Red Sky at Night E-Book

John Barrington

• Herausgeber: Luath Press
• Kategorie: Lebensstil
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 437

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2013

Beschreibung

Having spent over 25 years as a shepherd in Scotland, John Barrington has developed a vast knowledge of Scottish history, folklore, mythology and legend that are clearly transposed into his novels. Barrington is a natural storyteller leading guided story-walks, relaying his stories in schools, clubs and societies and as an after-dinner speaker. Barrington's autobiography, Red Sky at Night won the SAC Book Award and was a UK no. 1 bestseller.

Leseprobe

JOHN BARRINGTON is an established storyteller and author. For many years he was a hill shepherd, living in Rob Roy MacGregor’s old house in the heart of the Scottish Highlands. He herded 750 Scottish Blackface sheep on the 2,000ft Perthshire mountains above Loch Katrine. Successful at sheepdog trials, shepherd and dogs have given demonstrations of their ancient craft at two Garden Festivals and many shows, galas and Highland Games.

In 1998, the Scottish Qualification Authority asked John Barrington to design a course in sheepdog handling and management, which took two years to complete. The first classes were run at Oatridge Agricultural College, near Edinburgh, in 2000, the author at the helm. Students were enrolled from Ireland, England and all parts of Scotland.

With a good eye for sheep, John Barrington has judged classes of sheep at the Highland Show in Edinburgh and has made several judging trips to Europe.

Like most shepherds, Barrington is a natural storyteller, a gift he exercises at schools, clubs and societies, and as an after dinner speaker. Stories are recounted on the move during daytime guided tours and twilight ghost walks, and as a commentator at a dozen or so Highland Games each year. Stories told to enliven his whisky tasting sessions are always presented in the right spirit!Red Sky at Night, his first book and a UK bestseller, won him a Scottish Arts Council book award. His latest book,Of Dogs and Men, will be published soon.

The chapters in this book are numbered according to a shepherd’s count (1 to 10), a pre-Celtic rhyming method of counting sheep, thought to be the oldest language still in use in the British Isles.

By the same author:

Loch Lomond and the Trossachs(2006)

Out of the Mists(2008)

Of Dogs and Men(2013)

Red Sky at Night

JOHN BARRINGTON

LuathPress Limited

EDINBURGH

www.luath.co.uk

To Gran

First published 1984 by Michael Joseph Ltd

Paperback edition first published 1986 by Pan Books Ltd

First Luath edition 1999

Reprinted 2003, 2006

New Edition 2013

eBook 2013

ISBN (print): 978-1-908373-37-3

ISBN (eBook): 978-1-909912-37-3

Illustrations by Paul Armstrong

The author’s right to be identified as author of this book under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 has been asserted.

© John Barrington

Contents

Map – the location of Loch Katrine

Map – the Glengyle Hirsel

Preface to the 2013 Edition

Preface to the 1999 Edition

CHAPTER 1 – YAN To Begin at the Beginning

CHAPTER 2 – TAN Glistening Glengyle

CHAPTER 3 – TETHERA The First Gather

CHAPTER 4 – PETHERA Waiting for Spring

CHAPTER 5 – PIMP Lambing

CHAPTER 6 – SETHERA Counting the Tails

CHAPTER 7 – LETHERA Sheep Shearing

CHAPTER 8 – HOVERA The Lamb Sales

CHAPTER 9 – COVERA Wild Harvest

CHAPTER 10 – DIK Red Sky at Night

Glossary

Preface to the 2013 Edition

THERE IS NO doubt that Loch Katrine, and the highlands encircling this sparkling jewel in the Scottish landscape, is a marvel of nature. I consider myself to have been remarkably privileged to herd generations of sheep over the Glengyle hirsel, ably assisted by my collie dogs, and surrounded by the best nature had to offer. Those days are gone, a 21st century Highland Clearance sweeping away livestock and people alike. What was a large, vibrant community is no more, the local school has closed and, once the daily visitors have departed, the hills brood in silence.

Scottish Water was the first to abrogate their responsibilities, only too willing to relinquish control of the land bestowed by a 1919 Act of Parliament. It became apparent that this organisation had lost sight of one important fact. The grazing of 12,000 sheep and 200 cows was integral to land management in the catchment area of Glasgow’s principal reservoir, suppressing natural tree regeneration. Deciduous leaf litter in a reservoir is the last thing you want. Along came the Forestry Commission, intent only on establishing trees, with no thought or care of wider environmental issues. All the while, the National Park Authority simply nodded through these catastrophic changes, at the very heart of their domain, steadfastly ignoring at least two of their legal obligations.

Originally written as a contemporary account of day to day life in the Highlands,Red Sky at Nighthas become more of an historic document. Such have been the recent changes that have swept across Scotland. However, one contentious issue is still very much a hot topic – culling badgers to control tuberculosis in cattle. My views remain unchanged. Publication of this book opened many doors and certainly broadened my horizons. It also brought me into contact with many wonderful people who, over the decades, greatly enriched my life. Although too numerous to mention individually, I have a soft spot for a London couple who read my book, then bought a farm in Scotland.

Now a good few years retired and residing just south of the Highland Line, from time to time I become one of a host of visitors to Loch Katrine. The mountains still rise majestically from the very edge of the loch, to be enjoyed on foot, by bicycle, or from one of the cruising vessels. You may be fortunate enough to see some highland cattle, brought in by the Forestry Commission in an attempt to control the rampant vegetation. Fine beasts, but they are not sheep.

My thanks, as always, to the countless people who have helped me along life’s way, especially the editorial team at Luath Press. But most of all, my debt is to each and every one of my dogs, without whose help none of this would have been possible.

John Barrington

Croftamie

2013

Preface to the 1999 Edition

WHEN RED SKY AT NIGHT was published by Michel Joseph, London, my editor told me that the book would eventually find its way to a Scottish publishing house, probably in Edinburgh. How prophetic those words turned out to be and I have to thank Gavin MacDougall and Luath Press for their faith in me.

Since publication time has marched on, and there have been significant changes in the glen. My own family left to find pastures new and, after a number of years, I married a lovely lady, Marjory Owens. I was offered and accepted early retirement, whatever that means. I seem to be busier than ever. There are always sheep to tend, Highland cattle to look after and I have just designed the first ever course in ‘sheep dog handling’, for the Scottish Qualification Authority.

Many of my old friends have retired or moved on and not all of them have been replaced. The local primary school is reduced to a handful of children and a large number of houses lie empty and lifeless. An area of outstanding natural beauty, once described as Scotland’s first National Park, now has an air of neglect.

Farming has fallen into a black hole. With sharply declining returns and ever escalating costs, drastic action has followed. The hill cows have all been sold and, for the first time since the coming of the MacGregors, there are no cattle in Glengyle. The number of shepherds has been more than halved. However, this is still the largest sheep farm in Britain (27,000 acres and 12,000 sheep) and the only way to herd high ground flocks is to lace up a good pair of boots, take up a cromach and, with dogs at heel, go to the hill.

John Barrington

Glengyle

October 1999

CHAPTER 1 – YAN

To Begin at the Beginning

THE STAR-SPECKLED BLACKFACED night of the first day of December begins to break as the light of the new day gently touches the eastern sky. Ice thickens and the white frost tightens its early morning grip. In the shelter of the drystone-dyked fank, the Glengyle tups, still cudding on last evening’s hay, begin to stir themselves, heads lifted high, nostrils held to the sharp edge of the wind. Beyond and above on the still dark hill, 38 score of ewes will already be foraging, hungry for the first bite of the short winter day, their ground about to be taken over by strong-horned mates. Dawn inches up over the night sky; a new year for the flock of the forked glen is about to begin.

Frost-crisped grass scrunches softly under my feet as I make my way to the fank. Alerted now, 16 tups tug long wool staples free from the frozen ground and scrabble to their feet. Four sheepdog muzzles push enquiringly between the lower spars of the gate; Old Bo, Mona, Gail and Boot size up the job in hand. At this intrusion the tups bunch tightly in the middle of the pen, their smoky breaths merging into a small, grey cloud. I pause at the gate, leaning over the top to study my charges, making sure that all is well before taking them out to the hill. Each tup in turn shakes himself vigorously, sending a shower of fine ice prisms flying and glinting into the first slanting shafts of sunlight.

The success, or otherwise, of the Glengyle flock in the coming year depends upon the performance of my tups during the next six weeks. Having satisfied myself that these fellows seem to be sound in wind and limb, I lift the snek and allow the wide wooden gate to swing open. Particles of white hoarfrost shower from the metal hinges. Three dogs dart inside to bring the tups out. Two or three heads turn defiantly to face up to the threat, but are quickly turned back again under the strong-eyed gaze of the collies. Guided out through the gate, across the bridge, a left flank by Mona and Gail turns the sheep to the right, and up through the park we go, towards the hill gate.

The sun lifts itself above the hills which fringe the south shore of Loch Katrine. The water sparkles. A small herd of whooper swans swims, dabbling for food in the sheltered, shallow lagoon in front of Glengyle House. A cold, north-westerly wind blows directly down the glen, bringing hints of ewes in season to the tups and a tingling to my fingers. Mona and Gail head off the tups and bring them to a halt. Bo and Boot guard against any retreat as I open the gate to the hill. Eager to fulfil their roles, 16 curly-horned heads turn onto the low-end of Glengyle. Last summer’s lush bracken, burned brown by back-end frosts and battered flat by autumnal gales, crackles underfoot.

The hirsel of Glengyle covers almost four square miles, more than 2,000 acres and lies between the loch shore at 384 feet and Meall Mór summit, 2,451 feet above sea level. From the north-west, the Glengyle burn flows down the ice-chiselled valley into the dark, deep water of Loch Katrine. My ground stands to the north of the water which gives it the considerable benefit of facing south into the life-warming sun. Across the burn, on the aptly named Dhu (Black-side), much of the ground does not see the sun for six long winter months.

Mountain grasses, together with bilberry and a little heather, provide most of the grazing on this rock-strewn ground. Each one of my ewes requires over two acres of pasture to secure sufficient food. Sheep do not just wander over the hills feeding at random, but have a firmly established grazing pattern. No matter how often a flock is gathered in, once they are returned to a hill, they all make for their own particular ground in the vicinity of their birth place. All the ewes are directly descended from long family lines. Each small family unit grazes over an area of 100–150 acres and, normally, is never found off this ground. Several units will co-exist on a section of the hill, their territories overlapping, forming a cut or heft of sheep.

It is to each of these hefts that I now introduce a tup, his coat dyed bright yellow to help me to see him from a distance, as I walk my daily rounds. The traditional number of tups for Glengyle is 16; six on the low-end and ten on the high-end. The number of tups put out is critical. Too few, of course, means that ewes in season may well be missed, while too many tups on the hill can also give rise to poor lambing results the following spring. The danger lies in the fact that some tups may not be able to take sole charge of a heft, but be forced to spend valuable time fighting off challengers, leaving the females’ needs unsatisfied. In-bye shepherds – those whose flocks are always close to the buildings – usually put out an odd number of rams, as they call them, into a field of ewes. Then, in the event of battles breaking out between pairs of tups over the attraction of the moment, there is always one extra to do the necessary.

My stock is predominantly of the Scottish Blackface breed, a very hardy type of sheep and numerically the strongest in Britain today. The origins of the Blackface breed are shrouded in antiquity. They are first mentioned by Hector Boethius in 1460 who wrote that until the introduction of Cheviots, only the rough-woolled, black-faced sheep were to be found in the Vale of Esk in Dumfriesshire. In 1503, records assert that King James IV introduced 20,000 Blackfaces into the Ettrick Forest in Selkirkshire; unfortunately, no mention is made of where this enormous flock came from. Up until the 19th century, it was the custom for flockmasters to call their sheep by the name of the locality rather than by the breed. Thus, the Blackface was known simultaneously as the Linton, Forest, Tweeddale and Lammermuir, amongst others. Each area naturally believed that its flocks were the principal strain of the breed.

Blackface sheep did not appear in this part of Scotland before 1770. Previously the Highland grazings were stocked mainly by a small, old Celtic type of sheep, with a white face and soft Moorit (tan) wool, which can still occasionally be found on some of the offshore islands. There is a legend of an inebriate Perthshire publican who bought a few Blackface sheep which promptly escaped to the hill. Through sheer neglect, they were allowed to remain untended on the hill throughout the following winter. As it was the custom to house the Moorit sheep each night, the fact that these Blackfaces survived surprised many people and awakened interest in the breed. This story may only be a fable, but it is a fact that by 1767 Dumfriesshire flockmasters were renting many sheep-walks in Dunbartonshire and Perthshire. In 1770, there were around one thousand Moorit-type sheep in this parish of Callander, and by 1790, the total had exploded past the 18,000 mark. Unfortunately, this increase in sheep numbers in the north and west of Scotland was accompanied by the enforced emigration of the human population – the iniquitous Highland Clearances had begun.

My four collies hold the tups tightly together just outside the hill gate. I use Mona and Gail to shed off two from the group, and start driving them in the direction of the Wee Hill. Bo, these days more usually called ‘Gran’ because of her 15 years, and Boot will watch over the others and stop any of them straying while I am away. Boot is a novice, still learning his job. He circles keenly round the tups, not allowing them the slightest chance to escape. Wise old Gran lies back a bit and watches, one eye on the tups, the other on me as I make my way towards the rising sun.

A little way ahead, a handful of sheep are grazing peacefully. Two or three look up at our approach. I call off the dogs and the two tups quickly come up, sniffing hopefully from one to another. Nothing doing here. Mona and Gail move them on.

A big ewe, tail-twitchingly in season, comes running down the hill towards us. Both tups oblige her in turn. No fighting; proper gentlemen. This gives me the ideal opportunity to split them up. I want to leave the younger tup at the bottom of the hill so that I can easily keep an eye on him. While he is busy with his paramour, I use the dogs quietly to work the other fellow, together with a few ewes, further up the hill. This tup ought to be able to cover the top ground of the Wee Hill.

Gran stirs herself, yawns, stretches and wags her tail at my return. Boot is still patiently ‘wearing’ the sheep in his charge as they pick at the grass shoots still to be found, sweet and succulent, under the twisted skeletons of fallen bracken. Mona separates out another pair of tups and Gail cuts in to help her take them straight up the hillside, en route for Meall Mór (Big Rounded Hill). The first of these I leave immediately above Spit Dubh (Black Spout), this morning a magnificent mare’s-tail of silver, ice-sheathed water, highlighted against the backdrop of sheer black rock. The second tup has to keep climbing to come within sight of An t-Innean, the majestic Square Rocks which crown the summit of Glengyle.

A herd of red deer, suddenly alert to my presence, are startled into flight. Following their leader, they file away into the Braes of Balquhidder, white tail patches flashing in the bright sunshine as they go.

I descend by way of Allt na Bruiach (Steep Burn) which will bring me down a few hundred yards further up the glen. It is noticeable that the Scots were not very imaginative when it came to naming things. Indeed, the majority of Celtic names give either the simplest description of the place, or describe some prominent feature: big (mór), little (beag), black or dark (dubh or dhu), speckled or spotted (breac), crooked (cam), point (stron) as in Stronachlachar, Stonemason’s point. Big hills (meall mór) and dark lochs (loch dhu) abound throughout Gaeldom. The Gael was also fond of giving the names of animals to many places associated with them. The Gaelic for a cow is ‘bo’, as in Baelach-nam-bo – Pass of theCattle – through which the old drove-road passed between Loch Katrine and Ben Venue; Loch Chon is Loch of the Dog; Brig O’Turk is Boar’s Bridge. The list is apparently endless.

On the shoulder of Spit Dubh, 500 feet up, I have a clear view of the small group away down to my left. The tups browse whatever food they can find, still only yards from the hill gate. A couple of whistles pierce the crisp, clear air, riding down the wind. Gran rises to her feet and starts the tups moving towards me, along the well-worn sheep path at the back of the stone dyke. Several times Boot tries to pass the sheep and progress is interrupted. Each time I direct him back behind, the tups come on again. After yet another unscheduled stop, I decide to call him to heel and, once he has left the sheep and is safely on his way to me, I head for the bottom of the hill, leaving Gran to do the rest.

The red post-bus wends its way along the road to Glengyle with the morning post.

Boot is soon at my side, looking very pleased with himself. I make a fuss of him – reward is all important, especially during the early stages of training.

Near the foot of the hill is a small knoll (Cnap beag). By the time I reach it, Gran and the sheep are already in sight. The Steep Burn flows along beneath an overcoat of ice, and the tups carefully pick their way across. We move along between the top fence of my West Park and the last stand of birch trees in Glengyle. Long ago, the whole glen floor would have been well wooded with birch, oak, pine and alder. Man cleared the ground in the name of progress. Today, only the dark fingers of alder groves, pointing out the course of even the smallest flow of water, and a few isolated stands of birch and oak, remain in the glen. Lower down the strath, the wider part of the glen, modern plantations of fir trees have been established, with little regard for the eye or the delicate balance of nature.

The next stop is at the Coireasach Burn (said, Cor-ech), which probably means ‘Water flowing from the Corrie’. This divides the low end of Glengyle from the high-end. Before going on, I must put out the last pair of low-end tups and on the lower slopes, I leave an old lad that I have some reservations about. During last summer, he had an attack of pneumonia and, although he responded to treatment with penicillin, he is probably not 100 per cent fit. This heft is very open and it should be a simple matter for me to watch him closely. The sixth, and last, low-end tup is stationed on the terracing, 1,500 feet up, in front of Meall Mór. His ground runs back into the large corrie at the head of the burn.

Crossing onto the high-end, and into the afternoon, my task becomes somewhat easier. My ground is a lot narrower at this end of the glen, gradually reducing from a width of one and a half miles to only three-quarters of a mile, over its four-mile run. Now I can put the tups off in twos and leave them to separate themselves. This is exactly what I do at the next dispersal point, a wide green gully which angles up for 750 feet through the rocks, to a broad shoulder levelling at 1,500 feet. At the back of this plateau, the ground rises steeply once more to the ‘drium’, or long back of the hill, 2,100 feet above sea level. My march or boundary with Balquhidder on the east and Ardleish – on the eastern tip of Loch Lomond – to the north, runs along the watershed between us. Only land which drains my way is officially mine – it is a pity that the sheep do not always seem to realise that. My other two marches, with the Dhu on the west and Portnellan to the south, simply follow ‘march burns’ down to the loch.

The sun has followed on my left shoulder all day long. Shining directly onto the full face of Glengyle, the sheen and sparkle of the ice-hung crags has to be seen to be believed. Now and then, a sun-loosened icicle crashes to loud, echoing, prismatic destruction.

There is a rough-hewn road, negotiable only by Land Rover or tractor, running halfway along the high-end. It was constructed in 1963 to allow the Electricity Board to erect power lines when 13 massive metal pylons were planted in the glen. They look like some science-fiction monsters marching southwards along the way of the ancient drove-road, climbing from the glen from Glenfalloch and disappearing in the direction of Stronachlachar. At first I found the pylons and cables a bit of an eyesore, but I soon became used to seeing them around. They do have their uses too. Apart from being landmarks, I have been known to tether an uncooperative ewe to one at lambing time while trying to persuade her to accept a lamb. Foxes also find them handy. One of the local dog foxes used to regularly patrol beneath the wires in search of birds which had accidentally flown into them. This must happen fairly frequently to make such expeditions worth his while. Once, I beat him to it and brought home a nice plump grouse.

The dogs turn the tups onto Eves Road, named after the contractor who built it, and we head on towards the most prominent feature of the glen, Ben Ducteach (said, Dochty). The name literally means Holy Hill, so called because of the nunnery which was founded at her foot in the 14th century. Robert the Bruce, in gratitude for his victory over Edward II at Bannockburn in 1314, where the English army was completely routed, dedicated a priory and ecclesiastic college at the site of St Fillan’s cell. (The cult of St Fillan was sufficiently important for the Scots to carry his arm relic to the field of Bannockburn, and to attribute their victory to the saint’s intercession.) In conjunction with that establishment, a nunnery was founded eight miles due south, at the confluence of the waters of Glengyle. The Wise Women, once quite famous, are long, long gone and only a few ruins remain as an epitaph to the community of Kil-mi-Cailleach (Cell of the Nuns).

Two more tups are left at the Sandy Burn. There are plenty of ewes near at hand to draw them up the hill, and they certainly need no prompting to go. In fact, the dogs have their work cut out to prevent the whole lot breaking away and taking off. Mona and her kennel mates manage to maintain full control, and we continue steadily on our way.

The tups prefer to travel alongside the road as sheets of ice have covered most of the stone-strewn surface, like cold, hard, polished porridge. Walking on it is virtually impossible. We gain height all the time, until we reach the 700-foot contour, and the final parting of the ways.

This is Bealach nan Corp (Pass of the Dead), sweeping down from the heights of Balquhidder. This is the way by which the notables, from as far away as Strathyre, were carried to Kil-mi-Cailleach and their last resting place. Cairns still mark the places where the cortège would pause and take refreshment. At each stop, everyone would add a stone to the resting cairn. Highland funerals sometimes entailed journeys of considerable distance, often over very rough terrain. I have been told of one funeral where the body was carried 73 miles, arriving at its destination on the third day of travel. The mortal remains would have been wrapped in a blanket of blue dyed woollen cloth. Charles II introduced a statute which decreed that every person be buried in just such a shroud. It must have done wonders for the wool trade of the time.

On the lower reaches of the Pass of the Dead, six very much alive tups stand and wait, quietly held by my four collies. What I plan now is a three-way split. A single word, and Gran moves in to shed two off on the right; a whistle, and Mona cuts two away to the left; Boot and Gail drive the very last pair straight ahead, up the glen. Gran plods up the Bealach, pushing her tups before her. Mona drives her two downhill, across the Glengyle water and up onto the face of Ben Ducteach.

The glen divides at this point. The Dhu ground forks away west, past the nunnery, and runs another mile to the top of the 2,000-ft Stob nan Eighrach. My ground continues to the shaded north-east side of Ben Ducteach.

The road, such as it is, comes to an end at this point. Only caterpillar tractors venture any further, leaving tracks through the soft peat as evidence of the routine maintenance visits by the Electricity Board engineers. A small, sturdy wooden hut built beneath pylon number seven serves as a base during operations in the glen. Needless to say, I often find it very useful, too.

Mona and Gran respond to my ‘That’ll do!’ command, the whistles echoing along the narrowing glen. Ahead, the power lines appear to squeeze their way between the opposing hillsides. Beyond lies the day’s final destination.

Here, Sithean a’ Chatha (said, she-an a catha), a fairy hill, stands to my right, and behind it the long shoulder of the Parlan Hill, her 2,175ft summit astride the far end of my march. The sun-shielding tail of Ben Ducteach forms the opposite rim of this broad basin, enclosing the best grazing of the Glengyle hirsel or ground. The last two tups are left to their own devices as I turn, dogs at heel, and head for home.

Above me, a pair of eagles soar, seemingly higher than the sun. Their glinting, golden nape feathers and the white underwing patches of the barely mature male are conspicuous in the late afternoon sun. This piece of my ground forms only a part of the territory belonging to these mighty birds; at least four other adjoining hirsels also share this privilege. I know of three eyries on Glengyle, and two more on neighbouring hills. The actual nesting site is changed every year, so that only occasionally will it be located in my glen. Unfortunately, the breeding record of eagles in Glengyle is abysmal. Nobody can remember a single eaglet being successfully reared and there are many tales of deliberate slaughter, as well as natural catastrophe contributing to this sad state of affairs. I hope for better things next season.

The sun slowly slides down the back of the Dhu, sending the evening shadow climbing up the face of my hill, like a giant sundial. As the gloaming gathers, I cannot help but reflect on the many people who have lived in this glen through the eons of time. Early tribes of hunter-gatherers probably moved frequently through the natural passage of the glen. Eventually, some of them settled inside their hill-top forts, or on the safe man-made islands, called crannogs, built out on the lochs. Primitive farming settlement followed and the natural forest was gradually cleared. With settlement came industry, and iron was smelted in the glen up until the 18th century, further depleting the local woodland.

In 1499, the warrior clan MacGregor came to these secluded parts, and their colourful, chequered career was to span more than 400 years. Finally, in 1855, by Act of Parliament, the Glasgow Corporation became the owners of the Loch Katrine water, and by 1954, had become the Lairds of the entire catchment area. The names may change but the game’s the same. Nowadays, the control is in the hands of the Strathclyde Regional Council (Lower Clyde Water Board). These nameless people employ me as shepherd to the Glengyle flock; a marvellous job in a wonderful place.

I ‘flitted’ into the glen with my family on a white winter’s dark night early in 1975. Wife, Maggi, and children, Jamie then aged six and Victoria, three, had never seen the place before. In fact, it was the next day before they could see anything because it was so late when we arrived at our new home. I wouldn’t be surprised if they thought that they had come to the end of the earth!

About now, Maggi will be taking in the house cow and her two calves, and the children will be tumbling out of the school bus and making a mad, head-long dash for the warmth of the house. The frost begins to curl my beard as Venus becomes a beacon in the deepening western sky. I leave my glen to the care of the night and quicken my pace towards the guiding lights of Glengyle. I can almost smell the soup that I know will be simmering away on the Rayburn.

Early evening in the living-room is one of warmth and noise; rich, hot soup, boisterous children, dogs stretched out on the floor, cats looking for a lap to nap on. The radio news is lost behind school stories – who pinched whose hat, who punched whose nose, who nearly got the strap. Soon tea is on the table, always our main meal of the day, always plenty of it and excellent too. ‘The Archers’ compete with spelling homework before, at last, Jamie and Victoria squabble their way off to bed.

The evening changes gear. Soft music is punctuated by gently snoring dogs and the soft pedal of Maggi’s spinning wheel. Little by little, wool is worked rhythmically into hanks of yarn. I sit in my comfy old armchair reading, listening and, finally, snoozing like the cats napping on my knee.

Eleven of the clock. Time to go out into the dark and feed the dogs. I like to spend a few moments with the stock in the byre last thing at night, topping up their hay and collecting my thoughts together.

And so to bed.

Each day now falls into a similar pattern. The tups seem to have spread out well. The weather is fine and open, and each morning I set out to turn in the sheep off the very high ground at the back of my hirsel. It is mostly the youngest sheep on the hill, gimmers, two-year-olds, who get away up there. They are extremely fit, never having lambed; the problem is that usually the tups are not prepared to climb all the way up to the tops when there are plenty of other females closer at hand. Older ewes often go looking for a tup when they need one; not gimmers though, so I have tohunt them down nearer to the tups. Even then, gimmers are ‘shy breeders’, and it often requires an experienced and persistent tup to complete a service successfully. Young tups, or a less than fully fit tup, frequently give up. Shepherds have an old saying, ‘Old tup with young ewes; old ewes with a young tup’. It makes a lot of sense, that.

Small flocks of snow buntings flit amongst the rocks and hummocks, their silvery, rippling song well in keeping with their plumage and undulating flight. Winter colours consist of a reddish crown, dark brown back, creamy underneath and, in the male, conspicuous white wing patches. From the ground or a boulder perch, the call is a loud, short warble or sometimes a single ‘tu’ note. Snow buntings are very welcome winter visitors to Glengyle.

While on my daily rounds, I drive any straggling sheep back to their own ground. The ewes on each hirsel are marked with a brightly coloured identification ‘keel’ on a particular part of the fleece. Glengyle ewes are keeled with a scarlet spot on the near (left) hip. The other keels which I am most likely to see are: blue, near hip, on Portnellan ewes; green shoulder – Braes of Balquhidder; blue kidney Ardleish; red shoulder – Dhu. Tups, too, carry a keel mark. In their case, it is a contrast colour to the ewes’ keel, for ease of locating them. My tups have a blue hip keel, but on the far (right) side, to avoid confusion with Portnellan ewes. If I discover someone else’s tup on my ground, I make every effort to return him from whence he came.

Tupping time is a good opportunity to work with my less experienced dogs. Mona, my top dog, always accompanies me just in case I encounter a tricky situation, such as trying to move an intransigent tup. The ewes are very fit this year. A mild autumn with plenty of grass has ensured that they have come into the winter in fine fettle. They will stand a fair amount of ‘dogging’ from the younger dogs.

I have nine dogs in my kennel at the moment. Bo – or Gran – the old matriarch, is now semi-retired and, at 15, has a life of tremendous achievement behind her. Her grand-daughter, Gail, who like Bo is a black-and-tan collie, continues the line. Gail has a son and daughter in the kennel, Boot and Juno. Juno, in turn, is the mother of Owen and Gwen, a couple of six-month-old pups. Maggi Du (Black Maggi) is a daughter of Bo’s full sister, and, as her name suggests, is nearly all black. She is in pup to Boot, and is due to whelp at Christmas. Mona and her son, Max, complete the team. These are the only bought-in dogs, the others are all home-bred.

Recently Mona has replaced old Bo as my top dog. It has been a revelation in dog behaviour to watch as the old bitch has rapidly slipped down the ‘pecking-order’. Even young Gwen will bully her now. I try to make sure that she does not get into corners of conflict, especially with the younger dogs. Of course, Bo lives in the house, not the kennel, along with Mona. It is a privilege of only the best dogs.

A smuttering of snow has capped the high ground during the night. Hill shepherds are quite pleased to see the ‘Big White Dog’ from the sky at this time of year, as it brings the high-flyers down off the tops. The ideal is about a foot of snow to well cover the ground, followed by some hard frost to stop the sheep scraping and digging down to find food. This time, there isn’t much at all, but there could be plenty yet, especially after the turn of the year.

The tup which had seemingly recovered from his summer attack of pneumonia is not working. Each time I pass through his ground, I find him standing all on his own. I gather up some ewes to join him, but a while later they will have moved off, leaving him alone once more. He will have to be changed as soon as possible and taken home for further antibiotic treatment. If, as seems likely, he survives until next month, he will be sold in Stirling as a cast tup along with any other old boys who have come to the end of their useful working lives. I telephone the head shepherd for a replacement and Iain Campbell brings me a strong two-shear Blackface tup in the back of his Land Rover. It is a simple job to change him for the ailing fellow.

Hard night frosts set in and continue until the moon begins to wane. In the cold night air, at dog-feeding time, the moonlight is like a sculpture. The red deer are well coated against the winter elements by their thick, grey double coat. The long, hard guard-hairs of the outer layer successfully resist both the driving, horizontal rain and snow of the west Highlands. Red deer calves quickly learn to dig through the first light snowfalls of winter. Hinds and calves appear to be hardier than the males of the species, keeping to the highest ground, often choosing to stay well above the snow-line. Maybe the stags are still recovering from the stresses and excesses of the rut.

No sooner has the full moon passed than the weather breaks. Two days of solid, torrential rain. Rainfall averages around 12 inches for December. The burns tumble and froth downhill in a spate of white water. These are just the conditions to demonstrate the hardiness of the hill sheep. Dry cold is no problem to them at all. They do not mind rain too much either. But wet and cold together, particularly prolonged wet and cold, driven in on the teeth of a gale, takes its toll. My flock has had its hardiness considerably improved by the introduction of Swaledale blood.

The Swale is similar in appearance to the Blackface, and undoubtedly, many years ago, came off the same stock. These country cousins from the Pennines of England have been selected for two attributes, extreme weather resistance and abundant milk yield. Many traditional Scottish flockmasters will not entertain the idea of using the Swaledale at any price. In my experience, however, the stock resulting from using Swale tups on Blackface ewes show classical hybrid vigour; they forage well in bad weather, milk well on precious little food (invaluable in seasons of late spring) and mother up their lambs beautifully.

Even though in the plant kingdom, it is the middle of winter with most species at their mid-winter rest, there are several exceptions to this apparent situation. The intriguing world of mosses, liverworts and lichens is worth a peep.

Anywhere in the vicinity of water, whether it is a puddle, pool or running burn, mosses and liverworts are likely to abound. Some of these simple, non-flowering plants have separate male and female forms. In other species, they occur together on the same plant. The male produces a motile reproductive cell which swims through the film of surface water, hence their affinity to damp places, homing in on chemicals secreted by the female organs. The fertilised female receptacle develops into a spore-producing capsule.

Mosses have their leaves in spirals or in two rows; liverworts are either flat lobe or have three rows of leaves. Lichens are even more fascinating. In reality, a lichen is not one plant, but two entirely different kinds of plant; a fungus growing in association with an alga. They need each other in order to survive.

Maggi collects some species of lichen for dying wool.

Ewes begin to come into breeding condition as the days shorten. Unless tupped successfully, they return to oestrus every seventeen days. On the 17th day of tupping, fresh ‘chaser’ tups are delivered to Glengyle. I use eight chasers, four on each end of my hill. These reinforcements will, hopefully, mop up any missed ewes and act as an insurance against any of the original tups being infertile. I do not dye the wool of these chasers, just keel them well. This way, they do not become confused with any of the first batch.

It is customary for a shepherd to keep a few sheep of his own, and these are known as the shepherd’s ‘pack’. Mostly they are orphaned lambs, hand-reared by the shepherd or his wife. It is the wool from my pack which Maggi spins during the long winter evenings.

I run a Suffolk tup with my own sheep. This has several advantages. The cross-bred lambs which I sell make more money in the ring than pure Blackface lambs. The quality of wool on the sheep I keep for breeding is better than the rather coarse, hill-type fleece. Finally, the carcasses that end up in the freezer are larger and meatier.

To make sure that the pack will receive adequate attention at lambing time when I am always very busy, I use a harness on my Suffolk tup. This holds a coloured raddle, a sort of large crayon, on his chest and each time he serves a ewe, a distinct mark is left on her rump. Every day during tupping, either Maggi or I will look through the pack and note the name of any ewe that has been tupped. Now, after sixteen days with a green crayon, it is time to change the colour of the raddle to red. The new colour will show over the paler green, in the event of a ewe returning to the tup. In this way, I know on which date each of my ewes is due to lamb – 147 days after tupping. As I only have a small number, every one of them can be sure of individual attention. If I am away on my hill, then Maggi is quite capable of coping.

High up on Meall Mór, 2,000 feet above the house, I often, quite literally, stumble upon ptarmigan. This strange member of the grouse family is seldom seen below this contour level. In winter, both sexes are entirely white, apart from red wattles above the eyes and black or dark brown tail feathers. The males can be identified by a thin, black eye-stripe. Even when there is no snow at all on the ground, the camouflage is very effective. Ptarmigan are surprisingly tame, especially considering that they are game birds, and will sit tight until danger is almost on top of them. Then… an explosive launch, followed by a burst of rapid, whirring flight. Such behaviour is probably adequate in deterring potential predators; even a momentary ‘start’ would give the bird a good chance of escaping. It never fails to startle me.

Christmas is suddenly upon us. On the Friday before Christmas, I take the local youth club members carol singing. We go around all the houses of Stronachlachar, a small Water Board community. It rains. The carol sheets, which Maggi so carefully typed out this afternoon, gradually disintegrate until the choice is reduced to any carol you like – as long as you like ‘Away in a Manger’.

The club meets at Stronachlachar Lodge which was built as the New Hotel at the end of the last century, during the second phase of development by Glasgow Corporation. The old hotel was bought by the Corporation for £5,500, and renamed Invergyle House. It was used by the Corporation until, in 1919, the level of the loch was again raised, when it was demolished. The new building, along with other properties, was taken over by the Corporation in 1920, the year following the compulsory purchase order on the whole catchment area. It was vacant at the time, and has never since been used as a hotel. Today, the Lodge is home to three families. In addition, there are two, large public rooms, where assorted societies hold their meetings, parties and dances.

Tonight is disco night for the younger members of the community. Hot punch – non-alcoholic, I hasten to add – and an oven full of mincepies await the carollers’ return.

On Christmas Eve, the children break up for the holidays.

Early risers are our children, especially on Christmas Day. The floor is soon covered with pretty patterned paper. Later, the task of trying to match gift labels to miscellaneous presents quickly becomes a lost cause.

Christmas day or not, the stock still have to be tended. An hour sees the morning routine completed and then it’s back to the kitchen. To me, Christmas Day, more than any other, is a family day. Jamie and Victoria exhaust their piles of parcels from under the Christmas tree. After a while, although it seems like hours at the time, the tempo slackens a little. Jamie is just beginning to wonder what to do next – play with something or annoy Victoria – when his mother, always a master of timing, wheels in his red, shining, brand-new racing bicycle. The look on his face is a complete picture. Makes my day, it does.

Christmas dinner – the living-room table fairly groans under the quantity of traditional fare. The black bitch, Maggi Du, chooses this moment to start whelping. Each course is followed by a rush out to the barn to see what progress is being made. After numerous sorties to the steading, the bitch has four fine puppies; three bitches and a dog. We have consumed a considerable amount of food, and yet the table appears undiminished.

Everyone joins in doing the evening chores. Sheep are fed and checked; cow and calves are safely housed for the night; dogs given an early supper, and the evening’s supply of logs brought in. Maggi Du barbs her pups with her rough tongue as they nestle and suckle along her belly.

Appetites have been restored, and the evening passes, as I suppose the evening passes all over the country, the world.

The days following Christmas turn raw. A damp chill pervades the air. The head shepherd decides to start giving the hill cows some supplementary feeding. Until now, they have been foraging for themselves on the lower slopes of the hill, occasionally browsing through the woods. Every morning from now, right through to the end of May, my hill cows will be fed hay, straw and high protein cobs.

I expect the first of my spring calves to arrive early in February, long before spring itself. Most of the Glengyle cows are big, Highland type. None of them is very young, so I do not expect any calving problems with them.

The first of my tups begin to come in off the hill. Some of them make their own way home and arrive at the hill gate virtually demanding to be let in; others need to be herded back to the steading, sniffing the air all the way for just one last ewe. I try to leave the chasers out for a little longer since they should still be quite fit. Once a tup has returned safely to the fold at Glengyle, he is fed a small quantity of hay each morning. Soon the number of tups in the East Park begins to grow. The Portnellan tups come back to Glengyle too; it is easier to manage them as a large, single group.

I really enjoy going away to the hill at this time of year, especially if the weather is on its best behaviour. I do not mind the cold, clad in warm tweed and continually moving, and I seldom notice any harshness in the wind. Wandering peaceably around my hirsel, I am never surprised by anything I might see. The red deer are quite used to seeing me with my dogs, and just melt away as I approach. Even if I happen to chance upon them suddenly, they never seem to get into a panic, quietly cantering off towards the nearest cover. Once out of sight, however, they usually pause to take stock of the situation. Some resume feeding almost at once. I have ample opportunity, if I stalk with great care, to watch and study their behaviour. It is not unusual for there to be three score or more red deer on Glengyle. I can see them any time I want to, and plenty of them. But if I have somebody with me, usually with the expressed intent to watch deer, they simply vanish off the face of the earth.

The resident, deep russet dog fox sometimes comes up quite close to me so long as I see him first and the wind is in my favour. Although Mr Tod has relatively poor eyesight, tending to be short-sighted, the eye of the fox is a highly-adapted organ. The retina at the back of the eye is well endowed with sight cells; rods which pick up the slightest movement, and cones which provide full colour vision. It is during the hours of darkness that the wily predator comes into his own since the night vision of a fox is surpassed only by that of an owl. A specialised reflective layer immediately behind the retina returns the image, transmitting light back to the light sensitive rods and cones for a second time. This has the beneficial effect of doubling the light available to the eye. It is this layer, called theTapetum lucedum, which is responsible for the green eyeshine that becomes apparent when a fox (or cat) is caught up in a beam of light.

I keep perfectly still. The dogs lie quiet. Foxy prowls closer and closer. He still has no inkling of my presence. His eyes are set no more than fourteen inches above the ground so his natural horizon is fairly close. Lacking long-sight, his vision is further impaired by the absence of amacula lutea: in eyes equipped with amacula, an area of maximum visual appreciation is present and without it a fox is unable to focus on a stationary object for more than a brief moment. My collies regard this rather aromatic creature without concern until Gwen suddenly pricks up her ears. Exit fox, stage left.

Hogmanay, derived from the old Norse expression for a new season, is the highlight of the Scottish calendar. It may not have the same historical associations as some of the other festivals but faded memories of ancient traditions still persist. Children in some places continue to form into gangs on the last night of the year and go from door to door reciting a poem, demanding a Hogmanay bannock. One old custom, which has died out, was for a man to dress in a dried cowskin and, carrying a torch made from a tightly-rolled sheepskin smeared with tallow, walk three times around a house in a sunwise direction. Each person of the household would then come outside and singe a piece of the hide with the torch. The acrid smoke had to he inhaled by all, including the cattle in the byre. This, I understand, was the ritualistic sacrifice of a god, by fire, to ensure the safe return of the sun to the cold, northern sky.

The more modern style of celebration at New Year centres on the drinking of large quantities of whisky. People divide into two camps: those who stay at home with a few bottles, waiting for visitors, and those who carry the whisky forth into the night to ‘first foot’ their friends and neighbours. A dark-haired man should be the first person to cross your threshold once midnight has been struck. He may bring a small lump of coal or peat which he throws onto the fire to bring luck, thus maintaining a tenuous link with the fire rituals of the past. Drams and toasts will be exchanged long into the new year.

Already my new year is more than a month old. Thirty-four busy days have passed since I put the tups to the hill. Most of my ewes will be in lamb by this time, but there are always some who, for one reason or another, are still empty. During my first years at Glengyle, I used to leave the tups out a little longer before bringing them home. Even if the weather remained fine and open and most of the ewes had been given a third chance to take the tup, I felt that, come lambing time, the number of eild ewes was far too high. Last year, I changed my policy, and brought everything, ewes and tups, into the parks at Glengyle for the best part of a fortnight. This reduced the eild count by five per cent, but there remains much room for improvement in this department.