Tea Whisky And Death In The Highlands

The man who wanted a home in Scotland was apparently the son of a senior postal official and inventor from Ireland. Yet as far as I know Charles Beattie never claimed the Irish descent his daughter, my sister has located in County Wicklow. When he wasnt lawyering in London or traveling to exotic destinations my father came to his estate at Leckmelm to bother the employees who I’m sure would rather have been left alone. 

The farm buildings still stand and my sister Lucy tells me the corrugated iron roofs from 1880 are as solid and weatherproof as the day they were installed. 

The happiest I ever saw my father was here organizing programs of tree planting and sheep raising and ultimately hotel construction all funded by the money he made as a lawyer in London. He made money and he spent it including paying through the nose to ship me off to boarding school in southern England.  When they ended he ordered me to Italy to try my hand st farming with my older susters and he raised his new daughter with his second wife in London and England. His young wife ironically died ahead of him but when his time came he was buried on the shores of Loch Broom. I finally got to see where. 

It was a strange moment for me, face to face with the man who pushed me out of his life as far and as fast as he could. Lucy and her oldest friend and neighbor Johnny Whitteridge wandered the cemetery with me admiring the 18th century headstones of this ancient burial ground. 

It seems this place is called Clachan which in Gallic means ‘big stone’ hence the belief this has been some kind of worship spot since the 12th century or thereabouts. It is very evocative and thus a fine resting place. 

We set off down the narrow lane toward the main road and Glen Beag. 

We drove past Johnny’s estate of Inverlael (Inver = mouth of) past the Lael river. We turned off the main road in a true highland wilderness of rolling hills lakes peat bogs and snow covered peaks. We were driving to a picnic destination. 

There on the shores of a fresh water lake were a couple of old buildings, a refuge from the wind from the rear of Johnny’s luxurious Nissan pickup we pulled a stove tea fixings sand food. We boiled water from the lake on an Irish contraption called a Kelly Kettle. It would make an excellent hurricane stove as it boils water very quickly burning whatever scraps of wood or paper or grass you have to hand. 

I had whisky and oatcakes, sandwiches and tea and very much enjoyed it all. Johnny went fishing for perch unsuccessfully.  Lucy and I explored the bothy (“hut”) which didn’t take too long.

What an excellent afternoon. 

The bothy.