Notes from the isles

Memories of Christmas still linger in the heart of our friend, who made it back to the family home in the isles this year

Words by KATE FRANCIS

Ishall treasure Christmas 2021 for the rest of my life. My daughter Mary and I left here at 5am on 23 December to catch the ferry from Uig, on Skye, to our family base in the Outer Hebrides, for four days of phenomenal joy.

There were 24 of us: eight of my immediate family were absent on in-law duty, so we were only nine in the house, including my recently widowed brother-in-law, whose children and their families were in three cottages nearby.

When we bought the house, 50 years ago, it had been the trade centre for the southern end of the island. It enclosed three sides of a courtyard: one wing was residential; one held the post of ce with bedrooms above, and the third was the shop with a at above. The corner linking the post of ce and the shop was a byre, lled with cattle pens. All the goods were shipped to the pier at the end of the garden. The shop had been moved elsewhere a couple of years before we arrived, and the whole building was in need of a drastic restoration. The byre is now a large, comfortable sitting room with a re fuelled by driftwood foraged from the beach; the shop is a ping-pong room, and the post of ce is the main entrance and hallway.

Part of the pleasure of those few days was reminiscing back to the days when we had no electricity, just oil lamps and candles, and our whisky-coloured water, speckled with shreds of bracken, came from a burn up the hill. We remembered the time when our parish priest came to stay and announced at breakfast on his rst day that his room was haunted, and he must bless the house. He organised a ceremony, and that evening we found a heap of gifts on the doorstep: cruci xes, little statues of Our Lady, rosaries, phials of holy water... signifying the relief of our neighbours in the glen, who had all known about the ghost but hadn’t liked to say.

Over Christmas, each family took on responsibility for

one of the main meals, but what was particularly impressive was the planning and administration by my daughter Victoria and her husband, Andrew, who now own the house. Somehow, they managed to pack us all around several amalgamated trestle tables in the kitchen. Careful thought had gone into seating plans for each meal so that all the cousins and second cousins, some of whom live as far away as Hong Kong, had a chance to get to know each other properly.

On Christmas Eve, we had a barbecued lunch in the dunes on a favourite beach, followed by an energetic football match on the sand. Cronie slipped away onto the grassy machair, where rabbits kept her busy until she was so exhausted that she consented to obey my frantic whistling just as darkness approached. That evening our pre-supper snack was two buckets of oysters, which had come over on the ferry from the new oyster farm in Barra, followed by slices of the biggest ham I’ve ever seen.

Cronie and I had a quick walk through the glen after breakfast on Christmas Day and then we met up with all the cousins for Gaelic Mass. Despite the earlier Midnight Mass, the church was well lled. Each family then dispersed to their various dwellings for present opening, ours taking place round the sitting-room re, sustained by champagne and smoked salmon.

A biting north-easterly wind resulted in a unanimous vote: we didn’t indulge in that traditional Christmas Day swim in the Atlantic that I had so rashly predicted in my last column. I have to confess I was greatly relieved.

Everyone re-assembled in the house for tea and cake. Most of the 13 younger members of the family took over a table at one end of the sitting room and played riotous card games that I’d never heard of, while the two older generations sat around the re endlessly reminiscing. Then the 24 of us had our turkey dinner with all the trimmings and Andrew poured a silver ladle lled with aming brandy over two Christmas puddings while we sang We Wish You a Merry Christmas. This was followed by a selection of exotic cheeses brought from Belgium by one of the cousins.

The Boxing Day ping-pong tournament involved the entire family, aged from eight to 85, with a complicated sequence of matches devised by my grandsons. I was delighted to be eliminated in the rst round and was then able to sit back and enjoy watching some very skilful play. Robbie, 16, won the championship and was duly presented with a £10 note.

That night we feasted in the rustic setting of the newly restored old pier house. All the tables, chairs, china, glass and cutlery had been carted quite a distance down the garden from the house, and the curried leftovers, cooked and served by the oldest family of cousins, were enjoyed by candlelight, under rafters hung with greenery and fairy lights. Towards the end of the meal, I heard pipes approaching across the garden. Andrew had arranged for the 16-year-old son of a local, famous piping dynasty to come and play for us, escorted by his father who stood beside him beaming with pride.

One of my weaknesses is that when I hear pipes in the distance, I weep. It was the only time I broke down at my beloved Douglas’s funeral, when the piper walked slowly away from the grave, playing Lochaber No More. This time there was no grief – quite the opposite: just strong emotion. Knowing my frailty, Victoria had been watching me and she came and stood behind me, hugging me till I was able to mop my tears and enjoy the music.

Mary and I departed the next day and sat on the ferry, listening to the Gaelic exchanges between the other passengers, as we swapped our happy memories of Christmas 2021.

This column sends my very best wishes to all my readers for a wonderful 2022. S

That evening our pre-supper snack was two buckets of oysters, which had come over on the ferry from the new oyster farm in Barra

TOP LEFT:

Kate and Cronie, her Border Terrier

LEFT TO RIGHT:

Relaxing in the dunes; Kate’s family tucks into freshly caught oysters; a festive candlelight supper; strolling along the craggy beach; (inset) Kate’s family base in the Outer Hebrides