The Book of Kells

I am in Dublin, courtesy of Lynchpin Tours an Irish tour operator with whom we have worked for some years, providing an integrated experience for those wishing to visit our two countries. We flew from Inverness to Belfast and were met by David of Lynchpin who whisked us down to Dublin under pure blue skies. The same skies had allowed a great aerial view of the west coast of Scotland, the islands and the Antrim coast. Now 'divided' by sea, this was all at one time the Lordship of the Isles, controlled by the great Clan Donald and connected by these busy sea lanes.


We went straight to Trinity College Dublin and were met by Anne Marie Diffley, curator of the university library which now houses the Book of Kells, which in short contains the four gospels written on calf vellum by monks at the monastery of Iona in the 8th century. So far so remarkable that such a document should have survived, given time and the constant raiding of Iona by Vikings in the 8th and 9th centuries. (The golden case that housed the Book of Kells was actually stolen but the book discarded). What is truly remarkable is that on this tiny remote island, there were artists of such extraordinary genius since the book is illustrated extravagantly and exquisitely with images, symbols and Celtic knotwork created in pigments that had found their way from present day Afghanistan and Egypt to Iona.

No photograph can do justice to this incredible work of art; you have to see it.

When I asked when the book would return home to Scotland I was met with a wry Irish smile.

Death of Sir William Wallace

In London for New Year, I came upon a Place of Execution: Smithfield, a little north of St Paul's Cathedral. Sir William Wallace is the most famous victim; well, he is the only one for whom there is a memorial plaque. On the pavement below lay a faded sprig of heather and small bouquets, tied with tartan ribbon. The romance of Wallace, guerilla leader, born four hundred miles away in another country, executed 1305, is enduring.


Smithfield, sandwiched between St Bartholomew's Hospital (founded 1123) and Smithfield meatmarket (slightly older) has seen numerous executions. More than 200 Protestant martyrs were burnt at the stake in the reign of Queen Mary, swindlers and coin forgers were boiled in oil there and Sir John Oldcastle, the original Falstaff was roasted alive in chains. But the only plaque is that to Sir William Wallace.

Only a few feet away is the lovely Church of St Bartholomew the Great. It has been in continuous use as a place of worship since 1143, is adjacent to the oldest inhabited house in London and has featured in such films as 'Shakespeare in Love' and 'Four Weddings and a Funeral'.

There is an odd connection here. Wallace was executed on the Eve of St Bartholomew's Day 1305. The Bartholomew Fair at Smithfield seems to have been a great party. Was Wallace's Execution the day preceding perhaps a curtain raiser to the celebrations? This might have appealed to Edward Longshanks.

PS. In Scotland we have a wonderful monument to Sir William near the site of his most famous victory; it's a pity that other significant places in his life are not well cared for.

Nairn is one of the World's Top Five Travel Destinations for 2010!

I am delighted, privileged even, to be writing from Nairn, one of the top five travel destinations in the world! And no, this is not as voted by the Association of Nairn Businesses but according to the all knowing Tripadvisor. In the days of Charlie Chaplin Nairn was known as the 'Riviera of the North'; it doesn't look quite like that today with five inches of snow on the ground, but this news will be heartening to Ian Bochel of Nairn's excellent Sunny Brae Hotel and Iain Fairweather who doughtily promotes Nairn via www.visitnairn.com and took the excellent photo above.

Disappointing that neither Fodor's nor Lonely Planet have warmed to Nairn's charms but they don't even put Scotland in their top ten so what the hell do they know! They'll catch on one day.

We all look forward to welcoming you to Nairn.

Cleits and Whisky Distilling in Achapharic

It's a lovely time of year.

Not just the frost (picture taken yesterday) and festive stuff, but those of us lucky enough to be running holiday companies have a few minutes to ponder: 2009 holidays are done and only a few people are embarked on next year's arrangements. Of course there is still plenty to do, but I allow myself to pursue the occasional 'red herring' . A Canadian client wrote:

'The reason for the Kintyre Peninsular is that my parents found our ancestors' place of residence (a ruin) on the west coast of the peninsular near A'Cleit on a visit a couple of years ago. We absolutely need to visit that place. It was called Achapharic)'.

I learned that cleit is a word that survived largely on St Kilda (before it was evacuated in 1930), meaning a stone built storehouse and I came on this wonderful picture of a man on a cleit roof holding a fowling rope. The rope would be so that a youngster would have a safety rope as he raided the nests on cliff ledges below for plump young gulls. Another picture of a cleit below.

'Achapharic' took me to stories of illicit whisky distilling to make money that was needed for ever higher rents...

In 1806 a typical rent would be one or two 3-year old wedders at six shillings each, six dozen eggs and six hens valued at four shillings plus a sum of money which entitled the tenant to a seat in church. The tenants were also bound to cart loads of turf for dyking, grow oats and bear for meal, flax for coarse linen and give the services of a man and a cart free for two to six days annually.

Living off young gulls or keeping hold of your house only by distilling whisky in the hills and evading excisemen...

We've come a long way in 200 years.

Or have we?

Fatlips and Gilnocky

I was in the Borders on a glorious autumn weekend (just before the floods!). As we passed Fatlips Tower on Minto Crags, I gave the traditional explanation of the odd name: 'The Turnbulls had fat lips'. But apparently there is a more interesting theory: one of the pleasures of a visit to Fatlips used to be that "every gentleman, by indefeasible privilege, kisses one of the ladies on entering."

The Turnbulls were a small Border clan; but travelling south we passed Caerlanrig, a place of pilgrimage for the Armstrongs, a big beast in the Border reiving jungle. In the 1500s Border families were raiding into England, embarrassing the Kings of Scots and in November 1530 Johnnie Armstrong of Gilnocky, one of the most successful reivers of his day rode out to Caerlanrig. He was invited to meet his king. Dressed in his finery, and with promise of safe passage, he rode with thirty-six followers to meet the youthful James V of Scotland who was hunting in the area.

Well, in brief, Johnnie and his men were taken and hanged without trial - pour encourager les autres. Johnnie's grave is there. His exploits are commmemorated in The Ballad of Johnnie Armstrong.

We went on to Johnnie's home at Gilnocky Tower (below), now a Clan Armstrong museum. (And yes, this photo was taken on 13 November 2009!).


As we headed further south, west and into England, we passed Carlisle, whose castle is made famous in another great story of the Borderlands. Kinmont Willie, also an Armstrong, was dramatically sprung from the castle by a bold Border raiding party led by Sir Walter Scott of Buccleuch.

But that... is another ballad.