The 'Auld Alliance' by Margaret Skea

Some years ago the BBC ran an advert for the 6 Nations Rugby tournament which was pulled following some complaints, and then proceeded to go viral! The punchline was - 

 

‘It’s not who you want to win, but who you want to lose.’

 

No prizes for guessing the answers the Scots, Irish and Welsh fans gave. 

Clever – yes. Amusing – yes. And like all the best humour, based on a grain of truth. But from the Scots perspective at least, it has its roots in ancient history.

The United Kingdom has a common flag - the Union Jack, which symbolizes both the union of the crowns of 1603 and the union of parliaments in 1707. A union that, despite having been challenged in recent years, has nevertheless survived relatively unscathed for over 400 years. 

But Scotland had a prior alliance, with France, which has come to be known as the ‘Auld Alliance.’ It is one of the longest standing treaties in the world (more on that later). Renewed by successive monarchs it was based on a sense of a common enemy, and that enemy was England.

 

In 1579 David Chamber, one of the Lords of Council and Session at Edinburgh claimed that the Auld Alliance dated back to Philip I of France and Malcolm III of Scotland. If it did, no documentary evidence remains. 

 

The earliest extant record of the treaty is dated 23^rd October 1295 which John Balliol concluded with Philip the Fair. Balliol was technically only the Scottish King under the over-lordship of Edward I of England, so the terms of the treaty with France are somewhat surprising. It bound Scotland and France to provide mutual support in the event of war with England. 

                                                                         John Balliol 

An excerpt from the 1326 version of the treaty, between Charles IV of France and Robert I of Scotland, illustrates both the main terms and the tone of the treaty.

 

‘…a meet and necessary thing it is that princes should ally themselves together by bond of friendship and goodwill in order the grievances of those who desire to grieve them more forcibly to refrain; and the tranquility of them and of their subjects more peaceably to secure…with the noble prince Robert, by the grace of God King of Scotland our special friend, against the King of England, whose predecessors have often labored to aggrieve the said kingdoms of France and Scotland in many and sundry ways…’ 

 

Even more strikingly there was provision for what should happen in the event of either country making peace with England –

 

‘…if our kingdom shall make peace or truce with the king of England…the King of Scotland, his heirs shall be excepted; so that such peace shall be null whenever war is waged between the aforesaid kings of Scotland and England  …France shall be bound to make war upon the kingdom of England with all their force…firmly to observe, faithfully to perform and fully to accomplish.’  (Ditto in reverse.)

 

No wriggle room there then! The treaty was renewed at least 12 times between 1295 and 1543 and many of the original documents survive among the charters of France. They can be accessed via an inventory, catalogued by a M. du Tillet and printed in folio in 1588. One significant effect of this on-going treaty was a succession of contracts of marriage, beginning in 1235 with Edward Balliol (son of King John) to Joan, niece of the French King; with the most famous being the marriage of Mary Queen of Scots to the Dauphin Francis in 1558.

Mary Queen of Scots and Dauphin Francois

While the treaty was mutually beneficial, it does seem that the balance fell in favour of the French, with Scotland regularly providing troops, sometimes in very significant numbers, to aid the French in their wars with England, both on French and on English soil. 

There were notable wins for the Scots – in 1420 they defeated the English at Beange; but notable losses also – in 1326, following the French defeat at the Battle of Crecy, David II attacked the north of England but was routed at what has become known as the Battle of Neville’s Cross.  

Battle of Neville's Cross

The story goes that David, heavily wounded, fled the battlefield and took refuge under the arch of Aldin Grange Bridge on the river Browney. There he was said to have been betrayed by his own reflection in the river and was thus captured by John Coupland. Legend or truth, what is clear is that when Coupland delivered David to the English king, Edward, he was rewarded with  a substantial fee and a knighthood. David was imprisoned in the Tower of London for ten years and finally handed back to the Scots apparently for a ransom that would equate to c £15 million in today’s money.  Whether the ransom was actually paid is however a debatable point.  

Saddest of all the efforts of the Scots was the enormous loss of Scottish lives at the Battle of Flodden in 1513, when James IV attacked England in support of France despite the English King, Henry, being James’ brother-in-law. It was said that ‘the flower of Scottish nobility perished on that day’ and the lament ‘Flowers of the Forest’ commemorates the deaths of James and around 10,000 of his men. There were few of the leading families in Scotland untouched by that tragedy. The site of the battle and the fallen on both sides is commemorated in a memorial cross. It is near where I currently live and walking around the battlefield is incredibly atmospheric. 

                                                                 Site of the Battle of Flooden

 So what did the Scots get in return for centuries of service to France? Quite a bit actually. Many individuals received military, civil and ecclesiastical honours and offices, but most importantly, every Scot was entitled to letters of naturalization – in effect giving them the right to dual nationality. (Handy if you’re in trouble in your home country!)  That right was confirmed by Henry IV as late as 1599, with letters signed by him at the palace of Fontainbleau, and I love the detail - ‘sealed with the great seal in green wax, in a lace of red and green silk.’  This ensured that Scots could be testate in France and could both inherit and dispose of any assets they possessed there.  This is of relevance to my fictional family, the Munros, who are central figures in my Scottish trilogy, set in the real-life feud between the Cunninghame and Montgomerie families, called the 'Ayrshire Vendetta'.  

 

Another important result of the alliance was the establishment of the Gardes Ecossaise in 1418 – an elite troop that was supposed to be comprised entirely of Scots (that was the theory, however there is evidence that others were admitted and both Mary Queen of Scots and James VI are recorded as having made protests on that score.) The Gardes formed the royal bodyguard of successive French kings and their duties ranged from keeping the keys of the King’s bedchamber and assisting at the reception of ambassadors and waiting at coronations, baptisms and marriages of royal children, to carrying the body and guarding the effigy of a (dead) King. One captain of the Gardes was Robert Stewart of Aubigny and both he and the Auld Alliance are commemorated at a ceremony in Aubigny-sur-Neve to this day. 

My own interest in the Auld Alliance stems from researching the Gardes Ecossaise, because the real-life Patrick Montgomerie, one of my favourite historical characters in my trilogy, was a captain in this elite troop. His involvement in the Gardes allowed me to take my fictional family to France.

A  rather elegantly dressed Garde Ecossaise

But perhaps the most important advantage that the Auld Alliance gave to Scots were trading privileges for Scots merchants. They were required to pay only ¼ of the normal duty on all the goods that they imported from France to Scotland and were similarly acquitted from new duties imposed on merchandise they brought to France.  Interestingly these privileges didn’t stop even after the Act of Union in 1707 which formally linked England and Scotland under a single parliamentary system. English merchants continued to be penalized, while Scots merchants were not.

 

Historian Dr Siobhan Talbott has spent some years researching the treaty signed in 1295 and suggests that there is no evidence that it was ever formally rescinded. Others have suggested that it was dissolved by the Treaty of Edinburgh in 1560, as a by-product of the reformation in Scotland, but she is convinced that there isn’t anything in the treaty to support that view. Three facts also support her view – that Henry IV again ratified the naturalization of all Scots in 1599, that trading privileges continued even after 1707, and that in 1942 Charles de Gaulle made a speech describing the Auld Alliance as an active agreement; claiming it was the ‘oldest in the world’. If this is indeed true it is now 730 years old, and as such trounces the other contender for ‘oldest treaty’ – that between England and Portugal signed in 1373.  

 

Postscript: In 1906, under the Entente Cordiale, the part of the agreement that meant that Scots had the same rights in France as the native French was rescinded, but not made retrospective. Which means theoretically anyone born before 1906 could still claim dual nationality, even today.  Though, as I’m not aware of any Scots older than 120, it probably doesn’t matter too much now! 

 

Margaret Skea is the author of the prize-winning Munro Scottish Saga, as well as a fictionalised biography of Katharina von Bora, the wife of the reformer, Martin Luther, a contemporary missionary biography, and a collection of short stories.   These are available in selected UK bookshops or direct from Margaret's website at https://www.margaretskea.com and in print and kindle via Amazon https://www.amazon.co.uk/stores/Margaret-Skea/author/B009B9HCUC?ref

  

 

 

 

 

 

The Armada at Anstruther by V.E.H. Masters

Early one morning in November of 1588 the villagers of Anstruther on the East coast of Scotland awoke to find a ship in their harbour with over 250 starving Spanish Armada sailors and soldiers on board. We know this because the local minister of the time, James Melville, wrote about it in the extensive diaries he kept. 

I discovered Melville's diaries as I came to the end of writing my first book in series, The Castilians, about the 1546 siege of St Andrews Castle, sixteen miles away. Fascinated by the story of the Armada that came to the East Neuk I determined to write about it next – until fellow author Margaret Skea pointed out the length of time which separated the two events. 'A lot can happen to your characters in forty years,' she said.

And so I wrote, The Seton Chronicles, a five book series which spans the remarkable changes as the reformation took hold in Europe and has my characters fleeing for their lives through Geneva, Antwerp, Venice, Frankfurt and Constantinople. But now, in the final book in series, The Pittenweemers, I finally returned to Scotland, delving into James Melville diaries once more to explore the remarkable story of the Armada in Anstruther.

James VI of Scotland was a ten month old baby when he last saw his mother Mary Queen of Scots, who had been held prisoner by the queen of England for nineteen years. Nevertheless he corresponds regularly with Elizabeth and pleads with her to spare Mary, even suggesting that someone whose father had executed his own bedfellow should not follow suit. 

Queen Elizabeth I - Armada portrait

His pleas were disregarded and Mary, Queen of Scots was beheaded by her cousin Elizabeth of England in 1587. That a queen appointed by God should behead another queen, also appointed by God, sent shock waves around Europe. Philip of Spain, already made furious by Sir Francis Drake's piracy on Spanish ships and attack on Cadiz began to gather the largest fleet ever seen, often by 'acquiring' merchant ships within his domain. His purpose was nothing less than to conquer England.

The Pittenweemers

Scotland had been Protestant for 28 years and tales of the coming of the Spanish Armada along with rising fears about the year 1588, which had long been prophesied as catastrophic had people fearful – actually terrified would be more accurate. Here's my character Will, minister of Pittenweem, thoughts on the matter … 

It was an unusually stormy summer with a resulting poor harvest and an inevitable rise in food prices, and that, combined with the increasing rumours of various sightings of the Spanish Armada off Scotland, caused grave anxiety amid Will’s flock. Given the disquietude, Will considered it most unfortunate that there continued to be an outpouring of predictions about the significance of the year. Sitting at a board strewn with papers one morning in early August, he leaved through a discourse written by an Englishman. 

This Richard Harvey was claiming they should all expect either a dissolution or a wonderfull horrible alteration of the worlde in this year of our Lord fifteen hundred and eighty-eight. Harvey wrote in tortured tones, Will could almost hear his voice and a certain relish in his doomsaying, that the disorder would swell until it culminated in a thunderous crescendo, after which irrevocable changes would be embedded – or ‘poof’, Will flicked his fingers – the world would be consumed by a fiery cataclysm. But then, judging by what the astrologers were discovering, that was not so improbable. Comets did shoot across the sky, and what was to prevent those blazing implements of Satan from crashing into the world? And the movement of stars could and did cause an imbalance in the body’s humours – and all this was yet another way in which God punished sinners.

Will sat staring at his desk unseeing for a long time. Eventually he stood up, went out into the rain-soaked garden and gazed up at the ominous dark clouds forming and reforming above. These astronomers and astrologers were like a den of dragons blasting out burning air imputing all failings of nature, accidents of misfortune, oversights and errors to the skies and revelling in their prophecies of perdition. 

Nevertheless, his heart did quail when he thought on the most recent prophecy, which claimed that it was in this year the impact of the perilous conjunction of the planets five years ago was to be realised. Yet if the world was to be blessed by the second coming of Christ, as some prophesied, then that could only be a matter of joy – after the cataclysm. 

And James Melville writes of attending the General Assembly of the Church of Scotland in Edinburgh and  how terrible was the fear, piercing was the preaching, earnest and fervent the prayers amid the abounding sighs and sobs, for if Philip took England he would likely then take Protestant Scotland.

August of 1588 and the 130 odd ships that make up the Armada are defeated by the smaller and more manoeuvrable ships under the direction of Sir Francis Drake – and the terrible storms. Around sixty ships are blown up the East coast of Scotland many foundering off Orkney, Shetland, Fair Isle, Ireland and one on Norway. Every attempt to return to Spain was thwarted and the sailors, soldiers, priests and interpreters of the Armada not unnaturally assumed that God had turned against them.

El Gran Grifón ran aground off Fair Isle with over 300 hundred men on board. The captain, Gómez de Medina (not to be confused with the overall Armada commander, the Duke de Medina Sidonia) had rescued men from other ships which sunk, in direct contravention of King Philip's orders. The few households on Fair Isle were unable to provide food for starving men and fifty died. It is of note that there's no reports of them taking from the islanders by force and the captain, known to his men as El Buen – The Good – lived up to his epithet.

                  Armada Chest, complete with complex locking system, at Traquair House

The Spanish may not have had any provisions left but they had gold. Gómez de Medina found his way to Orkney, rescued his men and acquired a ship. It was November by now and the storms had not much abated. Their ship foundered off Anstruther and Medina came ashore to seek help. Here's the scene again from the perspective of  my character Will …

Medina continued as though the interpreter hadn’t spoken. ‘His glorious grace King Philip brought together a mighty fleet and army to avenge the intolerable wrongs and grievous injustices inflicted upon the peoples of the Spanish Empire by the treacherous nation of England. But for our sins, God has turned against us, driving us past the coast of England and subjecting us to storms sent by divine providence over the past several months. Many of our ships have sunk in merciless seas or been dashed against inhospitable shores. Those few of us whom God has chosen to survive have endured bitter cold and suffered great hunger. We come here to kiss the hand of the king of the Scots ...’ Medina paused here and bowed low once more ‘... and beg of you to render us assistance.’

Will watched James Melville and sent up a prayer that he would show a true spirit of kindness, as Jesus Christ would have done.

Melville began to speak. ‘Our friendship cannot be great, seeing your king and you are friends to the greatest enemy of Christ – the Pope of Rome. Our king and we defy that son of Satan and his cause against our neighbours and special friends of England.’ Melville paused to let the translator catch up. ‘And yet we, as Christians of a better religion, are moved by compassion. A compassion that is not manifest to our merchants residing among you with peaceable intent pursuing their lawful affairs who have been violently taken and cast in prison, their goods and gear confiscated and their bodies committed to the cruel flaming fire in the cause of religion. But among us you will find nothing but Christian pity and mercy, leaving God to work in your hearts concerning religion as it so pleases Him – for we will give you assistance.’ 

And so Melville permitted two hundred and fifty men to come ashore. The people of the village were so horrified at the sight of these starving mostly young and beardless men that they ran into their houses and brought them food.

Rumour has it that James Melville was rewarded for his largesse with some of the Spanish gold – and he did build a rather large manse soon after.

Those who came ashore in Scotland and Ireland – many of whom were slaughtered as they staggered up the beaches for their clothes and 'gold' – made their way to Edinburgh, perhaps expecting a sympathetic welcome since James VI was the son of the poor beheaded Mary, even if he was a Protestant.  The Catholic leaning nobles wined and dined the captains however the men, somewhere in the region of a thousand of them including priests, were starving vagrants on the streets. Eventually ships were sent and they were re-patriated to Spain.

The Seton Chronicles

Gómez de Medina's ancestors were Jews and his grandfather was burned at the stake – a point of significance within my overall story of The Setons, since some of my characters are Conversos (Jews who were forced to convert to Catholicism). King Philip had demanded that all his captains be 'pure' but those tasked with checking this ran out of time to inquire of the Inquisitor of Seville about Medina's family background.  

Truth is so often much stranger than fiction – and this is what I love about writing historical fiction! 

V.E.H. Masters is the award winning author of the best selling series The Seton Chronicles. Her first novel The Castilians is set in her home town and tells the story of the siege of St Andrews Castle. You can find out more at https://vehmasters.com/ where three free short stories telling more of The Setons are available to download. 


References:

Armada by Colin Martin and Geoffrey Parker

The Diaries of James Melville – National Library of Scotland

How do you dig a Siege Tunnel?

If you've ever been to St Andrews you'll know it's not only the home of golf and site of Scotland's oldest university but the town itself is steeped in history. Once a great centre of pilgrimage, the cathedral was left in ruins after the Scottish Reformation in 1560. Although I grew up in St Andrews the ruins were simply part of the backdrop of daily life. I was twelve years old before our history teacher, Miss Grubb, took us to visit what was left of the cathedral.

St Andrews Cathedral

We also visited the castle where there is there is the most remarkable siege tunnel, dug in 1546 and the best surviving example of siege tunnelling in Europe from the era.

St Andrews Castle

You enter it from the side of the dry moat via a steep and uneven few steps. Almost immediately you're bent double and for anyone who is at all claustrophobic a quick retreat is in order.

Entrance to Siege Tunnel

Creeping down the central trench, at constant risk of scraping your back on the rough stone above, you come to a fork which leads to a dead end. You retreat and continue along the main tunnel, the sense of being squeezed growing ever greater until you can barely draw breath. Then suddenly the narrow passage ends. There's a wall of rock before you and nowhere to go. Yet looking down you spy an entrance hole.

Dare you squash yourself throughand descend the metal ladder to find out what’s below? Down you tentatively go and the space opens out. 

The tunnel is a tale of two halves and this part is broad and high with steps leading to the sealed off entrance beneath a house in North Street. There’s also a grating visible, which my brother and his friends entertained themselves during school lunchbreaks by howling down from the street above, to terrify (or perhaps create atmosphere for) the tourists beneath.

From the moment I first went down the siege tunnel at St Andrews Castle I was utterly entranced. And when I learned the men who had taken the castle early one morning by stealth, murdered its cardinal in revenge for the burning of a Protestant preacher, and held it against all comers for the next fourteen months called themselves 'the castilians' I felt a shiver of foreknowledge. What a perfect title for a book, I thought… I didn't know then how very long it would take me to write it!

I did however always wonder what the point of tunnelling in was. Surely as soon as the besiegers popped their head up out of the tunnel it would likely be knocked off? When I came to do the research for The Castilians I finally understood.

The information is in the name – I have so far referred to this long underground passage as a siege tunnel and was confused as a schoolgirl why it was called the mine and counter mine.

It was never the intention of Mary Queen of Scots forces (we are in the period of regency and Mary is only 3 years old) to tunnel into the castle, capture the Protestants holding it and thus break the siege. The purpose of digging was to undermine the curtain wall, set explosives beneath it, bring it down and then storm the castle.

This is why, when you go down the tunnel/mine it's a tale of two halves. The first part is low and narrow and clearly dug at great speed. Once you climb down the iron ladder into the second part it's wide and high.

The besiegers began to dig in what was then known as Northgait, now North Street, at the back of a house, and hidden from those patrolling the castle walls. The aim was to dig secretly and deep until they gauged they were beneath the curtain wall. They'd then support the roof of the mine with wooden props, set explosives around the props, light fires and run fast as they could out the tunnel before it blew. The explosion would bring down part of the wall, the troops would charge and the castle would be re-taken.

But…this is the great era of siege warfare and those who are holding the castle are well aware their besiegers will likely try to get them out by undermining the walls. One of the ways those inside the castle could ascertain if mining was happening was to set up bowls of water around the courtyard and see if the water was rippling – a sign of underground activity.

False Start

In the case of the siege of St Andrews Castle those within were fairly certain the besiegers were tunnelling in. The aim then was to counter mine out as fast as they could and intercept the mine before the besiegers got beneath the curtain wall. 

The challenge was to work out where the besiegers were actually digging if they were to intercept them and inside the castle there are a couple of very deep holes to be found – false starts. Eventually they found the right spot… here's an exert from The Castilians

They hear sounds of alarm; it seems they are discovered. Any attempt to stay quiet is given up and they excavate as hard and fast as they can. Someone has fetched Richard Lee and he pushes past Will, directing them to attack the ground beneath, and not before them.

‘We must be quick,’ he hisses, ‘else they’ll have time to set explosives and blow us into eternity.’

Will shovels the rubble behind him to keep the area clear for the miners to work – there’s no time to scuttle back up the passageway with it now. A hole has appeared in the floor of the tunnel. Lee has a man shield the candles, whispering that he needs it dark to see if there’s torchlight shining through from below.

Will, Lee and the two miners all huddled tight together nudge one another: light is shining through. They enlarge the hole, cries beneath them growing loud, then fading. Lee kneels at the edge, and sticks his head through. Will can feel Lee’s body tense, ready to pull his head back. He is a brave man. They wait.

Lee lifts his head out and smiles. ‘It could not be more perfect.’

I still wonder at the amazing feat to dig, and dig so fast. There’s little reference to it in the papers of the time. The French ambassador to the English Court mentions the mine and counter-mine in his letters of November 1546, but by December it’s over and the attempt to break the siege has failed again…

St Andrews Castle

If you’re ever in St Andrews Castle, don’t forget to go down the mine and counter-mine. The entrance is not obvious to find, sited as it in the side of the dry moat. It’s one of the most atmospheric places you’ll ever visit.

And in answer to the question, how do you dig a siege tunnel…by cunning, subterfuge, courage, determination and punishingly hard work.

The Castilians, the first in series of The Seton Chronicles is available as an ebook, print and audio book.

For UK click here

For USA click here

 

At the edge of the world... by Carolyn Hughes

In September, our family revisited a favourite holiday destination. We hadn’t been there for several years and were eager to return. It being autumn, the weather was mostly chilly, and rainy, but it didn’t dampen our enthusiasm. Indeed, that sort of weather, we always think, suits the landscape and, of course, without it, the flora of heather, oakwoods, ferns and abundant moss would not be there.

Anyway, the rain held off often enough and long enough to enable us to enjoy the beauty, the magnificence, of this relatively remote location. So, where were we? The far west coast of Scotland, in the region of Moidart, part of the Morar, Moidart and Ardnamurchan National Scenic Area, a remote area of islands, lochs, ancient woodlands and narrow winding roads, an hour’s drive to the west of the nearest town of any size, Fort William (population 10,500). Moidart is part of the area also known as the Rough Bounds, justifiably so, it might seem, for it is famous for its wildness and inaccessibility and remains very sparsely populated. It feels rather like being at the edge of the world...

And it is this very wildness and inaccessibility that is both part of the appeal for us coming here at all, and also a spur to my imagination.

The house we stay in, Dorlin, has history: it was once part of a much larger house that was demolished in the early 1960s. This larger house wasn’t especially old, having been built in the 19th century. Our “cottage” was a wing of the house, and may originally have been a chapel. It remained standing and was converted to the cottage that is now used for holiday lets.

Dorlin Cottage beneath Cruach nam Meann cc-by-sa/2.0 –
© Stuart Wilding – geograph.org.uk/p/3679214
(The cottage is that lone building in the middle of the picture.)

There was an earlier house on this site, built in the late 18th century “in the Georgian style” by Aeneas R. Macdonald, a nephew of the estate’s owner, Alexander MacDonald, known as “Lochshiel”. Apparently Aeneas assumed he’d succeed to the estate and planned an extensive tenant clearance scheme. But he was thwarted when his plans came to the notice of Lochshiel’s family and the estate was sold from under him to James Hope Scott. Scott was married to Charlotte, a granddaughter of Sir Walter Scott. Apparently Scott proved a benevolent landlord and did much to improve the property, constructing roads, improving the dwellings of tenants and erecting a church and school and so on. Today Dorlin can be reached only by sea, or via a very narrow, winding road that runs alongside the lively Shiel River. One wonders what sort of access the property might have had in the mid 19th century?

After Charlotte’s death in 1858, Scott married Lady Victoria Fitzalan Howard, daughter of the 14th Duke of Norfolk, who was christened Victoria in honour of one of her godmothers, the Queen. It was now that Scott built the three-storey Dorlin House. The work was completed in 1864, exactly one hundred years before it was demolished. One is led to wonder at the lifestyle of these, one presumes urbane, people in such a remote, inaccessible region. For nearly six years a goddaughter of the monarch hosted parties for members of the aristocracy. I have always wondered at the heroic logistical efforts that these people’s servants must have had to make to supply all the provisions necessary to keep these grand house parties satisfied.

Dorlin House in 1964 cc-by-sa/2.0 – © Iain A Robertson – geograph.org.uk/p/3233457

The house changed hands a number of times over the next half century or so until, during World War Two, it was requisitioned by the Royal Navy and, as HMS Dorlin, was used for special boat and beach signal training, particularly for Royal Marine Commando units.

The history of Dorlin House is interesting, of course, but not – to me, at any rate – quite as fascinating as that of the building that lies in the tidal bay on the shores of which Dorlin stands.

For in the bay is Eilean Tioram (“dry island”), a tiny island that becomes accessible on foot only for a few hours each day when the sea withdraws sufficiently to reveal a causeway. And on the island stands a ruined castle – Castle Tioram – that probably dates from the 13th century and, as the seat of the Clan Ranald, a branch of the Clan mac Donald, had a surprisingly important role in Highland history, given its extreme remoteness.

Castle Tioram from the Silver Walk cc-by-sa/2.0 – © Bob Jones – geograph.org.uk/p/2927242
(The cottage is along the beach over to the left of the photograph.)

The castle seems to have been built (or more likely extended) by Amie mac Ruari, a 14th century noblewoman, who was a sister of the Lord of Garmoran, a medieval lordship that included the areas of Moidart, Morar and Ardnamurchan, as well as the Small Isles. This lordship formed part of the Lordship of the Isles, a title of Scottish nobility with historical roots that go back beyond the kingdom of Scotland. Despite paying technical homage at times to kings of Norway, Ireland and Scotland, for the most part the Lords of the Isles remained independent and extremely powerful: at their height they were among the greatest landowners and most powerful lords in Britain after the kings of England and Scotland. Castle Tioram, for all its remoteness, was once the main residence of the lords of Garmoran and, subsequently, of the chiefs of the Clan Ranald.

Anyway, Amie was the wife of John of Islay, chief of the Clan Donald (mac Donald), and the (first?) Lord of the Isles. John was ambitious and, to cement his alliance with Robert, who would become king of Scotland, he divorced Amie and married Robert’s daughter, Margaret, disinheriting Amie’s children. Ranald, Amie’s son, having lost his claim to be the Lord of the Isles, founded the Clan Ranald, and had his residence at Castle Tioram.

The castle remained in the family’s possession until the 19th century, despite turbulent times and several declarations of forfeiture. Until the mid 16th century, the Clanranalds were intermittently involved in the struggle between the Crown and the Lordship of the Isles and later with the Jacobite uprisings. The history is undoubtedly colourful, with much fighting, sea battles and hints of piracy.

But one of the aspects of life in Castle Tioram that has always intrigued me hugely, much more so really than the warring, is how the rich and powerful in these incredibly remote regions managed to lead the richly provisioned lives they did. Throughout the years of its occupation, Castle Tioram was obviously a centre of power for the Clanranalds as well as a dwelling. Under the clan system, the chief would provide land and security for his people and bore his responsibility in exchange for their loyalty and military service. The clan expected their chief to be strong, fearless in battle but also generous. Hunting and feasting, and music, were important. And, just as with the parties held centuries later at Dorlin House, at a time when there were few but at least some roads, in the earlier centuries of Castle Tioram’s existence, all provisions presumably had to be brought either by sea or somehow overland…

Until the 19th century, the castle could only be approached overland by narrow, rough hill tracks passable only on foot or by sturdy highland ponies. The castle itself was almost certainly a hive of activity but somebody was making this possible: the clan chief obviously supplied the money but again it had to be an army of servants who would have had to source the provisions and have them delivered, taking into account the inevitable periods of highly inclement Highland weather…

Anyway, I would just like to round this piece off with a story from the 17th century, about Donald, the 13th of Clanranald, who lived for the most part at Castle Tioram, and whom local stories painted as a man of courage in battle but also as a man whose behaviour was autocratic and even savage and cruel. These stories were written down in the 19th century by a parish priest of Moidart, Charles MacDonald, in his book charting the history of the Clanranald clan, Moidart: Among the Clanranalds. And there is one story in particular that fired my storytelling imagination…

One of the tales became a well-known local tradition and illustrated the power and jurisdiction held by a chief over his clansmen. When a quantity of silver went missing, Donald suspected three castle servants, two men and one woman who, apparently, walked daily to their work at Tioram across the moor along one of those rough tracks, having set out from Kinlochmoidart, several miles away. Although he was unable to prove their guilt, Donald had the two men executed by hanging on the gallows hill south of the castle, and the woman was tied to one of the rocks in the estuary by her hair and allowed to drown in the rising tide. Execution of men by hanging and women by drowning was evidently used in more ancient times, so the story may in fact apply to a previous era, or indeed be quite untrue. However, Father MacDonald reported that a rock on the shore of Eilean Tioram was once known as the Rock of James’s Daughter, so maybe there was some truth in it…

Anyway, in the 19th century, when a path was being constructed around the Loch Moidart shore, a hoard of silver Elizabethan coins was discovered. The story of course then claimed that they were Donald’s missing coins, hidden on the path by the thieving servants as they made their way to work across the moor. But those coins were one hundred years old at the time of Donald’s loss, so maybe the conjecture was fanciful. But it made a good story, and in honour of the tale, the newly constructed path became known as “The Silver Walk”.

After Donald’s death in 1686, Castle Tioram lost its role as the Clanranald family residence, for his son Allan lived elsewhere. The castle was garrisoned by Government troops from 1692, because of Allan’s support for the Jacobite cause, and fell into disrepair. But, in September 1715, Allan retook the castle but then ordered it to be burnt down before he left for the battle of Sherriffmuir, to prevent it falling into his enemy’s hands. It is thought he had a premonition, for he died at Sherriffmuir. At any rate, it was the end of Castle Tioram as the seat of the Clanranalds, and the beginning of its decline into the rather romantic ruin it now is.

It is certainly a place that sparks a writer’s imagination: the remoteness and the beauty of course feed the soul’s desire for spiritual nourishment but it’s not hard, either, if you stand alone in the bay as the sun dips beneath the horizon throwing the castle into gloom, and the tide begins to ripple back again, to let tales of terror conjure up a quite different sort of spirit…

Castle Tioram from the Silver Walk cc-by-sa/2.0 – © Russel Wills – geograph.org.uk/p/1842658
(With the sea now covering where Donald’s poor serving woman was allegedly tied to a rock
as the tide came rushing in…)

Wedding Lintels & Marriage Customs by Catherine Hokin

 Marriage Lintel from 1610, Falkland

I have developed a couple of new obsessions since moving to Scotland six years ago, not all of which revolve around whisky. Moody looking castles are up there, as is the tooth-destroying confectionery known as Tablet, but the one currently leading the pack is hunting for marriage lintels.

A marriage lintel (also known as nuptial, marriage or lintel stone) is a carved inscription above the doorway of a house owned by a newly-married couple. They are a feature of the east coast of Scotland and date primarily from the sixteenth to the eighteenth centuries - the one pictured from 1610 is one of the best examples and commemorates the marriage of Nicol Moncrief, a servant of James VI. All feature the year of the wedding and the couple's initials and some also include pictorial details - there is a particularly lovely one on what is now known as the John Knox House on the Royal Mile in Edinburgh, commemorating the marriage of goldsmith John Mossman to Mariotta Arries.

 Stone from 1801

The lintels serve as a record of a marriage and the joining together of two families, who were often aristocratic or monied. Lintels could be added to a building which was built specifically for the married couple, or were carved into a pre-existing lintel. They were always set over the main entrance and some also appear inside houses, above the most visible fireplace. Wherever they were placed, they were meant to be seen: perhaps we should think of them as an early form of social media - Mr and Mrs Smug-Married boasting about their updated status and their swanky new home. 

There is, unfortunately, little information about the lintel stones beyond what they symbolise - or little I can find. There's no list of the surviving stones (although Wikipedia cites some examples if you want to go hunting) and, as you can see in the third photo, many have become detached from their original position. 

The custom of marriage lintels had died out by the end of the nineteenth century, as have some of the other traditional Scottish practices. Grooms are no longer expected to carry a creel (a large basket) filled with stones around the village until their bride releases them from their burden with a kiss. Brides might still find themselves standing to the groom's left but hopefully no one is still doing it because the 

bride is the ‘warrior’s prize’ who the groom needs to hold with his left hand so he can fend off her family and other foes with his right. Similarly presenting swords from one family to the other as a sign of extended protection and acceptance isn't regarded as quite so crucial anymore.

 A quaich

Some customs do, however, continue. Although grooms aren't necessarily required to bring 'siller' (silver coins) to the ceremony anymore, a traditional wedding will still involve a scramble - throwing coins in the air for the children to collect. Wedding walks still take place, where the wedding party walk to the church preceded by a fiddler. Whether they have to turn around and start again if they meet a pig or a funeral as the rules once dictated is presumably a matter of choice these days, or very bad luck. Many couples still use a quaich, a two-handled 'loving cup' for the first toast to symbolise the joining of their lives. This tradition stems, as many of these practices do, from clan customs: the quaich was once used by two clans to celebrate a bond between them, with each leader sharing the whisky it contained. In a similar vein to sharing the quaich, some couples will still 'pin the tartan' - swapping rosettes to show that both husband and wife are accepted by the other's families. For anyone wanting to delve further, there are some excellent oral histories here, including blackening, the breaking of the bride-cake and betrothal customs. 

 The Goddess Juno

Where Scots have broken with custom is the wedding date. Traditionally the most popular auspicious month to marry was June - this was partly because the goddess Juno (for whom June is named) was the protector of women, particularly in marriage and childbearing. On a more practical note, others chose June in order to time conception so that births wouldn’t interfere with harvest work. Last year, however, the most popular month in Scotland was September - no doubt because this is the one month of the year when the weather is at its most predictable. A Scottish June bride needs a dress that co-ordinates with wellies, an umbrella and, this year at least, a winter coat! 

If you and yours are struggling to choose the right month for an upcoming ceremony, perhaps this poem might help. The message about May does seem rather clear...

Married when the year is new, he’ll be loving, kind and true.

When February birds do mate, you wed not dread your fate.

If you wed when March winds blow, joy and sorrow both you’ll know.

Marry in April when you can, joy for Maiden and for Man.

Marry in the month of May, and you’ll surely rue the day.

Marry when June roses grow, over land and sea you’ll go.

Those who in July do wed, must labour for their daily bread.

Whoever wed in August be, many a change is sure to see.

Marry in September’s shrine, your living will be rich and fine.

If in October you do marry, love will come but riches tarry.

If you wed in bleak November, only joys will come, remember.

When December snows fall fast, marry and true love will last.
–Anonymous

Which ever you go with, have the happiest day and, in the words of this Scottish blessing: May your blessings outnumber the thistles that grow and may troubles avoid you wherever you go. Now let's see if you can still recite that when the bills come in... 

Of Crofters, Kelp and Iodine by Susan Price

A Highland croft - wikimedia

Crofters in the Highlands and islands of Scotland have always had a hard life. Even now, although crofting may be a more rewarding way of life, in many ways, than banking or sales, it’s by no means easy.

In a past stretching back into pre-history, crofters supplied almost all their own needs by their own labour: building and maintaining their steading, raising animals to provide meat, milk and wool, making their own clothes and making or repairing their own tools. They grew oats and vegetables but also fished and gathered wild food.

Almost always, a crofter had to pay rent to the owner of the land they farmed, and that rent had to be paid in hard money. Cash was often needed to supply a few needs they could not make, catch or grow for themselves: a little tobacco, perhaps or raisins and spices for Christmas.

One way to earn money was to drive their cattle to the markets where the highest prices were paid. Another, which I learned about when I researched my book The Drover’s Dogs, was to burn kelp.

Kelp, wikimedia, By Bjørn Christian Tørrissen

Kelp is a large and fast-growing seaweed which forms thick kelp forests around rocky coasts. It had been gathered for centuries. Crofters carried it from the beaches on their backs in tall baskets— a heavy load, often carried up steep, hazardous cliff paths. It was spread on fields as fertiliser.

There was also a tradition of burning the kelp to ash and mixing the ash with fat to make an ointment. Because of kelp's high concentration of iodine, it was a quite effective antiseptic.

With the rise of industry, iodine became a far more valuable commodity. It was used in glass-making and pottery as a colouring agent. The cloth trade needed it for bleaching linen. Soap makers used it to turn soap from messy goo into the hard blocks which customers favoured. Iodine was also used in the production of the cleaning agent, soda.

It was easier to import kelp from Europe than to fetch it from the far more remote Scottish Highlands and islands, but European kelp was heavily taxed. So agents made difficult journeys north, offering to buy all the iodine the crofters could produce. Kelp was harvested in Ireland too.

A crofting family would build a kiln. These varied considerably: some were built above ground, somewhat resembling an oven. Others were simple pits. Some, if the crofters could afford it, had an iron grid laid above the pit, on which the kelp was placed and burned.

Kelp was gathered throughout the year, especially in the winter after storms, which tore it from the rocks and washed it up. The seaweed was spread to dry and then piled into stacks, in kelp-ricks which were thatched with heather to keep it dry.

Burning started in June, while the men of the crofting family might be away on a drove. The dried kelp was piled on the iron grid over the pit and set alight.

Crofters burning kelp in Stronsay - Glens of Antrim Historical Society

As the kelp burned to ash, the oil from it dripped into the pit. The smell of the burning seaweed was, it seems, exceptionally powerful and pungent and carried for miles. If you can recall the rank stink of exposed estuary mud on a hot day, imagine that burning and, it seems, you will have a faint idea of the stench.

The end result was a pit full of thick, stinking oil which cooled to a rock-hard substance of greyish, purplish blue. If allowed to go cold, it had to be chipped and chiselled out of the pit, so the burners tried to dig it out before it was completely cold, while it was still easier to work. The iodine blocks were heavy and it was hard, stinking work.

Agents bought these blocks and paid good money for them— though in some parts of Scotland, all the money from the trade went to the local laird. Who did none of the work.

But for those who did profit from this hard, dirty, stinking labour, it was another source of ready cash and for about fifty years, roughly between 1780 and 1830, business was good.

However, in the 1820s, the tax on European seaweed was reduced, and the tax on salt  abolished. This made it much cheaper to import seaweed from Europe and much cheaper to make soda from salt than from kelp. These decisions, made in a southern parliament on behalf of southern industries, destroyed the kelp industry of the Highlands and islands.

It also contributed to depopulation of the Highlands because, at the same time, the droving trade was being killed by railways and landlords were raising the rents of crofts. Caught between rising rents and falling profits, many Highlanders left for Canada and America – where, in dreams, they beheld the Hebrides.

After 1830, demand for iodine from Scotland rose again as industry began producing aniline dyes and photographic plates. The seaweed from Europe was no longer enough, and agents once more came to the Highlands. But the industry was never again as strong as it had been, since so many of the people who would once have collected and burned the kelp had left the crofting life - either by choice or eviction.

This gave me an ending to my book The Drover’s Dogs, whose narrator is a Scot telling his Canadian children how he was rescued by two herd dogs and 'brought home' to Mull.

The Drover's Dogs by Susan Price

The ending rose partly from my own research and partly from the research my Scots partner did into his own family. He had a special interest in Drover's Dogs, since he helped me follow the old drove road to Mull, told me of the 'bondage,' the young hero escapes and also painted the cover picture! (And he doesn't like what I've done with it.) Since a branch of his own family had gone to Canada and become quite wealthy farmers, he was quite keen that the family in the book did too.

So I gave him the ending he wanted, to make up for what I did to his painting

Find The Drover's Dogs on Amazon.

 

 

We thank Susan Price for this reserve post. From 11th September this slot will be filled by Deborah Burrows.