21 September 1989This is another tale of origins and inspiration: one even more momentous to me than
yesterday's.
Ring of Bright Water by
Gavin Maxwell was the first book I read after finishing college. An acknowledged literary masterpiece, it utterly captivated me, and my resultant newfound enthrallment with otters set me on a path of destiny that I followed with an almost religious zeal for the next four decades. In retrospect, it's clear to me that no one – not even my own parents – had a greater overall influence on my life than Gavin Maxwell.
Maxwell and his otter Mijbil in 1956. Photo by James Watt, courtesy Gavin Maxwell Enterprises and The Independent.An attentive reader will recall that I've
posted previously about this day's events, and the introduction I wrote here twelve years ago is just as apt now as it was then.
In 1989, I had the opportunity to travel in Europe, so I planned my itinerary such that I would be able to visit Maxwell's Camusfeàrna in Scotland on my 35th birthday. As otters are the center of my world, it seemed appropriate to make a pilgrimage to this Mecca of otterdom at the precise midpoint of my "three score and ten" lifespan...
Indeed, it seemed to me that everything that happened to me since I first read Maxwell's books had led me inexorably to this place at this time. Fresh from my
triumph at the otter colloquium, I was at the apex of my career, and thus it was the perfect moment for me to finally come to this fabled cove and pay my respects to the man and the otters whose inspiration had made it all possible.
Camusfeàrna in the mid-1950s. Photo by Robin McEwen, from Ring of Bright Water by Gavin Maxwell, Longmans, 1960.
My special day began with a pre-dawn search for otters over Loch Duich, which, although fruitless for a sighting, was rewarded with this auspicious glowing pastel sunrise over the Five Sisters of Kintail.
View from Duich House, Letterfearn, Scotland, 21 September 1989. Photo ©J Scott Shannon.Everything I was to do today would be following in Gavin Maxwell's footsteps, or in this first instance, in his car's tyre tracks. A little after 1100, I set out for Maxwell's former homesite at Sandaig, taking the same route he must have driven hundreds of times: the "Old Military Road" from Glenshiel over Mam Ratagan and down through the valley of the Glenmore River.
As I drove the mostly single track, I noted considerable earthmoving operations underway in the higher elevations. It appeared to me that they were in the process of straightening or bypassing some of the curvier stretches. Seeing this, I considered my timing fortunate, for likely soon, the road's original 18th century trace over the pass would be no more. I've recently viewed a couple of
videos showing the Old Military Road today, and sure enough, much widening is present now that was not there during my visit, and one set of memorably narrow and acute bends over the crest of Mam Ratagan no longer exists at all. Even looking on Google Earth, this stretch is nowhere to be seen. All sign of that portion of the old Georgian roadway has been obliterated by forestry plantings.
View from the top of the Old Military Road, looking toward Glenelg. Thirty years later, the little pines in the foreground have grown up to completely obscure the view today. Photo ©J Scott Shannon.Further on, at Glenelg, I stopped for supplies at a small store at the south end of the village. Upon entering, I cheerfully told the proprietress about my intention to visit "Major Maxwell's" at Sandaig. The older woman's expression turned from a smile to a frown in the blink of an eye, and the look she gave me... well, as they say, if looks could kill, I would have dropped to the ground dead on the spot.
The old store at Glenelg. Click here to go to Google Maps.I wondered what I might have done to upset her, then it occurred to me that a local woman her age probably had known Maxwell personally, and that her change in mood might suggest a lingering enmity for the man. But the Major had been dead for 20 years now, so it surprised me to see this level of ill will apparently directed toward him, and in turn towards me; the latter seeming particularly out of place, considering people just like myself had doubtless contributed not a small amount of money to the local economy with our journeys here over the past two decades.
Not wanting to trouble her further, though, I kept mostly mum as I completed my shopping. I actually bought a small bottle of whisky for the Major, but decided the gesture would only result in the spilling of perfectly good Scotch; the waste of which I concluded Gavin would not approve. Before departing the store, however, I asked the lady about how best to get down to Sandaig. I had no idea; I had only a road map, which would not help me once I was off the beaten track. The woman replied that I should keep my eye out for a line of power poles, and those would lead to a path. Duly noted.
Once past Eilanreach, I kept glancing down in the direction of the coast, looking for the Sandaig Islands. Not seeing anything even remotely suggestive of my destination, however, and perhaps distracted by my search, I ended up passing completely by the site of Camusfeàrna at first, not stopping until I was well past and spotting the Sandaigs in my rear-view mirror. Returning, I then noticed the bridge over the burn and the power poles that the woman at the store had mentioned. I parked by a rusty old quonset hut on the west side of the road at just past noon.
Top of the track down to Camusfeàrna. The view today is much changed since the logging of the forestry plantation. Photo ©J Scott Shannon.Sure enough, the power lines pointed straight toward the burn, where
a small open gate beckoned. Following the forestry road that roughly paralleled the waterway down the slope to the sea, there was no possibility I could get lost.
The hike to Sandaig took about 3/4 of an hour, and I finally set foot on its open meadow at 1300. As I walked toward
Maxwell's grave stone, suddenly, the landscape that was depicted and described so vividly in the books became familiar to me, and I was instantly smitten by the magic of the place. At last, I had arrived at the legendary Camusfeàrna, and beheld the storied ring of
bright water with my own eyes.
Maxwell's croft at Sandaig in the mid-1960s. Upper photo courtesy Rex Features; lower courtesy Alchetron.It wasn't too much longer after my arrival, however, that I was made acutely aware of something decidedly NOT magical here: the swarms of biting midges! I had first encountered the little bastards at Kinlochmoidart and Eilean Shona three evenings ago. They had been pesky enough there, and a bit more bothersome on my way down the track today, but here on the open meadow, the midges were downright hellish! All the time I was subjected to their maddening presence, I had a recurring thought that maybe, just maybe, Maxwell's choice for the name of his mischievous first otter, Mij, might have been a homonymous reference to the tormenting midge hordes of Sandaig.
Maxwell in his study at Camusfeàrna, perhaps keeping the midges at bay with tobacco smoke. Photo by Camera Press, courtesy telegraph.co.uk.After paying my respects first at Maxwell's grave then at
Edal's, I headed out to explore the islands. To my relief, I found the midges were far less bothersome on the beach, so I decided to stay out there for the most part. When I'd first arrived and saw it was near low tide, I imagined I might be able to hike out to the lighthouse. After being there awhile and noting that the tide was rising, though, I thought better of the idea, and ended up going no further out than the first island. Better safe than sorry. I was all alone out here, with no one to call for help were I to become stranded.
But I wasn't alone for long. About 45 minutes after my arrival, while I was out on the beach, another party of visitors arrived, then another about a half hour after that. Being a Thursday, and after the end of the summer season, I had fully expected to have the place all to myself. On my hike down, the only other tracks I'd seen along the way were those of red deer. But thankfully, the other visitors were also respectfully quiet, and they didn't stay as long here as I did, either. Years later, though, I was to learn that, at any given time year-round, Sandaig is seldom lacking visiting pilgrims like me, and even still in the present day, a full half-century after Maxwell's death.
Panorama of the innermost of the Sandaig Islands. Photo by J Scott Shannon.I found the beach to be quite remarkable. I knew from reading the books that, instead of sand, the substrate consisted of sea shell fragments, but I wasn't prepared for the astonishing quantity and variety of the shells that comprised the beach. I collected quite a few interesting specimens to take home with me; perhaps most notably a whelk that bears a close resemblance to one drawn by Maxwell on page 46 of
Ring of Bright Water. I also took away a sprig of heather, some soil from the base of Edal's grave, and even water from the burn which I intended to pour into my own ring of bright water: Trinidad Bay.
An assortment of sea shells collected at Sandaig. I believe the flat rock at left to be a fragment of Torridonian sandstone, age approximately 1,000 Ma.After gathering some geometrically-pleasing stones and placing them on Edal's and Maxwell's graves, and once again being tormented to madness by midges, I decided to stay out on the beach from then on, and to
take my lunch there. It consisted of two pre-buttered rolls from my breakfast at Duich House, and from the Glenelg store, a Marathon bar and two cans of warm Diet Coke. Bon appetit!
The night before, I had prepared a message that I intended to leave here. It consisted of a hand-written note of thanks, a favourite picture of myself holding a tame otter inside my shirt, and two photos of my otters at Trinidad. All the time I was at Camusfeàrna, I had been thinking about where I would place it. It was sealed in plastic, so I considered burying it, but not wanting to disturb what I effectively thought of as sacred ground, I finally decided I would place my message
in a gap in Edal's cairn, with a portion of it left visible so that future visitors might be able to find and read it.
FOR
MIJBIL,
EDAL,
TEKO,
and
MAJOR MAXWELL
thank you for your inspiration, and
thank you for my life
One man
for otters
for ever Scott Shannon
The Otter Man of Trinidad Bay
Signed at Sandaig this 21st day of September, 1989,
the 35th anniversary of my birth.I departed somewhat wistfully, taking one last look at Camusfeàrna at 1620, and arriving back at my car at 1700. My pilgrimage was over. Mission accomplished.
I do have one significant regret, though. I did not get to see the famous waterfall of Allt Mòr Shantaig, where Gavin Maxwell actually wrote most of
Ring of Bright Water. How could I have missed it? I can only guess it didn't come to mind when I was there because the burn did not have much flow that day, so I didn't hear the sound of the falls and be reminded of it. So in a way, my pilgrimage was incomplete, for I missed visiting the singular place that Maxwell called "the soul of Camusfeàrna" itself. Alas...
Gavin Maxwell at the waterfall. Screen capture from the documentary "Memories of Maxwell", BBC Scotland, 1999.
But my Maxwell-themed day was not quite done yet. The croft at Sandaig was long gone, but his last home still stood: the light-keeper's house on
Eilean Bàn at Kyleakin on the Isle of Skye, and that was my next destination. At the time, however, there was no public access to the White Island, so I had to settle for viewing it from a distance.
Eilean Bàn, Kyle Akin, Skye, 22 September 1989. The view today is significantly and irrevocably altered. Photo ©J Scott Shannon.Coincidentally, when Mother and I visited Scotland
from 4-6 August in 1969, Gavin Maxwell was living his final days here on Eilean Bàn. He would die from complications of lung cancer in Inverness almost exactly one month later at the relatively young age of 55. It gave me pause to think that, had he not been a smoker, there was every chance Maxwell might still be alive and living here now when I visited again in 1989.
Gavin Maxwell on Eilean Bàn, 1968. Photo by T.V. Times from The White Island by John Lister-Kaye, Longman, 1972.I seem to recall that Mrs Scott-White at Duich House made the arrangements for my accommodations on Skye. In any case, when I told my B&B hostess at Kyleakin (a Mrs R Branson of 3 Crowlin Road) the reason for my visit, and what I'd done this day now passed, she replied, also with no obvious cheer, that whilst out walking one day many years ago, she had had her new hat blown clear off by mad-driver Maxwell speeding past in his roadster. Made me wonder if every older local here had their own story about the colorful and evidently still controversial Maj. Maxwell. Clearly, he made a lasting impression on countless others besides myself. Had to hand it to him. The man had reach!
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Yours Truly under Mrs Pringle's apple tree, at Achnahully, Arisaig, Scotland, 2 September 1974.
