just watching the sheep.
I am glad to say that Emma, once out of the car, took no
further notice of the sheep. I wish I could say the same for
Zeida. She was immediately possessed with the idea of chasing
them, so our first walk with Harold and Betty was not the quiet
peaceful outing we had expected. Zelda careered off into the
distance after some sheep and Harold, to my utter astonishment,
underwent a total character-change before my very eyes.
I must explain that Harold is in his middle-age, has a very
soft, gentle voice and, coming from Brough just outside Hull,
has a pleasant Yorkshire accent. In addition he is always so
calm and pleasant-at least that is how I had always seen him
up to that moment. His wife, Betty, also has a very gentle way
with her, and whenever we have visited them they have always
been, like all the Yorkshire people I have ever known, most
hospitable and welcoming.
So these quiet, comfortable people were with us on this
mountainside in Skye. Harold always carries a walking stick
with him and at the point where Zelda took off like a dog
possessed after the sheep, Harold threw this stick into the air,
waved it madly and generally went berserk, shouting, 'Come
back, Zelda! Come back here, you stupid bitch!'
I was astounded. I looked at him, and his face was going
redder and redder. 'Harold,' I said, 'that won't do any good.
She'll come back in her own time.'
But he wasn't listening to me. 'Wait till she comes back. I'll
teach her.' And he waved the stick even more furiously.
And Betty, standing beside him, was just as angry. 'Zelda,
Zelda, you wicked dog!' She was shouting.
In the end, Zeida did come back-not a bit ashamed-and
things calmed down, but I couldn't get over the sight of these
two normally calm, friendly people doing a sort of war dance,
with Harold throwing his stick and behaving like a wild man.
In turn, Harold took an instant and irrational dislike to sheep,
partly, I suppose, because he felt so upset that his dog had
chased them and partly because he felt that the sheep should
62
not be allowed to roam. It was as well that there were no
farmers on hand to witness this little scene because I feel they
would have been even more angry than Harold and Betty.
I, on the other hand, was fascinated by the sheep. I longed
to touch them, but, tame as they were, they ran off every time
we got close to them. Then suddenly, I realized something, I
said to Don, 'Have you noticed that they've all got black feet,
and ears, and faces, and tails? And sort of beige-coloured
bodies ?'
'Yes,' he said, 'they're Highland sheep.'
'Yes, I know. But every time I look at one it reminds me of
a huge, woolly Siamese cat.'
'Oh Sheila,' he said, 'how can you say that?'
'No-look at the coat patterning. They are like Siamese.'
He looked again and finally agreed. 'Yes,' he said. 'You're
right, they're black in all the same places that Ming is.'
'I wonder if it's for the same sort of reason, a mutation?'
'I don't know,' said Don. 'You're the expert on that. You'd
better ask one of the sheep-breeders-practically everyone
round here seems to breed sheep. Why don't you ask the barman
at the hotel? He's got some, I know.'
In Siamese cats a mutation gene has restricted the coat
colour pattern. The theory is too complicated to explain
quickly, but whenever you breed Siamese to Siamese they all
get the same coat pattern. I wondered if the same thing occurred
with the Highland sheep. When we were having a drink that
evening at the hotel, I said to the barman: 'Can you tell me
something about the sheep?'
'Aye,' he said in that sing-song Skye accent, 'I breed them.'
'Well, it's strange. They remind me of the Siamese cats I
breed. Do your sheep have a mutation gene that restricts the
coat colour?'
He looked at me long and hard, took a thoughtful swig o.
the malt whisky that was never far from his hand, and said
nothing.
'They've all got black faces, and black feet, and black tails,'
I said. 'What's the reason?'
aye ... they always come like that.'
63
And that was as far as I got in my research into sheepbreeding.
One morning, for a bit of a lark really, Betty and I decided to
go horse-riding. I had not ridden since the day (and, looking
back, I must have been mad) when, unable to see a thing, a
girlfriend had taken me riding in Sherwood Forest. I had ridden
a hard-mouthed brute called Rocky who had proved to be
well-named. He had taken off with me at a thousand miles an
hour and scared the wits out of me. Yet my chief concern, I
remember, had been that the stables would not realize I was
blind!
Now I was in charge, and wondered how it would turn out.
Betty had never ridden in her life before. Don and Harold said
they would come with us and bring the dogs, but decided
against actually riding. We booked at Macdonald's Riding
School and set off. We found it down a dirt track on a mountainside,
and also discovered that the reality was not as grand
as the title.
A sort of decrepit shed stood there, and how it stood there I
do not know. Perhaps it was sheltered in the lee of the mountainside,
but it seemed that the lightest Scottish breeze would have
blown it over. It looked as if it dated from the very first discovery
of Skye. As we were staring at it from the car a little old
man emerged, wizened, brown and wrinkled in the face. But
you couldn't really see a lot of him. He wore an old jumper, and
when I say 'old' I mean it was matted with age and seemed to
cling to him as if it had actually grown on him. You couldn't
see anything of his neck because the jumper reared up round
his chin and his cars. It was met by an old tweed cap with a
peak on it that was tied on with a piece of string, and the cap
had obviously seen better days as well. Tiny, shrewd eyes peered
out from hooded eyelids.
'I hope he's not running the place,' I said to Don. 'He doesn't
look as if he could put a bridle on, let alone give riding lessons.'
'No,' said Don, 'he won't own it. Come on, don't worry.'
We got out of the car, and Emma went up and sniffed
curiously, first the air around him, then his boots, then his
ankles and then his legs. I think she could hardly believe her
64
,lose that so many scents of such antiquity could exist in one
place.
'How dlye do,' he said, 'My name is Alasdair Macdonald.'
oli, I thought, Macdonald. He obviously does own the place.
~~e all shook hands.
c~-ou'll be the Hockens,' he said. 'Aye, well I've not got ye
booked for four, only two.'
N-e explained. 'Aye, well ... I've not been feeling too well
lately. So will ye be goin' out on your own?'
I told him that Betty couldn't ride at all.
'Aye, well did you no sayyou could ride?'
'Er, well yes, I did.' I didn't want to go into the entire business
of saying that when I had ridden I couldn't see. In fact, I
had no idea what to expect and was really relying on someone
competent Coming out with us.
I could hear Don making noises of suppressed laughter
behind me . I turned and gave him a look. How could he laugh
at this poor, frail old man? Then, when I turned back, I saw
Alasdair Macdonald was holding a bottle of golden-coloured
liquid in his hand. He touched me on the arm confidentially
and s~tid, 'Will ye no be having a wee dram with me?'
It was ten o'clock in the morning. I thanked him but said
that I would not be having a wee dram. Carried on the breeze
came a powerful hint of a uniquely Scottish kind of medicine for
any ailment that Alasdair Macdonald might be suffering from.
'Aye, well. I might be able to get into the saddle. But I have
to have a bit of me medicine before I go out on the fells.'
Harold and Don stood there, and Betty and I knew they were
waiting to see what a hash we made of mounting our ponies
when they eventually arrived.
'Will ye join me in a wee dram?' Alasdair Macdonald said
to Don and Harold.
'Ah ... no thanks, old lad,' said Harold. 'It's a bit early for
me. But don't let us stop you.'
'I can see ye're understandin' folk. Will you come into the
shed a minute?'
He led the way into the tumbledown shed. It had stirrups
hanging oin bits of string and saddles strewn about the floor.
But there was hardly space for them on account of the stacks of
65
old whisky and brandy bottles in every corner. Once inside,
Alasdair Macdonald flourished the bottle again.
'I think I could do with some of that,' said Betty. 'I've never
been on a horse before. You'd better let me have a nice tame
one.'
'Och . . . they're all nice little tame ones. I train them all
mysel'. '
I didn't much like the sound of that. I could not, stretch my
imagination as I might, visualize him breaking in a horse. I
had immediate visions of Betty and me galloping in all directions
up the mountainsides, with Harold and Don laughing,
and Emma and Zelda looking on in bewilderment.
'Do you live here?' asked Don, as another dose of medicine
was being self-administered.
'Aye. Born and bred here. LiVed here all my life. I've never
wanted to go anywhere else.'
'Have you never been to the mainland?' I asked him.
'Aye, I did just the once, you know.'
'Oh, did you? Did you come down to England?'
'No, I went down to Edinburgh. But it was a bit too rushed
for me. Too much traffic. I would no want to live in a place
like that. Give me Skye, it's nice and peaceful.'
'When did you go?' Don asked.
'Ah, let's see ... it would be nineteen forty-seven.'
'Nineteen forty-seven!' I said in disbelief. 'My goodness. You
haven't seen what it's like now? Have you seen .
lights ?'
He looked at me with a blank expression.
. . er ... traffic
,. . . and what about zebra crossings ... traffic jams ... skyscrapers . . . ?'
I went on a wild catalogue of the doubtful
benefits of civilization.
He shook his head. 'No, I don't think I have. No.'
It was odd, I thought, that in only a few months of sight I
had probably seen more than Alasdair Macdonald had in his
entire life. When he spoke, too, it was as if he inhabited his own
self-contained world. His voice was quiet, and in the middle of
a sentence you thought he might fall asleep and not finish it.
Then, when you were thinking of saying something else to
prevent the conversation from ending, he would continue.
66
I
There was another empty 'medicine' bottle to add to the pile
before we stepped outside again. Understandably perhaps,
Alasdair took quite a time to round up and saddle and bridle
three ponies, and then he took about five tries before he finally
succeeded in getting on to his pony, and it was not very tall.
Betty wanted to show her keenness and the fact that, although
she was a beginner, she was not daunted. I could see by her face
that she thought the small pony he had given her was the size
of a hunter, but she was not going to give in. She got on the
mounting block, took an enormous leap, missed the pony completely
and landed over the other side. We tried not to laugh,
and Harold almost had heart failure.
Eventually we were all mounted, and off we went up the side
of the mountain. Sitting there on the pony, even though it was
not very big, I began to think I was a long way from the ground
and that I preferred, in this instance, not being able to see. We
were only walking, so I was able to keep calm for the time being.
But then we started going down the side of the mountain, a very
steep side, and that horrified me-to see from the top of the
pony this distant vista below that moved wildly with every step.
I felt quite out of control. Although they were mountain ponies
and were very sure-footed I felt anything but safe, and when we
got to a piece of slippery ground and my pony did not handle it
very well I had to hold on to the saddle until he managed to
stop himself slipping and canter on. Betty was in an even worse
plight. Her pony slipped on the same piece of ground. I heard
her shouting frenziedly at me, but I couldn't do anything.
Alasdair would save her, I thought. I looked round. Alasdair
was nowhere to be seen.
'Betty!' I shouted. 'Hold on to the reins. Hang on to your
saddle!'
'Aaagh!' she screamed. 'Help!'
I turned back to try and help her, but luckily she managed
to keep her scat and the pony began to follow mine back up the
mountain.
'Where's Alasdair?' I said when we had rejoined one another.
'I don't know,' she said breathlessly. 'I looked round when
my pony started to slip, but he'd disappeared. What do you
think's happened?'
67
i
i
'What do you mean, "What do you think's happened?" He
should be worried about us, not us about him.'
'I know. But did you see how much whisky he'd put away?
I don't think we're safe. I think we ought to make our way
back.'
It was the best idea, but unfortunately I had no idea how to
get back. I was still no good at remembering visual routes. I
had always remembered the way by hearing and smell and
other senses, and I had certainly taken nothing in of that kind on
the way. Luckily the ponies remembered where home was, and
headed back in the right direction. I tried to get mine to trot
but he refused. After his little flourish down the mountain he
obviously considered that was enough excitement for one day,
and he would walk back.
We arrived at the shed feeling sure tha
t Alasdair would be
there, no doubt having more medicine. But he had not got
back. Don and Harold came out to meet us.
'That was quick, lass,' said Harold. 'Are you all right?'
'I'm fine,' said Betty, 'but we've lost Alasdair.'
'You've what?'
'We've lost Alasdair Macdonald.'
'How can you have lost him? He went out with you.'
'Yes. But we went over a mountain and when we looked
round he'd disappeared.'
We dismounted and stood there wondering what to do. About
twenty minutes went by and then, in the distance along the dirt
track, we saw Alasdair's pony. He was walking beside it.
'Aye,' he said as he reached us. 'I'm afraid I had a wee
accident. I'm sorry if ye missed me. It was ma pony. I could nae
control him, and ma leg was playing me up. So I thought I'd
better walk.'
We were glad we didn't know this sort of thing was going to
happen before we went out, but Alasdair said no more about it.
He took us again into his shed, where he kept us for about an
hour with endless stories about Skye.
'Ye see that field over yonder?' he crooned, indicating with
a brown sinewy hand. Behind his little cottage, which looked
as if it had one bedroom and one other room, was a field which
might have been fenced at one time.
68
'Aye. 'Twas in that field my mare foaled,' he said quietly.
Alasdair often repeated himself as if he were addressing backward
six-year-olds. 'Foaled ... foaled she did, in that very field.'
He looked at us to make sure we were all paying attention. We
were. We were fascinated.
'It was one summer night, and I heard a sound, and I crept
to the window, and there I saw my mare. Thirty-four she was,
thirrrty-four-well, I was a wee bit concerned, because, do you
know ... I saw this small wee thing next to her. Next to her it
was, right in the field. I could see its coat in the moonlight.
Aye ... well I thought I'd better go out and have a look so I
put my clothes on and ... you'll never guess . . .' He looked at
us, his eyes intent and shining at the memory.
'No,' we all said, because we knew he expected it, 'what was
it?'