provides a more spacious anchorage than Lagavulin Bay. It is sheltered by a tidal island and a vast plethora of rocks. The sea barrels in between them and whips up a vicious froth – like over-boiled cullen skink. A good spot from which to visit the distilleries but not my favourite anchorage.
A sailing friend – a retired surgeon – in patched pink pants, whose ‘characterful’ cottage overlooks the loch, assured us that there was a short-cut through the rocks – ‘Easy as pie, old boy! – Just follow the chart of ’54.’ His wife smiled sweetly as he kindly presented Jandara with a copy. It was dated ‘1854’ and like most charts of the time was stippled with soundings like a pointillist painting. A collector’s item certainly – but we didn’t try the short-cut.
CARA
. . . The isle Caray. . . affords good pasturage, and abounds with coneys. There is a harbour for barks on the north-east end of it. This island is the property of MacAlister of Lergy, a family of the Macdonalds. . .
Sunlight was sparkling on the water when we sailed to Cara. Monkshaven, our anchorage opposite Cara House, is not a particularly sheltered spot but the conditions were ideal with a mere breath of breeze. The house, which was built about 1733 as a residence for the tacksman, is a dour two-storey stone building with a slated roof standing proud and lonely and staring across the Sound of Gigha towards Kintyre. It was June and the low-lying peaty ground was a sea of wildflowers as the marshy conditions here keep the bracken at bay.
Cara has only one permanent resident these days but you won’t find him in any census records. ‘He’s a neat little man, dressed in brown, with a pointed beard,’ Morton Macdonald of Largie reported to the Observer in 1909. He was referring to the famous Brownie of Cara who is said to be the ghost of a Macdonald murdered by a Campbell. Tradition says that he inhabits an attic room in Cara House, and that the laird and minister always raise their hats to him when they step ashore on Cara, and so should everyone else.
Some years ago, when staying (boatless) on Gigha, I was negotiating in the hotel bar with a fisherman to take Jean and me to Cara. The deal was struck but in subsequent conversation Jean happened to mention that her mother was a Campbell. ‘There is no way then that I can take you to Cara,’ said the fisherman. ‘The Brownie would be very upset’. Persuasion was absolutely useless and the trip had to be abandoned.
On this occasion Peter and I wanted to take a close look at the ‘Brownie’s Chair’. We located it with some difficulty after struggling through waist-high bracken – a huge stone ‘armchair’, with only one arm, set on a steep slope above the sea on the east side of the the Mull of Cara. Its odd angular shape bears no relationship to the weathered rock outcrops which surround it. The ‘Brownie’s Well’ close by is a spring which provides fresh water and has never run dry.
There are many stories telling of the Brownie’s irascible disposition but impish sense of humour. I was told by an old man that on one occasion when fishing near Cara he and his son beached their boat to have a drink of water from the Brownie’s Well. When they returned to the boat the thwart (benchseat) was missing. They were mystified and looked everywhere but there was no sign of it. The next day while passing the same spot they looked up and saw the thwart stuck between two rocks at the top of the hill. Obviously the Brownie had been up to his usual tricks.
There is another well east of Cara House and behind the house is a ruined chapel which can easily be mistaken for a sheep pen. It fell into disuse in the late 18th century and was used for a time as a kitchen. According to a record dated 1456 it was called ‘the chapel of St Finla’ and Dean Monro said it belonged to Icolmkill (Iona) and that Cara was a monks’ retreat.
The island has belonged to the Macdonalds of Largie (Kintyre) for centuries. Flora MacDonald was closely related to them and some time after 1745 she and her brother stayed at Largie for a year. In the end she emigrated to Carolina after her brother was sadly killed in a shooting accident on Cara.
He may have been shooting wild goats as there are many on the island but they were concealed from us by the thick bracken which we had to plough through to reach the west side of the island. It was off here during the Second World War that a newly built P&O ship with a cargo of copra was hit by a German bomb which went straight down her funnel. The blazing hulk drifted for two days before coming to rest on Cara where she burned for a further six weeks.
For centuries Cara was the control centre for Gigha, Jura and Islay’s smuggling activities. It was here in 1786 that the Prince of Wales revenue cutter dug up eighteen casks of foreign spirits, so it was obviously essential that the house should have a good view of the sea approach and the mainland. And I suppose it was little wonder that twinkling lights were often to be seen on dark nights in the Brownie’s attic room!
The Brownie’s Chair on Cara
GIGHA
There is a well in the north end of this isle called Tobermore, i.e., a great well, because of its effects, for which it is famous among the islanders; who, together with the inhabitants, use it as a catholicon for diseases. It is covered with stone and clay, because the natives fancy that the stream that flows from it might overflow the isle; and it is always opened by a diroch, i.e., an inmate, else they think it would not exert its virtues. They ascribe one very extraordinary effect to it, and it is this: that when any foreign boats are wind-bound here (which often happens) the master of the boat ordinarily gives the native that lets the water run a piece of money; and they say that immediately afterwards the wind changes in favour of those that are thus detained by contrary winds. Every stranger that goes to drink of the water of this well, is accustomed to leave on its stone-cover a piece of money, a needle, pin, or one of the prettiest variegated stones they can find.
Some of the natives told me that they used to chew nettles, and hold them to their nostrils to staunch bleeding at the nose; and that nettles being applied to the place would also stop bleeding at a vein, or otherwise.
. . . The inhabitants are all Protestants, and speak the Irish tongue generally; they are grave and reserved in their conversation; they are accustomed not to bury on Friday; they are fair or brown in complexion. . .
. . . There is only one inn. . .
I remember years ago taking the family over to Gigha in the small open ferry with a sheep for company. When we ambled along the island’s main road a friendly young thrush hopped from the hedgerow onto my son’s outstretched arm, and there wasn’t a car in sight. Now the vehicle ferry from Tayinloan makes swift and regular crossings and fast footwork is sometimes required to avoid the island traffic.
But Gigha still retains its charm and fully justifies its Old Norse name of ‘God’s island’ or ‘the good island’. And the visiting sailor is always assured of a warm welcome – mooring buoys in Ardminish Bay, hot showers ashore and a cosy bar at the local hotel (which won an architectural award).
Gigha enjoys a key position on the sea route along the Kintyre peninsula. In the autumn of 1263 King Haakon’s fleet of more
