June 2 Deafened by larks
There are hundreds and hundreds of them here at Macrihanish, all singing as if their little lives depended on it, and never so loudly, so it seemed to me, as when I’d just missed a putt on the sublime golf links which is their home. This set me thinking. I play golf in the West Country at two not dissimilar links courses, at Saunton in North Devon and at Burnham and Berrow on the coast of Bridgwater Bay. Saunton still has a handful of larks; Burnham none at all.
So why the difference? I will offer you two possible explanations: magpies and badgers. I haven’t seen a single, squawking, ill-omened, black and white nest robber since I’ve been in Scotland. As for badgers, which are equally responsible for destroying the ground-nesting bird population, a Google search for “badgers in Kintyre” drew a blank. If I were running Natural England, the first thing I would do is put a bounty of £10 on badgers, grey squirrels, magpies and American signal crayfish. It would give the disaffected youf something to shoot instead of each other, and it would do more for the balance of nature than all of their current policies (sorry, “strategies”), put together.
I am at the bottom end of the Kintyre peninsula, barely 15 miles from Northern Ireland. The weather is glorious and so is the view. I am looking out from Carmen’s inner recesses across a herd of cows, to the golf course, beyond which is the beach and the sea, across which I can just make out the Paps of Jura. All it needs is a pub, and it would be the perfect visual metaphor for the life and tastes of Gibbo.
These are by no means the only dairy cows in the vicinity. In fact, there are probably even more cows in these parts than there are larks. There are thousands of them, mostly Friesian, but some still Ayrshires, all producing milk for the local cheese creamery at Campbeltown, which specialises in something called “Kintyre Cheddar”. Only in Britain would this be allowed. Cheddar is 500 miles away, for Heaven’s sake!
But however ersatz the Cheddar may be, there is evidently nothing wrong with the profits. As I drove down towards the Mull itself this morning, the silage-making teams were out in force, and all with spanking new tractors and the very latest in mowing and foraging equipment. Dairy farming is evidently a glorious exception to the otherwise rundown state of the local economy.
St. Columba would not approve. The Celtic specialists will already have spotted that my ‘Odyssey’ has missed out what is probably the most important Celtic site in Scotland: the island of Iona, where Columba effectively established Celtic Christianity. I apologise for that. Put it down to my ignorance. I will return to Iona.
In the meantime, I shall be making amends, first by being in St. Columba’s hometown – Colmcille (which is the Gaelic form of Columba), in Donegal, for his Saint’s Day in a week’s time; and secondly by following in his footprints, which have been carved into a rock not ten miles from where I’m sitting.
If I can ever get this blog to load up pictures or video clips, you will hear more of St. Columba. Suffice it to say that in about 550 AD, a mixture of guilt and evangelicalism drove him to exile himself to Scotland where he eventually (in 563) arrived at Iona, to found the monastery that was to become such a force for Christian good. But the place where he came ashore in Scotland was at the bottom end of the Kintyre peninsula, just west of the village of Southend, and it is there that his footprints, his well and his chapel have been preserved. I saw them all, in this morning’s glorious sunshine.
So why wouldn’t he have approved of the cows? Because he expelled them from Iona, on the grounds that “where there’s a cow, there’s a woman, and where there’s a woman, there’s
mischief”. Not exactly PC, was our St. Columba. He and I have at least that much in common!
There are hundreds and hundreds of them here at Macrihanish, all singing as if their little lives depended on it, and never so loudly, so it seemed to me, as when I’d just missed a putt on the sublime golf links which is their home. This set me thinking. I play golf in the West Country at two not dissimilar links courses, at Saunton in North Devon and at Burnham and Berrow on the coast of Bridgwater Bay. Saunton still has a handful of larks; Burnham none at all.
So why the difference? I will offer you two possible explanations: magpies and badgers. I haven’t seen a single, squawking, ill-omened, black and white nest robber since I’ve been in Scotland. As for badgers, which are equally responsible for destroying the ground-nesting bird population, a Google search for “badgers in Kintyre” drew a blank. If I were running Natural England, the first thing I would do is put a bounty of £10 on badgers, grey squirrels, magpies and American signal crayfish. It would give the disaffected youf something to shoot instead of each other, and it would do more for the balance of nature than all of their current policies (sorry, “strategies”), put together.
I am at the bottom end of the Kintyre peninsula, barely 15 miles from Northern Ireland. The weather is glorious and so is the view. I am looking out from Carmen’s inner recesses across a herd of cows, to the golf course, beyond which is the beach and the sea, across which I can just make out the Paps of Jura. All it needs is a pub, and it would be the perfect visual metaphor for the life and tastes of Gibbo.
These are by no means the only dairy cows in the vicinity. In fact, there are probably even more cows in these parts than there are larks. There are thousands of them, mostly Friesian, but some still Ayrshires, all producing milk for the local cheese creamery at Campbeltown, which specialises in something called “Kintyre Cheddar”. Only in Britain would this be allowed. Cheddar is 500 miles away, for Heaven’s sake!
But however ersatz the Cheddar may be, there is evidently nothing wrong with the profits. As I drove down towards the Mull itself this morning, the silage-making teams were out in force, and all with spanking new tractors and the very latest in mowing and foraging equipment. Dairy farming is evidently a glorious exception to the otherwise rundown state of the local economy.
St. Columba would not approve. The Celtic specialists will already have spotted that my ‘Odyssey’ has missed out what is probably the most important Celtic site in Scotland: the island of Iona, where Columba effectively established Celtic Christianity. I apologise for that. Put it down to my ignorance. I will return to Iona.
In the meantime, I shall be making amends, first by being in St. Columba’s hometown – Colmcille (which is the Gaelic form of Columba), in Donegal, for his Saint’s Day in a week’s time; and secondly by following in his footprints, which have been carved into a rock not ten miles from where I’m sitting.
If I can ever get this blog to load up pictures or video clips, you will hear more of St. Columba. Suffice it to say that in about 550 AD, a mixture of guilt and evangelicalism drove him to exile himself to Scotland where he eventually (in 563) arrived at Iona, to found the monastery that was to become such a force for Christian good. But the place where he came ashore in Scotland was at the bottom end of the Kintyre peninsula, just west of the village of Southend, and it is there that his footprints, his well and his chapel have been preserved. I saw them all, in this morning’s glorious sunshine.
So why wouldn’t he have approved of the cows? Because he expelled them from Iona, on the grounds that “where there’s a cow, there’s a woman, and where there’s a woman, there’s
mischief”. Not exactly PC, was our St. Columba. He and I have at least that much in common! The rather daunting prospect from the 1st tee at Machrihanish. I am happy to report that my drive safely carried the beach and finished in the middle of the fairway - but it was a calm and sunny day!
PS – Macrihanish is the most wonderful golf course. I have been looking forward to playing it for 30 years, and it didn’t let me down. The greens in particular are magnificent. They are huge and rolling, like an Atlantic swell. If only my brother Chippy had still been alive to play it with me, my happiness would have been complete. In fact, we would probably have completed three circuits. But I felt that he was with me in spirit.
PS – Macrihanish is the most wonderful golf course. I have been looking forward to playing it for 30 years, and it didn’t let me down. The greens in particular are magnificent. They are huge and rolling, like an Atlantic swell. If only my brother Chippy had still been alive to play it with me, my happiness would have been complete. In fact, we would probably have completed three circuits. But I felt that he was with me in spirit.
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