children were hanging around her house just before ‘The Lone Ranger’ started, she invited us into her little living room. Can you imagine? We squeezed together, older ones standing in the back, the little ones sitting huddled right in front of the tiny screen. At first I thought all the programmes depicted winter scenes, because it always seemed to be snowing – that was until I realised it was related to the poor reception. ‘The Lone Ranger’ was the highlight of the week for us, particularly when his adventures ended happily in each episode. ‘The Lone Ranger’ brought a new world to Islay for us: the Wild West, and as soon as we’d left Mrs McArthur’s house after the show, Main Street turned into a vast prairie. From High Street came the Indians and from the harbour you could hear the loud, unmistakable trampling of the great herds of buffalo. Most of the time, on Jamieson Street, the bandits with their kerchiefs in front of their faces lay in wait for the cowboys. I must have been shot 4,000 times between the church and the harbour. There were plenty of cowboys on Islay, but I was almost always one of the Indians. Even then, I never wanted to go with the crowd. To be the Indian in the midst of cowboys, that was the McEwan story.
As children we had vivid imaginations, creating our pretend worlds without computers. When we weren’t chasing Indians, cowboys or bandits, or making boats, we sometimes got carried away snacking on forbidden fruit. These grew in our pastor’s garden, surrounded by a small stone wall. I can still remember mustering all my courage to steal gooseberries from the parish garden, sneaking up with others, and paying close attention that no one saw us. At least that’s what we thought. Then I’d creep over the wall, crawl through the tall grass to the bushes and steal as many berries as I could carry in my hands. Then quietly and as unobtrusively as possible, I crept back and over the wall once more. In supposed safety, I shared with my friends the ill-gotten treasure from the pious garden. How delicious these gooseberries tasted! They were probably the best gooseberries in the world, if only because we took enormous risks to get them. But no sooner had the spoils been consumed than we were nabbed. “Jim McEwan! You know very well that you’re not allowed to do that – your mother must have told you that!” The oft-heard cry from one of the ubiquitous mothers that followed us everywhere. So, thankfully, my childhood criminal career came to an abrupt end – and only later did I discover that the priest had seen us, but was glad to let the gooseberries go, because he didn’t like them.
When we couldn’t watch TV, we loved the radio, again something that not every household owned. There was a large snooker hall in Bowmore, referred to as the ‘British Legion Hut’. It was used for gatherings of all kinds, though for us kids it was a magical place, situated right on my doorstep. Today, in Bowmore, it has been replaced with a big open square and the tourist information office, but back then it was a meeting place par excellence. The ambience in this wooden barrack was unique. People met, played snooker, had their hair cut or told each other stories about times long gone. Only men, those who worked hard in the distillery and the old war veterans, were allowed in, though sometimes we boys were allowed in too. I loved listening to the stories of the old men, for in times before smartphones, television and the internet, that was our entertainment. We children somehow belonged there too, as long as we behaved decently and, above all, quietly. From today’s perspective, the times to which I refer, are from long ago and may sound strange to most of you. All the more so, were the stories I heard as a child about adventures on the high seas or about the two world wars. There were war veterans who had never left the island before they were drafted, dragged out into a hostile world without any certainty of a safe future, only the hope of a safe return. That’s mostly what the men talked about, or what it was like to go to the Scottish mainland for the first time, and to see Islay from the outside. For me as a boy, these were captivating stories that I absorbed completely. The old Ileachs were fantastic storytellers and I was part of their appreciative audience. There was a lot more talking and, above all, a lot more listening done in those days, on top of which was an aroma in the air that was so fascinating to me – this masculine melange of whisky, pipe tobacco and fire.
There was a lot more talking and, above all, a lot more listening done in those days, on top of which was an aroma in the air that was so fascinating to me – this masculine melange of whisky, pipe tobacco and fire.
The highlight of the week was Saturday, because every week at 3 p.m. football was broadcast live on the radio. From 2:45 p.m., everyone started gathering around the radio, with us children allowed to sit on the floor, but only if we made absolutely no noise. Otherwise we would have been thrown out faster than we would have liked, Mr McNeill making sure that there was total silence from us. He was in the Navy, could cut hair and, in the British Legion Hut, his word was law. As a little boy, those were unforgettable moments, surrounded as I was by old veterans, some of whom had even lived through both world wars. I loved the atmosphere, the flair and, above all, the privilege of witnessing the football broadcast in this legendary company. I also really wanted to smoke a pipe and drink whisky! I was sure that when I grew up, I would become one of them! On a Protestant island, of course, everyone was a Glasgow Rangers fan. All except little Jim McEwan, who, for whatever reason, was a Hibernian Football Club supporter. I didn’t mention that too loudly though, because most of the time they lost, but on the rare occasions when they did win, I’d let everyone know. Sometimes for weeks. When Scotland played, we all stuck together. If there were 50 people listening, there were at least 50 experts, all equipped with sufficient knowledge to be the national coach. When Scotland played, there was unity across all club boundaries – especially when it was against England, but then there were usually more than just 50 people in the hut. I’ll never forget the goosebumps when I got to listen in on a football match. “… Jim Baxter in midfield wins the ball, plays steeply to Willie Stevenson. He races through the midfield with the ball, leaving three opponents in his wake, then passes forward to Max Murray. Brilliantly he takes the ball, turns, takes heart, pulls the trigger and … Goooooooal!” When that happened, young and old were in each other’s arms, celebrating. Football was life, emotions ran high, yet everyone had a different game in their mind’s eye. None of us had ever seen the inside of a football stadium, but we all felt as if we’d scored the decisive goal. You won together and you lost together, unfortunately more often the latter than the former. But you shared this experience, this enthusiasm, these unique emotions. Unfortunately, Scotland lost many more games than they won, probably why I learned such a wide vocabulary that I couldn’t have found anywhere else – Gaelic rants. This Gaelic poetry, as I would like to call it, was much different than all the swear words that are used today. The F-word did not exist then. People simply found very vivid comparisons with which to compliment each other. Despite all the ill-will that existed during an argument, people insulted each other with respect and rarely with cursing. Often comical comparisons were made, but if it came down to an argument, the one who had the last word won. “I’m pretty sure that was in 1642!”; “I’m sorry, Wallie, to have to tell you that it was in 1643, exactly on the 22nd of July in the evening, at half-past seven. That was the exact date, sir!” Lying they both had been, but it didn’t matter. Those were really wonderful times and I remember them very fondly. So many generations from different families under one roof and all with the shared joy of having a good time together. Happy days indeed!
3 Follow Your Nose
Every human being is given a wonderful gift at birth, something that protects us from many dangers and can make us very happy. Unfortunately, many underestimate this gift. I am, of course, talking about the nose and its incredible ability to perceive smells. God has given us this precious feature, in both right and left nostrils, that is so incredibly enriching for us. There are small areas inside the nose, just about two centimetres by five centimetres, which form our receptors for aromas, scents and smells, offering 2,000 times more sensitivity than the tongue. What a fascinating experience to perceive odours and let them take their effect! How many of us actually think about our sense of smell? Not many I suspect, unless it has been temporarily nullified due to a cold, which you probably found unfamiliar and unpleasant. Yet it is really worth thinking about how vital this sense actually is. After
