In Glen Coe

                                                      In Glen Coe

In the mid seventies, I was a student at Brest University. Brest is a port in Finistere,( Brittany, France).I studied French, English, Spanish, and Breton civilization, but my favourite subject was English. Our teachers wanted us to spend at least one year in an English-speaking country to improve our accents.They also insisted on the fact that we shouldn't choose the same towns or villages to avoid the temptation of meeting too often and speak French. We were all aware of being Celts first, so most of us chose Wales, Cornwalls or Ireland. I was the only one to choose Scotland. This meant I couldn't come back home for the holidays, except of course for Christmas, which didn't bother me.

Imagine how happy I was to be appointed as an assistant teacher in Stirling! As a matter of fact I had to work in two schools: Stirling High and Bannockburn High. Stirling High was more "upper class" and also received a German assistant, Corinne, and two American girls, Jackie and Anne, from Racine, Wisconsin. Corinne had come with her boyfriend, Gunther, who is now a doctor in Munich.

I had a room in a Victorian house, a B&B held by a couple of retired farmers, Mr and Mrs Gilvear. He had a terrible Scottish accent and insisted on teaching me Scottish words, songs and tales. At first I suffered terrible headaches, trying hard to understand him, but after a while we got on quite well. I also was lucky enough to have breakfast and chat with different people nearly every morning. They came from Australia, New Zealand, Canada, and the States... The Gilvears had a son who lived in South Africa and were very happy when they had guests from this country. If I remember well they also had a daughter in Australia and two others who lived in Scotland. They were all married and had from three to five children each.

We had a week holiday in the end of October and Corinne, Gunther, Anne and I decided to rent a car and visit the wildest landscapes on the west coast of Scotland.

The colours were really gorgeous and enhanced the beauty of the Bens mirrored in the lochs. They were purple, black, ochre, all  shades of red, green and brown and as the clouds drifted, they changed all the time. Gorse and rosebay willowherbs covered the ground.

On that evening we arrived in Glen Coe. Our feet were wet, for we had tried to climb up a hill and run onto a ground that seemed very dry, even scorched... but it was peat and we had sunk into boggy water up to the middle of our calves. At first we felt really scared, imagining it could be quicksands. Cold and tired, we were desperately looking for a B&B in this wild and deserted landscape. Here it was, at last! With the board "vacancies"

I rang at the door and we heard hurried little steps. A young girl opened. She stared at me, wriggling her hands in a very crumpled apron. I asked if they had spare rooms for the four of us. She mumbled, so Gunther took a step forward and repeated my question with his best British accent. She then burst into heartrending sobs. We were in dismay, but a plump forty or so year old lady arrived and smiled. She told us her daughter was deaf and could not read on our lips because we were foreigners; then she said we had a very good accent. (That's what they said all the time)
She showed us cosy bedrooms with lacy curtains assorted to the bedspreads. There were lots of porcelain statuettes on the mantlepiece, and above it, a big framed portrait of Bonnie Prince Charlie, the Stuart king at the head of the Jacobite rebellion.

Then she led us to a big dark living-room and offered us tea and scones. How happily we sat and started chatting! It took us some time to notice a very old Scotsman (never say Scotch, this is for whisky only) . He was ensconced in a deep armchair and half covered by a tartan plaid. He seemed to be dozing with his pipe in his mouth. So we decided to go out for a walk around the house.

He almost roared, pointing his pipe at us, looking at us with piercing blue eyes under reddish, bushy eyebrows.
- Are you absolutely certain you don't have a drop of Campbell blood in your veins? It's terribly unwise to venture in the Glen in the gloaming! They find corpses smashed to pieces in the gullies, you know that?
- But, said I, we are used to walking and...
- LASSIE! How can you be sure you don't have even a wee drop of Campbell blood in your veins? HOW? Tell me!
Gunther, who had understood the question, told him I was Breton, he and Corinne German, and Anne American, so ..
The old man stood up and said:
- The Campbells have emigrated everywhere, those scoundrels, ever since the world was the world, and none of you can be sure one of his ancestors has not  gone astray with one of them. If such is the case, if you are daring enough to walk around here in the gloaming, the ghosts of the Mac Donalds who are crying for revenge will push you into the ravine and straight to hell! We won't see you back here tonight, let me tell you!
Well, we didn't go out. Although the four of us were persuaded we were rational, even sceptics, we were a little troubled and so we spent the evening with old Angus, listening to his tales, and we enjoyed them as much as he did.

The first story was of course about this terrible winter of 1692.
To sum up - the story and its multiple versions are on the net- King William II had offered to forgive all the clans for their rebellion on one condition: they had to pledge alliegeance to him before January 1st 1692. Alastair Mac Ian, twelfth chief of Glen Coe, was delayed by the snow, and arrived too late. The king decided to make an example. Among those who had to lead the expedition was Robert Campbell who set for Glen Coe with 120 soldiers. They were heartily received by the Mac Donalds in the hospitable tradition of  the Highlands. But early in the morning, they treacherously massacred their hosts, men, women and children. Some fled and died in the snow, others could escape and tell the story. This tragedy was perceived as "murder under trust" and caused a terrible scandal. This led to beautiful ballads, tales and a real blemish on the name Campbell, up to now at least in Glen Coe.

A few years later, I travelled back to Glen Coe with my husband in summer. We were carefree and picked mushrooms there.
We cooked the cepes at my good friend Ewen's. We weren't poisoned and I keep from that day a photo of my husband Yves wearing Ewen's kilt.

Much later again, I was walking in Edinburgh streets with my fourteen year old daughter. We witnessed an accident. Quite a few people gathered around the two drivers who quarrelled bitterly. Then they bent to fill up an unofficial account. Suddenly one of them stood up and shouted: You know what's still worse? His name is CAMPBELL!