Bruce Sandison - Sandisons Scotland

For Ann

In her eyes I see the kindness of all ages

This is a book about the land I love, about its people, mountains and moorlands and wild places. Most of the stories that appear here first saw the light of day in America by courtesy of my friends Neill and Lynn Kennedy Ray in their publications Scottish Life and The Highlander. Over the years, many Scots, often through circumstances beyond their control, left their native land to seek a new life overseas. They took with them little other than the strong beliefs and traditions that have made Scotland a byword for decency throughout the world.

The majority of the places visited in my travels are in the far north of Scotland because that is where my wife, Ann, and I have lived for the last thirty years, formerly in Caithness and presently in the small village of Tongue on the north coast of Sutherland. However, I was born and brought up in Scotlands capital city, Edinburgh, Auld Reekie, and I have warm memories of my days there and of expeditions from Edinburgh to the surrounding areas; the splendid Trossachs, the stormy Debatable Lands of the south west and amongst gently rolling Border hills.

Along the way, I have met many people who made my journeys memorable courteous, considerate, kind and unfailingly welcoming. I have visited places that are the essential adjuncts in the shaping of Scotlands story, from croft to castle, ragged cliff to calm harbour. Together, they make us what we are, a nation at peace with its own identity, proud of its past and confident about its future. And today, for the first time in more than 300 years, we are governed by a Scottish parliament led by the political party that has devoted its lifetime to achieving full independence for Scotland. Could that time be now?

Whatever, I am just happy that I was born a Scot and have had the great privilege of growing up in this wonderful land, and of exploring and discovering the ethos which makes my country so special. My own ethos is pretty well summed up in words from John Barbours (13201395) magnificent poem, The Bruce: A noble heart may haif nane ease, na ellis nocht that may him please, gif freedom failye. For everything that Scotland has given me, I am enduringly grateful.

Bruce Sandison

Hes a Sandison, and a MacGregor, and I who am married to the chief of Clan Gregor cannot fail to like that. As you start to read, the infamous Rob Roy and the land he rampaged through leap from the pages.

My first meeting with Bruce was not in MacGregor country, in the Trossachs, but on a very wild Highland hill loch. It was more than twenty years ago and we were in search of brown trout. They were moving fast and furious but he carefully guided our rods to tantalising rises and made tiny feathery flies skit enticingly across the water. I was a fledgling angler and for me, he brought the world of fishing to life.

But Bruce is more than an expert angler: a first-class travel writer, a perceptive people-watcher, a hearty hill walker and a scintillating storyteller. Hes one of the great exponents of Scottish life and now some of his best work has come together in this un-put-downable collection of tales.

From the heated passion of the Kirkwall Ba Game, to the solitary and wind-whipped Seal Island, from mighty Edinburgh Castle to the elusive Berwick trolls, Bruce takes us from remote communities to the heart of big cities. Scotland is in his blood and with a pipe-tune named after him, he goes in search of bag-piping experts in Ross-shire.

Later, on a wild whisky tour, he brings to life the story of Macbeth and the three witches on the moor. At Ballindalloch, he finds out about the doddies, the hardy Aberdeen Angus breed so loved by the late Queen Mother, and learns how the ghost of General James Grant stalks the castle corridors. The old warrior didnt just fight. He never stopped eating and became the fattest man in Britain.

Another man who liked his food and drink was Winston Churchill and as Bruce examines the Scottish Regiments, he reminds us that this famous bon viveur was one of their best-known soldiers. Although an Englishman, it was in Scotland that I found the best things in my life my wife, my constituency and my regiment, the war-time Prime Minister said.

We find out how hard life was, and still is, for the crofters of Assynt and, after a lifetime of cooking, I finally realise that a skink means soup, that old Scots favourite of smoked haddock and potato, and it comes from Cullen. And did you know that according to Gaelic verse, the humble hazelnut was the source of all knowledge? From lairds to locals, we hear their stories. There is regret. There are the Clearances and theres the fishing port where youll now find more yachts than fishing boats in the harbour.

September is a good-to-be-alive month in the far north of Scotland, he tells us and we sense the dramatic wildness of Wester Ross, as mountain and moorland resound to the roar of rutting stags and the hills are purple clad with heather. Or, I stumbled into the shelter of the summit cairn, amazed by the wild landscape that lay before me, wave after wave of mountain crests guarding a blessing where all things were possible and all things equal. I love it! As Rob Roy MacGregor said, My foot is on my native heath. Bruce MacGregor Sandisons is certainly on his.

Lady Fiona Armstrong-MacGregor

Ben Venue (729m) towers above Loch Katrine in the bristling heart of the Trossachs. As I climbed toward its twin peaks, I felt a complete sense of belonging. I was the hill and the rocks about me were my soul. I encompassed time and space. Wind screamed across the ridge. For a moment, I held eternity in my arms. Shivering, I stumbled into the shelter of the summit cairn, amazed at the wild landscape that lay before me; wave after wave of mountain crests guarding a blessing where all things were possible and all things equal.

The Trossachs command a special place in my mind. Not only for their supreme beauty, but also because of the central role they have played in Scotlands story. This is the domain of Clan Gregor, the children of the mist, robbed of their rightful heritage by their rapacious Campbell neighbours. This is the land of Rob Roy MacGregor (16711734), the most famous and redoubtable of his clan. On the plinth of his statue in the town of Stirling are written the words, My foot is on my native heath, and my name is Rob Roy MacGregor.

My grandmother, Jean MacGregor, was born in Callander by the banks of the tumbling River Teith and I carry her surname with pride. My own mother used to recount, proudly, that she was chosen to sing Clan Gregors historic song, MacGregors Gathering at a concert in the Usher Hall, Edinburgh, in the early 1920s. As a boy at the Royal High School of Edinburgh, I was thoroughly embroiled in the battles of Otterburn and Bannockburn and immersed in the romantic history of my native land. Sir Walter Scott (17711832), the wizard of the north, was a former pupil and through his writing, Scott, more than anyone else, brought international fame to the Trossachs and to those who called it home. Sir Walter also wrote the words of the song my mother sang:

MacGregors Gathering

The moons on the lake, and the mists on the brae,

And the Clan has a name that is nameless by day;

Then gather, gather, gather Grigalach!

Gather, gather, gather Grigalach!

Our signal for fight, that from monarchs we drew,

Must be heard but by night in our vengeful haloo!

Then haloo, Grigalach! Haloo, Grigalach!