should be read backward.'

Cuthbert St
to oblation and alms
an as offered be to
cords with bound
church the to dragged was
ferocity and strength
its for parish the
of marvel the bull a

(Part II, Ch.12)

Maelrubha in Applecross

what god or demon or genuis loci did before
the saint took upon himself, tolerating
as much of the old ceremony
as the elastic conscience
of the age per-

(Part II, Ch.12)

Of What May Be Called Cloudscapes

These broken clouds
are most usually seen
in mountain lands;

they are quite different
from the wreaths of mist
previously spoken of.

The numerous summits
attract and then break up
the cloud masses

into rough and fleecy shapes,
some thick enough
to obstruct the light,

others edged by silvery gleams,
and others again brilliant
with the sun shining through them,—

the whole exhibiting
wonderful examples
of aerial chaos.

(Part III, Ch.2)

A Sailing-tour of Loch Maree

from the sweetheart’s stepping-stones
via the dark forest
and the mare’s height
to the cave of the king’s son

from the minister’s stone
via the stone of tribute
and the cave of tribute
to the witch’s point

from the white horse
via the bull rock
and the cave of gold
to the English graveyard

from the giant’s point
via the everlasting island
and the black island of the nose
to the rough island

from the planted island
via the high point of breathing
and the black rock
to the cave for your choice

(Part IV, Ch.13)

The phrases above are Dixon’s English translations of Gaelic place-names.


John H. Dixon, Gairloch in North-West Ross-Shire (1886)

Caroline Tisdall has achieved recognition for her organic gardens, her conservation work in Africa and her many books and films, which include the direction of Joseph Beuys and The Last Post Run for BBC2 and Channel 4 respectively. She has published 7 books on Joseph Beuys and worked with him to organise many of his major exhibitions. Witches' Point: Time in a Landscape is a collection of shared poems from Loch Ewe.




Each stone shifting
Contributes to the whole
And all is in a state of flux.
An undefined relationship,
Uncharted but enduring,
An enviable state.



Time makes molehills out of mountains,
Grinds hills to sand,
Pain to dust.

Not far from here are cliffs
Humped low with age
And time too vast for us to scan:
Six hundred and fifty million –
- Years – that is, of wind and waves
Lapping, dragging, rounding,
Eroding to perfection
And then the end of form.

We measure time in timid months
Dreading the loss of love
And life.

Extract from Caroline Tisdall and Paul van Vlissingen, Witches' Point (Richard DeMarco Gallery: Edinburgh, 1987)

Wednesday, 15 December 2010

(42) Inverianvie

'Walk on, walk on, walk on, I walk on – I'm gonna keep on walkin', till I find my way back home – Well, you might gets worried, when your shoes get bend – You don't know where you goin', but you do know where you been – I see so many people happy, I can't get used to happiness – Maybe it is true, happiness is not for me, I guess – Well, the world is too high, highways are too long'

– Sonny Terry & Brownie McGhee, ‘Walk On’

42 Inverianvie River
Alec Finlay, 2010

Our Kurobe is Inverianvie

The Inerianvie’s known for its rapids and we hiked past no end of white water rills and pools, falls and gushing torrents by a bay called Camus Gaineamhaich. Though not summer and feeling, in fact, of early fall pervasive, stands of Old Caledonian Forest in the Letterewe Preserve at Innis Mhic Thomais read about in Caroline Tisdall’s essays suggested a visit and looking at the OS we figured walk up the Inverianvie through Gleann Garbh and see how close we can get to Loch an Fhamhair and the falls at Loch a’ Mhaidadh Beag, even though we got no further than the fords beyond the Eas Dubh a’ Ghinne Ghairbh falls, we could look back at Gruinard and the handful of block-caravans at Laide along the coast; the path farther up the glen enough to scare us off, so back we headed to Loch Ewe.

early rice fragrance

making its way to the right

into the "Rough Sea"

peatbog reek
seeping in the right boot

aye, right in

that boggy-boot

Basho, Oku no hosomichi, July 14 (September 4) 1689, Kurobe River

Alec Finlay, Ken Cockburn, the road north, September 20, 2010, Inverianvie River


As Basho and Sora wade across the Kurobe known for its forty-eight rapids they take a notion to visit Tako to see the autumn-blooming waves of wisteria, a viewing known to them from an eight-century poem. But it turns out to be too far, and inhospitable. We, having planned for so long to take in Inverewe Gardens, created a century ago by Osgood MacKenzie, drove on around the bay, past First Coast and Second Coast, to the Inverianvie River, which flows out of Loch a Mhadaidh Mor. Parking by Gruinard Bay we blare out the one CD that’s not been listened to this trip, a performance by Ceoltóirí Chualann & Seán Ó Sé.

42 White water, Inverianvie River

Ken Cockburn, 2010

Walking inland, south-east, away from the sea,
we’ve found our rapids, so fiercely plentiful we lose count. Sora’s Eck takes the rising path rapido style, while Basho’s Ken has the steady pace of a man whose legs are anticipating tomorrow’s Slioch. Fitting to have these falls within the one burn spating down the brown glen; us following up the smaller ‘burn’ of the track besides. On such treacherous peaty paths your boots pull you on, eyes down so’s each step’s an instant measure of energy used in the surest way, picking a straight line of angles between unsorted stones, round clitched grey boulders, and over, or – if your pace is off – in the tarry puddles.

42 Rapids

Alec Finlay, 2010

42 Basho by rapids
Alec Finlay, 2010

42 Wish, birch

Alec Finlay, 2010

42 Lichen patches
Alec Finlay, 2010

Walk to the Waterfall

42 Waterfall

Ken Cockburn, 2010

Shining white in the mist in a clitter of downy birch, the waterfall spurred us on. A barrier to the sea trout the bay is famous for. Here I am, here I am, sing the little lochans we were dreaming of reaching, peaks not being our thing then.

42 hokku-label
(‘the sound / of a water- / fall // within sight / of the sea’, AF)
Alec Finlay, 2010

the sound
of a water-


within sight

of the sea

listing to the river

looking at the waves

Basho's Ascent

Alec Finlay, 2010

42 Basho, riverside
Alec Finlay, 2010

The glen narrows and the path steepens, making its way as best it can between rock-walls and the rushing white water below. Careful now. Wedging boots and stretching over a skid of greasy strata. This is not the time or place for a spill. Basho’s not carrying Sora, nor Sora Basho.

Our reward: the glen opens its lungs into a stretch of moorland glen, beyond which lie the distant mountains into which walkers merge and emerge from.

Upstream the river’s slower, quieter, hasn’t yet achieved that whiteness, can’t suspect the conflicts to come.

42 hokku-label
('the river / sees everything / in black and white', KC)
Ken Cockburn, 2010

The Two

‘… years coming or going wanderers too. Drifting life away on a boat or meeting age leading a horse by the mouth, each day is a journey and the journey itself home.’

– Basho, Oku-no-hosomichi

42 Youth & Age
Alec Finlay, 2010

In this glen we’ve come to the end of the day’s journey. Two walkers pass, down from the hills. I won’t forget them. Like us there’s a wee gap between them. Youth with his yellow wrapped pack, grim-paced with fatigue, striding the path to get it done; Age in a khaki cap – the father? – a ways behind winding down slowly from having seeing it all before, done up and down to here, back there and more, so much more. No hello until Eck asks

.....“Come far?”
.....“Four days.”

Four days, in there – we think back on the dreichness and the wind and the mist there’d been, which we’d seen from the warmth of the hotel, through generous windows, and on our wee excursions. Four days, up there, where this path goes on and wears itself out – where would that take you to? A bivvy on Beinn Dearg Bheag or An Teallach? Or by one of the lochs cupped in these peaks, Fada or the Fionn, the white loch with the chance of a huge wild brownie, fishing from boats the Letterewe ghillies dragged up here by hand.

Recommended flies

Black Zulu
Peter Ross
Connemara Black

Ke-He Invicta
(Soldier Palmer
works well on the bob
in summer)

But there was no sign of a rod on the hikers that we can see.

How I wanted to ask what they’d seen up there in the hills. Back down at the road they were stowing their gear in the car, and I exchanged hi’s, but was too shy to ask more. I went on down to the beach to write a poem in the sand about the waterfall, where the mouth of the river exhales into the sea. When I came back up the path they were sorting the tent, closing the flaps up, putting their boots to dry. I asked if they needed a lift somewhere, to get some warm grub, but they said they had a car of their own. Not knowing is fine too, an equivalent of Basho’s here I wrote no poem.

42 sand poem
(‘just out of sight of the sea – a waterfall’, AF)

Alec Finlay, 2010

(AF, w/ KC)

Speaking from where we get to

‘Basho was exhausted by heat and fatigue. Nevertheless, he recited the poem wase no ka ya as an expression of his courage and determination. He imagines himself making his way through endless fields and looking forward to the road ahead.’

– Oku-no-hosomichi Commentary

Where the little glen opens out the river calms down: as if, not wanting to be outdone, it’s saving its flourishes until the sea’s in sight.
The distance we got as far as, so much shorter than the hikers', but still a length of its own.

It’s true, my way was far to get just here, into this little enclosed glen where the river lay flat among peaty rushes. Fords on the map, a crossing in other weathers. My last gesture to the distances, a little leap to a rock in the stream, from where I libated the Inverianvie with a few drops of Old Pulteney, and Ken sipped his swig from the bank.

42 Libating Inverianie

Ken Cockburn, 2010

The memory of that glen reminds me of reading Tom Lubbock’s (1957 - 2011) recent essay, clearly and courageously discussing his own gradual loss of language, as a tumour imposes itself into his brain. ‘You don't know where you goin', but you do know where you been.’ To see his keen intelligence frayed, yet retaining such lucidity. A few lines, each thought, taking how many hours, days even? That effort shows, but still, even fallen away from the consecutive step-by-step of reasoned thinking that was Tom’s mode, par excellence, even pared, sifted and eroded to these few poetic fragments, I hear the same voice, entire, in his writing. I hear Tom and I picture that bare enclosed glen, a gentle pot among cloudy pinnacles.

“I am surprised”

“This is curious”

“It is still, even now, interesting;”

“Poetry is still beautiful, taking me with it.”

Ground, river and sea”

“Eugene – his toys, his farm, his cars, his fishing game.”

“Getting quiet.”

“Names are going.”

“But all the same it’s amazing what Marion can do, how it can still happen.”

“Quiet but still something.”

“My body. My tree”

“After that it becomes simply the world”

This is Tom’s world, still and all; beyond a place he imagined it, in a place where words are shadowed. Thought is not only skill and method. Attention is a means of reach, in ways that can carry us beyond accomplishment.

And I was there, in Inverianvie glen, that bare heathery waste pared of names. Facing a world I cannot reach, but which I can place my wishes towards. ‘Well, the world is too high, highways are too long…

Even the little hidden lochan eluded me – was it around the next bend, over the next rise? I can’t know for sure – but for sure that day it or I was too far gone. So, when I saw that stretch of smooth river beyond the rapids, I let it be what it was, leaving the lochs for others.

Flopping down on my waterproofs, exhausted, I wound a few words around the fine stalks of the bog grasses, as I’d learned to, making something that held, up here where there were no fence posts or trees to tie our labels to. Sipped the Jun Shan Golden Needle, sloppy in the thermos. For all the riverside’s wet green, brambles haven’t forgotten autumn – leaves rusting, stems purpling, flourish of berries wershpale and sweetdark.

42 hokku-label
(‘in the glen below / Carn an Lochain Dubh // we know we won’t get to / Loch a Mhadaidh Mor’, AF)

Ken Cockburn, 2010

42 hokku-label
(‘bend after bend / skyline upon skyline // we came so far / no further’, AF)

Ken Cockburn, 2010



42 hokku-label
(‘feeling / of fall / pervasive’, KC, after Basho)
Ken Cockburn, 2010

We wind our way into Gairloch as the sky darkens, no more lingering evening light these post-equinoctial days. Find somewhere to eat, then drive back to the hotel in deep and winding darkness, too tired to talk. The A832 runs after the Kerry River like a little brother aping an older sibling. After ‘Walk on’, Jimmy Read’s ‘Little Rain’ begins to fall, and he times the line ‘I would like to love ya, baby / underneath the shining moon’ for us turning a corner and, there she is, overhead.



Tom Lubbock's
essay is on the Guardian website; he died in January 2011, his obituary can be read here

Sonny Terry & Brownie McGhee in performance

the white loch: a guide to fishing the loch

nverianvie River: a fisherman's journey along the river