Coriatachan in Sky is the nineteenth chapter of Samuel Johnson's book Journey to the Western Islands of Scotland, about a trip he took in 1773. The previous chapter was Sky and Armidel and the next is Raasay.
The third or fourth day after our arrival at
Armidel, brought us an
invitation to the isle of
Raasay, which lies east of Sky. It is
incredible how soon the account of any event is
propagated in these
narrow countries by the
love of talk, which much leisure produces,
and the relief given to the mind in the
penury of
insular
conversation by a new
topick. The arrival of strangers at a place
so rarely visited, excites
rumour, and quickens
curiosity. I know
not whether we touched at any corner, where
Fame had not already
prepared us a reception.
To gain a commodious passage to Raasay, it was necessary to pass
over a large part of Sky. We were furnished therefore with horses
and a guide. In the Islands there are no roads, nor any marks by
which a stranger may find his way. The horseman has always at his
side a native of the place, who, by pursuing game, or tending
cattle, or being often employed in messages or conduct, has learned
where the ridge of the hill has breadth sufficient to allow a horse
and his rider a passage, and where the moss or bog is hard enough
to bear them. The bogs are avoided as toilsome at least, if not
unsafe, and therefore the journey is made generally from precipice
to precipice; from which if the eye ventures to look down, it sees
below a gloomy cavity, whence the rush of water is sometimes heard.
But there seems to be in all this more alarm than danger. The
Highlander walks carefully before, and the horse, accustomed to the
ground, follows him with little deviation. Sometimes the hill is
too steep for the horseman to keep his seat, and sometimes the moss
is too tremulous to bear the double weight of horse and man. The
rider then dismounts, and all shift as they can.
Journies made in this manner are rather tedious than long. A very
few miles require several hours. From Armidel we came at night to
Coriatachan, a house very pleasantly situated between two brooks,
with one of the highest hills of the island behind it. It is the
residence of Mr. Mackinnon, by whom we were treated with very
liberal hospitality, among a more numerous and elegant company than
it could have been supposed easy to collect.
The hill behind the house we did not climb. The weather was rough,
and the height and steepness discouraged us. We were told that
there is a cairne upon it. A cairne is a heap of stones thrown
upon the grave of one eminent for dignity of birth, or splendour of
achievements. It is said that by digging, an urn is always found
under these cairnes: they must therefore have been thus piled by a
people whose custom was to burn the dead. To pile stones is, I
believe, a northern custom, and to burn the body was the Roman
practice; nor do I know when it was that these two acts of
sepulture were united.
The weather was next day too violent for the continuation of our
journey; but we had no reason to complain of the interruption. We
saw in every place, what we chiefly desired to know, the manners of
the people. We had company, and, if we had chosen retirement, we
might have had books.
I never was in any house of the Islands, where I did not find books
in more languages than one, if I staid long enough to want them,
except one from which the family was removed. Literature is not
neglected by the higher rank of the Hebridians.
It need not, I suppose, be mentioned, that in countries so little
frequented as the Islands, there are no houses where travellers are
entertained for money. He that wanders about these wilds, either
procures recommendations to those whose habitations lie near his
way, or, when night and weariness come upon him, takes the chance
of general hospitality. If he finds only a cottage, he can expect
little more than shelter; for the cottagers have little more for
themselves: but if his good fortune brings him to the residence of
a gentleman, he will be glad of a storm to prolong his stay. There
is, however, one inn by the sea-side at Sconsor, in Sky, where the
post-office is kept.
At the tables where a stranger is received, neither plenty nor
delicacy is wanting. A tract of land so thinly inhabited, must
have much wild-fowl; and I scarcely remember to have seen a dinner
without them. The moorgame is every where to be had. That the sea
abounds with fish, needs not be told, for it supplies a great part
of Europe. The Isle of Sky has stags and roebucks, but no hares.
They sell very numerous droves of oxen yearly to England, and
therefore cannot be supposed to want beef at home. Sheep and goats
are in great numbers, and they have the common domestick fowls.
But as here is nothing to be bought, every family must kill its own
meat, and roast part of it somewhat sooner than Apicius would
prescribe. Every kind of flesh is undoubtedly excelled by the
variety and emulation of English markets; but that which is not
best may be yet very far from bad, and he that shall complain of
his fare in the Hebrides, has improved his delicacy more than his
manhood.
Their fowls are not like those plumped for sale by the poulterers
of London, but they are as good as other places commonly afford,
except that the geese, by feeding in the sea, have universally a
fishy rankness.
These geese seem to be of a middle race, between the wild and
domestick kinds. They are so tame as to own a home, and so wild as
sometimes to fly quite away.
Their native bread is made of oats, or barley. Of oatmeal they
spread very thin cakes, coarse and hard, to which unaccustomed
palates are not easily reconciled. The barley cakes are thicker
and softer; I began to eat them without unwillingness; the
blackness of their colour raises some dislike, but the taste is not
disagreeable. In most houses there is wheat flower, with which we
were sure to be treated, if we staid long enough to have it kneaded
and baked. As neither yeast nor leaven are used among them, their
bread of every kind is unfermented. They make only cakes, and
never mould a loaf.
A man of the Hebrides, for of the women's diet I can give no
account, as soon as he appears in the morning, swallows a glass of
whisky; yet they are not a drunken race, at least I never was
present at much intemperance; but no man is so abstemious as to
refuse the morning dram, which they call a skalk.
The word whisky signifies water, and is applied by way of eminence
to strong water, or distilled liquor. The spirit drunk in the
North is drawn from barley. I never tasted it, except once for
experiment at the inn in Inverary, when I thought it preferable to
any English malt brandy. It was strong, but not pungent, and was
free from the empyreumatick taste or smell. What was the process I
had no opportunity of inquiring, nor do I wish to improve the art
of making poison pleasant.
Not long after the dram, may be expected the breakfast, a meal in
which the Scots, whether of the lowlands or mountains, must be
confessed to excel us. The tea and coffee are accompanied not only
with butter, but with honey, conserves, and marmalades. If an
epicure could remove by a wish, in quest of sensual gratifications,
wherever he had supped he would breakfast in Scotland.
In the islands however, they do what I found it not very easy to
endure. They pollute the tea-table by plates piled with large
slices of Cheshire cheese, which mingles its less grateful odours
with the fragrance of the tea.
Where many questions are to be asked, some will be omitted. I
forgot to inquire how they were supplied with so much exotic
luxury. Perhaps the French may bring them wine for wool, and the
Dutch give them tea and coffee at the fishing season, in exchange
for fresh provision. Their trade is unconstrained; they pay no
customs, for there is no officer to demand them; whatever therefore
is made dear only by impost, is obtained here at an easy rate.
A dinner in the Western Islands differs very little from a dinner
in England, except that in the place of tarts, there are always set
different preparations of milk. This part of their diet will admit
some improvement. Though they have milk, and eggs, and sugar, few
of them know how to compound them in a custard. Their gardens
afford them no great variety, but they have always some vegetables
on the table. Potatoes at least are never wanting, which, though
they have not known them long, are now one of the principal parts
of their food. They are not of the mealy, but the viscous kind.
Their more elaborate cookery, or made dishes, an Englishman at the
first taste is not likely to approve, but the culinary compositions
of every country are often such as become grateful to other nations
only by degrees; though I have read a French author, who, in the
elation of his heart, says, that French cookery pleases all
foreigners, but foreign cookery never satisfies a Frenchman.
Their suppers are, like their dinners, various and plentiful. The
table is always covered with elegant linen. Their plates for
common use are often of that kind of manufacture which is called
cream coloured, or queen's ware. They use silver on all occasions
where it is common in England, nor did I ever find the spoon of
horn, but in one house.
The knives are not often either very bright, or very sharp. They
are indeed instruments of which the Highlanders have not been long
acquainted with the general use. They were not regularly laid on
the table, before the prohibition of arms, and the change of dress.
Thirty years ago the Highlander wore his knife as a companion to
his dirk or dagger, and when the company sat down to meat, the men
who had knives, cut the flesh into small pieces for the women, who
with their fingers conveyed it to their mouths.
There was perhaps never any change of national manners so quick, so
great, and so general, as that which has operated in the Highlands,
by the last conquest, and the subsequent laws. We came thither too
late to see what we expected, a people of peculiar appearance, and
a system of antiquated life. The clans retain little now of their
original character, their ferocity of temper is softened, their
military ardour is extinguished, their dignity of independence is
depressed, their contempt of government subdued, and the reverence
for their chiefs abated. Of what they had before the late conquest
of their country, there remain only their language and their
poverty. Their language is attacked on every side. Schools are
erected, in which English only is taught, and there were lately
some who thought it reasonable to refuse them a version of the holy
scriptures, that they might have no monument of their mother tongue.
That their poverty is gradually abated, cannot be mentioned among
the unpleasing consequences of subjection. They are now acquainted
with money, and the possibility of gain will by degrees make them
industrious. Such is the effect of the late regulations, that a
longer journey than to the Highlands must be taken by him whose
curiosity pants for savage virtues and barbarous grandeur.
Coriatachan in Sky is the nineteenth chapter of Samuel Johnson's book Journey to the Western Islands of Scotland, about a trip he took in 1773. The previous chapter was Sky and Armidel and the next is Raasay.