My practice was to contact potential interviewees by phone or email from my base in Halifax. I would describe my work to them and outline the part they would play in it. Whenever I assembled enough subjects to make a sortie feasible, I would head to Cape Breton.
Most of my subjects chose to speak on the record, about 80 percent of them by rough count. The rest asked for confidentiality to speak freely about crimes committed and ethics breaches observed. Be- cause so many Cape Bretoners are emigres, I conducted many interviews over the xix Though it was tempting, I decided not to study Membertou. Nance Ackerman smartly held up the Reserve as a foil to the coal towns in her documentary, Cottonland But besides the fact that it has no mining history, the Membertou First Nation was essentially segregated from industrial Cape Breton.
Starting in the winter of , I parleyed with luminaries and local joes: university presidents and taxi drivers, Giller Prize winners and hair- stylists, church ladies and cocaine dealers. Interviews happened around kitchen ta- bles and in taverns, in dingy offices and stuffed shuttle buses. The subject: Cape Bre- ton after coal. Interviews were dig- itally recorded and summarized in written form. I grouped the cumulative data un- der rubrics that mostly suggested themselves.
Only my supervisor and I have ac- cess to the raw data files resulting from interviews. These are stored in a secure loca- tion at the University of New Brunswick. It spans the review of archival papers, court records, gray literature, films, and social media. It includes the appraisal of various types of material culture, including funereal art, architecture, and building signage. I have appended a list of resources and reviewed documents in the Works Cited sec- tion of the dissertation.
It holds up the plastic and literary arts as a mirror to the study of group behavior. It then considers the Gothic turn in Island fiction during the nineties and aughts. The critical studies approach is fully aerated. From a critical studies approach, I shift to retrospective ethnography. I trace the evolution of the Gothic in local customs and artifacts. To do so, I mine for symbols of trauma and repression. I also include my black-and-white photographs from the roadside garbage pickup. They serve as a visual record of urban blight.
The key to the mystery is in the archives. Take and transpose the state security files, the minutes of the Italian Hall, and the screeds of The Steelworker, and certain unsavory truths surface. A Venn diagram would show three points of convergence. First, there was a cadre of World War I veterans, merchants and bootleggers often one and the same , and some colliers with a stout appetite for fascism. Second, party operative and all-around bad actor Carlo Rezzaghi organized these men into a fascio, which he unleashed on the immi- grant colony, mainly in Dominion.
A read- ing of the documentary evidence dispatches with the whodunit aspect of the Migliore Paradox. What it cannot fully answer are the dreadful questions about greed and envy and sloth that are at the heart of this drama. Digging up the bones was dirty work. Most of them pleaded with me to let sleeping dogs lie.
When my subjects agreed to speak, I conducted in- terviews with them about the crisis. When they did not, I made note of the silences and prevarications that greeted my requests. The reticence of so many suggests that what fascist sympathizers and jingoist socialists did during the war was wicked, even by coal-town standards. Len Stephenson knew exactly how nasty this business was. He watched the spectacle play out. As head of the statesmanlike Stephenson clan and friend to the warring factions, he has resigned himself to take this true tale of Gothic horror to the grave.
Trag- ically, they are mute. Or do they burn beyond the final page? Resolution or reverbera- tion: that is the question. It is my view that the rapid immersion of a reiving folk in- to the half-cooked, overheated stew that was industrial Cape Breton triggered a hell- ish culture shock: gemeinschaft and gesellschaft collided, then exploded. Crofters, xx At the time of writing this chapter July , Len Stephenson was suffering from severe dementia.
It is unlikely that he remembers anything about the fascist crisis of — These soldier—colliers and their families sustained psychic inju- ries that scarred them permanently. Gothic Cape Bretoners have been digging them- selves out of the ash piles of this culture ever since. It does not end happily. Actually, it never ends. It has no heroes. Read on, but know this — you have been warned. Owram studies English Canadian Boomers. Simo- ne Caffari London: Palgrave-Macmillan, John Richardson New York: Greenwood, , — Her work and that of her students is a fusion of Oprah and critical studies.
See J. Peristiany, ed. McLachlan, McLachlan, — The Story of Cape Breton Island, two volumes, v. Rik Sanders Amsterdam: Rodopi, , Representations of hardship are ubiquitous in Cape Breton culture, and they are almost always pitched in the major key of resilience and redemption. The cur- rent historiographical approach accentuates the romanticism of working-class life. Its works read like scripts for Spartacus , with J. There were no martyrs; life went on. I will essay to plot its arc in novels, visual art, and film.
But first I will go walkabout. I will take a darkly romantic4 stroll down memory lane, through the garbage and the potholes of a too- bright morning in Glace Bay in the spring of The pageant begins midmorning. Residents of Terrace Manor, trapped in pharmaceutical iron masks, shamble toward town, while like an extra from The Walking Dead,5 the bony-fingered piano teacher straggles behind.
Flush with cash and bio dads in tow, single mothers push their strollers up and down Commercial Street. Like the full moon, the nuclear family is making its monthly appearance. And Glace Bay has a lot of pizzerias — eleven at last count. Dealers do business right outside the takeout window. A block north, drug-addled youth haunt the Jell-O tree from whose bare branches their sneakers hang. Jell-O is the euphemism that hometown addicts use to describe the gelatinous quality of the mind on drugs. Citizens, it seems, are oblivious to the noose. They are distracted by the annual roadside garbage pickup, which is in full swing.
Hundreds of prospectors haul up in pickups, panning for gold in the form of working barbeques and fixable TVs. The garbage gold rush is a rite of spring in this mostly stone-age economy. Everyone is on the make. Halifax, which has fifteen or so pizzerias, would need to add at least more Italian restaurants to keep pace.
Inside Tims, men in pit jack- ets act like miners who have just finished a shift, even though no one has finished a shift in over a decade. Yet they cling to the walls, talking hockey. Women, seniors mostly, gather closer to the middle of the coffee shop, gossiping about funerals and widowers.
A few of them vacay in the Dominican; others shuttle to and from the oil patch for work. At Tims the ranks are self-segregated. The place is noisier than the New York Stock Exchange until midafternoon, when it empties abruptly. Go home, tend the grass fire! Never a strong suit here, self-control flies out the window: drinkers binge, drivers lay rubber, couples fight. Then, quiet. Carnival cedes to another season of Lent. On Dicky Day, junkies, third-generation welfare recipients, the chronically mentally ill, the plain down-and- outers all assume the airs of the bourgeoisie and make like gads about town.
Why not? Rooting through trash is no less luxurious than shopping at Harrods. Carnival meant recon- necting with the earth and earthiness. It involved the indulgence of appetite, the boisterous celebration of the body in all its gross animality. Indeed, what could be more primal a reconnection with the earth than purging it with fire? Dicky Day is a grotesque version of mid-twentieth- century family values, only instead of the bread-earning father, the faceless state is the lord of the feast. Its jouissance Lacan could have given a master class on the sub- ject at Billy Dsvi or the Radio Club celebrates the values it knows from reality TV.
The latter fire was ruled an arson; the former fire is still under investigation. The street grid is the same; the accent and vernacular are intact. Jocularity reigns supreme. Families do family things, on Dicky Day at least. But the order is inverted. Like Father MacVicar, deviant priests also lurk in coming-of-age films. The beast within cannot be killed, but that is because he derives his strength from the pressure with which he is being held down by the smooth-faced man on the outside. Only when you dam it up does it gush over the levee.
We drive desire into the shadows. We do our worst to abject it. Eros thus becomes the muck of our imaginary, the repository of barbarism. What it cannot manage, the ego relegates from consciousness. As I have been suggesting, such narra- tives emphasize a lost object, that object being the self. Individual au- tonomy, unity of soul and ego, and personal investment in will and self-reliance have all been shattered by the forces of the social and the ravages of the unconscious upon the ego in contemporary existence.
Writes Justin Edwards: Gothic discourse is often invoked in the aftermath of the traumatic moment to represent the instability of the fragmented self. Implied here is the Gothic trope of the return of the repressed. Trauma, like the Gothic, follows this pattern — the re-emergence of something ter- rifying that lies beneath the surface and threatens to forever haunt its host, unexpectedly rising up from the depths of the self or humanity.
As such it was a purely somatic concern, and therefore governed by existing norms of manhood, which deemed the general anxiety, hyper vigilance, night terrors, and other symptoms of PTSD warrant for punishment and scorn. A man was expected to bear his wounds with stolid conviction, and if mental wounds were like bodily ones, they were to be dealt with in the same way. Cape Breton coal mining was lethal during the twentieth century. A quantitative study might show it to be as dangerous as soldier- ing.
Some 2, Nova Scotians died in the mines, and more than half of them — 1, — were Cape Bretoners. Mining culture is inherently martial. Other organizations estimate higher per- centages of PTSD sufferers in the ranks. National Center for PTSD re- ported that some 30 percent of combat veterans suffer from the condition at some point in their lives. I am una- ware of any comparative studies of stress levels among combat soldiers and miners.
It may explain the madness — the acting out, the scourge of addiction — that manifests on Dicky Day. Their interest was epic battle, not mental interiors. The Coal War historians were crusaders, po- lemicists. As a cohort, the labor historians of the boomer era suffer from the grating machismo of bourgeois Marxism. However, when he describes mining acci- dents, his voice falls flat. This is partly intentional. MacKenzie makes plain his wish to spare the families in question the goriest details of events. Ken Donovan Sydney N. The vast majority of arrests were related to alcohol.
Durdle lost two of his charges, Rus- sell Marsh and Donald MacInnis, when a fall of coal pulverized them on November 6, Durdle, who was working elsewhere on the level, raced to try to dig them out. According to MacKenzie: As soon as he could reach under the now slanted piece of stone, Eddy [Durdle] stretched under it to see if he could get hold of Russell. It moved so easi- ly that Eddy knew Russell was dead. He left him and started with the others to help Donald. Well, one man died, Donald MacInnis.
To compound matters, the Marshes were neighbors of the Durdles. Fifty years later, Durdle was curiously laconic about the tragedy. By text I mean a configuration of symbols or code in the literary, plastic, and visual arts as well as in music, film, and civic ritual. As for the Gothic, it is the cultural representation of fear. Stephen King includes repulsion in his characterization of the Gothic;xii for G. Richard Thompson, mystery is a key el- ement. Terror suggests the frenzy of physical and mental fear of pain, dismemberment, and death. Horror suggests the perception of something evil or mor- ally repellent.
Mystery suggests something beyond this, the perception of a world that stretches away beyond the range of human intelligence — often morally incomprehensible — and thereby productive of a nameless apprehension that may be called religious dread in the face of the wholly other. When in Gothic literature this sense of mystery is joined with terror or horror, the effects of each expand beyond ordinary fear or repugnance. Rich- ard Thompson, ed. It is roughhewn and two- dimensional, in the vein of the German Gothic Plate 1.
For the cover of J. By associating the high- dudgeon poetry of Dawn Fraser and the radical politics of J. McLachlan with this iconic Canadian painter, he achieves the mission of an Acadiensis historian, which is to weave the history of Atlantic Canada into the national narrative. For an artist who neither worked in the pit nor trained formally in painting, MacLellan is uncannily insightful. A star athlete, MacLellan was scared off pit work by his father. MacLellan uses chemical greens to convey a sense of dan- ger.
The painting is an omen. The eyes of the miners are crude black spheres, empty sockets or penny-covered lids. He is shoveling under pain of death. Legend has it, pit rats have a sixth sense about mine safety; when they flee, a coal fall or explosion is imminent. Whether he suffocates in the green glow or dies in his bed is of little consequence. He is already a denizen of Hell. Then, with a single blast, the potential energy of terror becomes the kinetic energy of horror.
The brushstrokes struggle to coat the canvas. A more fluent MacLellan at- tacks the later horror canvasses, slathering paint and cutting with a palette knife. His technique is wild. A third collier is up front, combing the rubble for survi- vors. But it is the caved-in face of the wounded miner that overshadows everything.
Is he dead or alive? Whatever hope is yours, Was my life also; I went hunting wild After the wildest beauty in the world, Which lies not calm in eyes, or braided hair, But mocks the steady running of the hour, And if it grieves, grieves richlier than here. For by my glee might many men have laughed, And of my weeping something had been left, Which must die now. I mean the truth untold, The pity of war, the pity war distilled.
The painting shows a snuffed-out candle a life lost and an open book a Bible, perhaps , resting like icons on a table as a lone miner exits the pit yard. Is this the prefiguration of the cataclysm or its de- nouement? Is the miner about to be jolted from complacency or is he the bearer of bad news?
The Last Shift ends with an untitled canvas that shows a widow or sister re- ceiving the news that her husband or brother is dead Plate The fire is out. The only justice MacLellan can afford her is to drain the the canvas of color. His eldest, Theresa, is a drudge for the parish priest and her estranged husband, Donnie. She is an unsexed being with a soup-bowl haircut. Ag- nes, the baby, runs far away, to Toronto, where she hides her shame behind the masks of barfly and twelve-stepper. Even though she abandons her orphan niece, Jane forgives Aunt Reed, who is too inured to accept this grace.
Rose, on the other hand, almost brings herself to acknowledge her complicity in the molestation of Agnes. From where I sit now, all I can see is where I went wrong, look for the good in it, and hope, be- cause of the good, for forgiveness. The sisters are safe, barely. Nuclear family relationships themselves must become sexual, in other words.
The rape of Kathleen Piper is pre-figured by the emotional incest her father, James, endures in his youth. James Piper is the only child of a mismatched couple. She converses with him in Gaelic, which her husband cannot understand, and teaches him classical music, which her husband is too rude to appreciate.
All he wanted at age fifteen and a half was to hear his mother play the piano once more, but she was dead of a dead baby before he finished the job of [tuning the piano]. What he cannot stomach is losing Kathleen. James Piper molds Kathleen in the image of his mother.
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Were Kathleen to forsake him, he would lose his mother a second time. He will rape, impregnate, and send her to die in the attic rather than have her flee. But Heathcliff the self-made man can extract vengeance eighteenth- century style, by merger and acquisition. Heathcliff picks the Earnshaw and Linton estates apart with sadistic pertinacity. He assumes the gambling debts of his former master, the dissipated Hindley Earnshaw, and for his pay acquires Thushcross Grange. His victory is pyrrhic.
Old man Earnshaw adopts Heathcliff, if not on paper then in his heart. The brother-sister coupling adds men- ace to their already wild sorties on the moors. More unseemly, Heathcliff forges a sadomasochistic master-ward bond with her daughter, Catherine. The odor of incest lingers over Wuthering Heights.
It is subtler than in Fall on Your Knees, but it tangs even so. Nothing — nei- ther drowning deaths nor the arrest of a son for murder — seems to disturb their peace. Mar- garet P. Impulse control aban- doned or lost, Margaret P. There is no singular Cape Breton folk. What has a Bridget Murphy to look forward to? Drinking and doing hot knives and puking, always puking, and wak- ing up in the morning with one eye pointing off in the wrong direc- tion and no feeling in the skin surrounding it.
It had been selfishness, it had all been selfishness. Wanting to be herself, wanting to be alone. That was selfish. As for her depression, it is an act of creative self-destruction. Motherhood is her ticket out. New Waterford Girl is a wistful coming-of-age comedy. I know all the street names. I know how to re-use a tea bag. I know what they do up number eleven. I know how to beat the crap out of someone. Ask me anything.
It depends on where you dwell: the Margaree Valley and the Tar Ponds might as well be located in alternate universes. Where in Cape Breton do Gothic art and everyday life intersect? The answer is, in the parlor or front room, where families once waked the dead. He tells of Margaret MacNeil washing the corpses of her father and older brother, both killed by the same fall of coal, and how the family and Christ lachrymose keep vigil in their company home.
Margaret soliloquizes: I was glad it was me that washed their faces. They put a big crucifix on the wall over both caskets. Each Christ looked down at his casket with those thorns sticking in his head and blood running down his face, and a slash in his ribs with blood running down from that under the towel they put around him and down his leg, and nails in his hands and feet, he looked a lot worse off than [my brother] Charlie Dave and Dada.
If the dead buried in the seaside cemeteries could speak, many is the ghost who would moan about interments in the pits off the coast. Thus, we experience as sublime a raging storm or the magnitude of the universe because each dwarfs us, without actually harming us. In other words, they excite ideas of pain, without quite causing any. The moment the rats flee and the methane ignites is horrific.
Since he first rolled tape in the eighties, Caplan has perfected the KISS method of interviewing: he seeks out the el- ders, asks them straightforward questions, keeps quiet, and lets them speak. I could see him from the knees up. And the only difference was, when he was in the casket, the undertaker, who knew him, combed his hair the way he used to comb it when he was younger, parted on the side here and pulled over.
As my father got older, the hair got thinner here, so he used to part it down the center and put it this way. So I got a shock. He discovered a bill for the precise amount, the cost of a ton of hay, in a box of papers he was about to burn. Father Rankin paid the debt. The Cape Breton Book of the Night contains many incidents like it, told by people who are assuredly compos mentis. The upshot? Coming into the house, and the house was in darkness. And the parlor was lit up. And I figured well, maybe somebody got into the back door.
But as soon — I had my own key for the house — as soon as I unlocked the door and went in, I was in complete darkness. How did the parlor figure? As late as the Sputnik era, his grandmother and the women of Highland Cape Breton carried on the tradition of casting spells on their enemies. Saw the place, saw the room lit up.
The evening before my grandfather died, I was sitting with my mother in the kitchen. It was still. The room was dark save for the glow of an old lamp on the wall. My grandfather, Jadek, was dead of a heart attack. Joe Michalik had known horror. A run- away rake ripped his eldest son, Joey, in two before his eyes. And he was in an all-fired hur- ry to get out of the rake. And he jumped out before it stopped, and it spurted up again. He had to go to work. Like I said, like in the war.
Douglas Avenue, Glace Bay. Dawe Avenue, Glace Bay. Seaview Street, Glace Bay. Birkley Street, Glace Bay. South Street, Glace Bay. McLachlan: A Biography. Thompson, ed. Grey was a member of The Graveyard School of British poetry, which achieved a degree of renown during the mid-eighteenth century.
The Graveyard School poets are seen as heralds of the first wave of Gothic literature in the s. New Waterford Girl, dir. Allan Moyle ; Sienna Films, Toronto. Freeman, Waterloo Ont. They were meant for members only, stalwarts of the Italian community. They are terse, a series of decision points, and they are candid be- cause they are shielded from prying eyes by the Italian language.
New foes emerge against Halifax's Cornwallis statue: Highlanders descendants
To understand the crisis of Italian fascism in industrial Cape Breton, the first place to search is the minutes of the Hall. The date to circle is January 22, , the tipping point of the crisis. Two points of order stand out in the minutes of that day: 1 the Hall struck one committee to plead with Mayor F. Stephenson to inveigh against The Steelworker for publishing libelous stories about the community, and 2 it struck another committee to investigate calumnie e minacie, smears and threats levelled by Carlo Rezzaghi against Bert Centa.
It was for its day a meme-generating machine. On this point, The Steelworker aced it. How dangerous was Carlo Luigi Rezzaghi? On January 19, , the Thursday be- fore the Hall meeting, he issued an edict on state letterhead, fascist lictors buttressing the Savoyard coat of arms, declaring the following: I make it known to you that a Fascist cannot belong to any other society that does not depend on the regime. Therefore, if you belong to any of these soci- eties, you must give your immediate resignation.
Let us understand ourselves well. This is an order. I expect your assurance immediately. As for the calumnie e minacie hurled at Bert Centa, the minutes are perhaps referring to a mock trial that Rezzaghi presided over at the Hall in December. Wood: [Rezzaghi] recently held some sort of a trial here, and had one [X], a natural- ized Italian from Dominion, up on some charge which I could not get the ex- act details of. It is believed it was something like disobedience. No punish- ment was awarded, but [X] got lectured and some kind of a warning was giv- en to him, that he would be expelled if he offended again.
They are close to the breaking point but are afraid to make any step, fear- ing that this would re-act [sic] on their families in Italy. Yet his name appears only once in the authorized communi- ty history Italian Lives: Cape Breton Memories How did he vanish from the histor- ical record? Blame it on the passage of time and the desire to let sleeping dogs lie.
The Bert Centa affair was the second Hall inquiry into his thuggish exploits. Through back channels to the Italian embassy, Rezzaghi probably caught wind that authorities were closing in on him. In all likelihood, this is why he slipped aboard a train and fled Sydney on February 11, , never to return.
In a memo dated March 23, , S. By then, the victims of his extortion and embezzle- ment were trying to put the memory of him behind them. Some resettled in Hamilton, others in Montreal. As for the local Italian community — 1, strong in — they did what people instinctively do Capers are expert at it when faced with trauma: they buried it.
He died at age 60 in Toronto: University of Toronto Press, , 52— Toronto: Multicultural History Society of Ontario, , — I will dismantle it below. There was not such a thing. He started a [club]. He sputtered. His pit buddy swooped in to save him. Migliore, who spent nearly as much time chasing his paradox as Inspector Javert hunted Jean Valjean, turned his nose up at a tantalizing lead in the case. Ralph Gatto was in the thick of the crisis meetings at the Hall; so too was Condo Baggio. They corroborate the archival evi- dence. For instance, Buddy confirmed that his father helped Rezzaghi set up his office suite in the Royal Bank building, and he fleshed out several character sketches.
But if conversing with war victims was his modus operandi, then not interviewing or not publishing an interview with Buddy Nardocchio was a mistake on his part. Like his father, Dominic, before him, Buddy Nardocchio was brutally candid about the war. It also lets Beast editors filter out news it deems unsexy for its busy readers, which is bad. This is soft censorship. In the unexpurgated interview, Nardocchio describes the June 10 roundup and the beating that hoods meted out to arrestees.
It needs to be told. Canadians, he believed, were soft: Italy was a law-abiding country under Mussolini — discipline. He showed what discipline meant, see, for the people. Not like over here. You could travel late at night and nobody ever molests you. Because all those people that were no good, he just did away with them. They were all exiled, shot, and destroyed. Law and order. In Daily Beast fashion, he read it so you could skip it. I was head of some Italian club we had. Today they want you to have all these ethnic groups get together.
Boy, at that time we had to pay our own money. Filed under News Canada. New foes emerge against Halifax's Cornwallis statue: Highlanders descendants. It is easy to laugh at the idea of drinking and canoeing. But the Sillars case shows how devastating the consequences of a boating accident can be.
Come From Away
It is about being around people you love in a place that you love. And only Saskatchewan. Comments Postmedia is pleased to bring you a new commenting experience. Sign in to Comment. Farmer and mayor, Coraki, NSW. Isle of Eigg, Scot. Coraki, NSW, June ; unm. Coraki ran sugar mill mayor 4 terms. Richmond R. The above information was copied from a thorough document produced by the Australian National University on arrivals into Australia.
Any contacts of descendants of Donald Forbes McKinnon still living on Eigg would be much appreciated. Some were already "squatters" on the lands they were requesting. Several of these were my own ancestors. I am trying again in hope that anyone can help I'm looking for anyone who remembers the Clark brothers from the mid s.
I, James Clark, had my confirmation at the little church just down from the school. This was early to mid fifty's. I James was about 6 years old when we arrived in Arisaig. Tommy was the oldest and George the youngest. The question I'm asking: Has anyone still got photos from that time, any that we the Clarks are in, school photos or other photos that we may be in.
They have my postal address and email. I hope you can help, please have a go, I would be very Grateful. Yours faithfully James Clark Stockport, Cheshire 16 May Well hullo west word readers, spent my 71st Birthday in Mallaig, stayed at the Moorings guest house for 3 nights, first class. Saturday we motored to Kilchoan had lunch at Kilchoan hotel could not fault the Cuisine, on Sunday we sat up at Loch Morar and perused the Sunday papers, before dinner at Mallaig tea garden, the fish was delectable, had an easy drive back home on Monday with fond memories of our annual visit to the Mallaig area, can't wait for the next one.
My father was a great lover of gardens and gardening, and of course we spent much time at Larachmhor. I remember thinking that John Brennan's log cabin was the most desirable residence on the planet! My father bought many young plants from John Brennan. We always hoped that the Chilean Holly, Desfontanea Spinosa, would "take" in our garden in Paisley but John Brennan said the climate wouldn't be mild enough and he was right. Most of the plants from Larachmor did well, and I was saddened many years later when a new occupant threw them out and replaced them with concrete and grass.
I've had the opportunity since for a couple of very brief visits, which proved that going back to a much loved childhood place is not always a mistake - it is just as much of a wonderland as I remember, full of winding li ttle paths, huge trees, secret corners where strange exotic-looking flowers lurked, and always something new to be discovered.
I only recently realised that my own rather overgrown suburban garden, the despair of conventional neighbours, is a subconscious attempt to recreate Larachmhor! Many a happy memory. I just read your March issue and it made me feel a little bit like I was back in the communities we visited. Keep up the good work! Croan Granton E. Burgh for most the seventies knew the Mallaig track like the back of my hand and although it had its moments it was mostly enjoyable and testing summer and winter all 34 mls single track spent many a night in the Central and Clachan except Sunday.
I still look in fairly regularily. Hope to get back to Arisaig some day. Had hoped to visit on the first few days of July but unfortunately received a phone call on the day of departure from Edinburgh from Arisaig House cancelling the room as they had no water. Went elsewhere but hope to return again when i have the time off. Keep up the good work with West Word. Interested in corresponding with folks who may have similar connections to these surnames specific to these place names. James Allan McDonald Connecticut, USA 24 July Had a busy few months bowling, so haven't been on our annual jaunt to our favourite part of the country yet, hers hopping we make it soon, it's good to see the area has been busy with plenty tourists bringing in much needed income to the community, we keep telling friends etc.
We were on holiday in Arisaig in early May and needed to collect our car from Morar Motors so set out to hitch a lift. Very quickly a car stopped - it was Donny from Mallaig who was happy to give us a lift up the road. We got chatting and he offered to take us on a tour of Loch Morar as we had never seen it.
We had a very happy time and learnt a lot about the local area and its history from Donny - we have no way of thanking him for picking us up, and acting as a tour guide, so hope you can publish this in the West Word so he will see our thanks. Tapadh leibh! I'm looking for anyone who remembers the Clark brothers from the mid s. I was about 6 years old when we arrived in Arisaig. I hope you can help, please have a go, I would be very grateful. Lovely items. Was reading about the Bullough family and their association with Rhum andd Kinloch castle.
We have a painting of Tom Bullough we acquired when living in Paisley to The family appears to have been generous as well as wealthy. Hope the castle is visited. We must come some day. Sue Palmer Church Gresley, Derbyshire 10 April Wonderful site, wondering if anyone knows who my ancestors would have been. It has been passed down he was from the Isle of Eigg. What brought me to Arisaig, was I finally found out where my McEachern family came from. It certainly waranted a trip to Arisaig. I'm 64 and a long distance runner. I would love to do a run in Scotland next summer.
I'm soo Scotish as this area is. S, Canada 26 November well,we were over in the west coast again,we had a glorious 3days in the Oban and Mallaig area,weather was just wonderful with plenty sunshine to supplement the wonderful scenery and wildlife we saw during our stay,we never tire of the journey over here from Aberdeen,hope to be back soon. We would like to keep up on local news and happenings.
During my planning and information gathering, I ran across the West Word's website and had signed the online guestbook prior to our trip. I was very pleasantly surprised to get a copy of the paper with my note "published, hot off the press" directly from the editor at WW's office in Morar. We have kept up with the local news through the West Word ever since; it is a wonderful community paper. Ullapool was in , Dornie and Outer Hebrides in , and this year in May a return week to Ullapool and then a week in Portree. We have never rented a car and enjoy using your public transport so this year's return trip from Skye to Glasgow was easy to plan: ferry from Armadale to Mallaig and train to Glasgow.
It was great to be back in West Word country, albeit for entirely too short a visit, and catching a glimpse of "our" cottage in Morar brought back such good memories of our trip. Particularly as I travelled on the old Loch Seaforth. I've also had many happy times in Knoydart with friends. Two are presently sailing around the Small Isles. Hope to return one day. All the best Ray Roberts York 14 July hello,west word readers,we hope to make our annual week-end trip up to the mallaig area soon,we never tire of the splendid run from the east -coast over to the west-coast,our week-end usually consists of a boat trip on the friday over to inverie on the" western isles",always a very worthwhile journey, then on the saturday an afternoon cruise on the "loch nevis" round all the "small isles" giving us a good chance to see varied wildlife, then a pint and a few drams before bed time.
John and Ann are also the parents of my Gr. Grandfather, Peter. This is where l found his parents names. One of their children is born at Back of Keppoch,Arisaig. His name was William John, born June 3, I have the family tree of this line of mine if anyone is interested. I am also interested in finding out more re the family of Peters' sister, Ann. Have visited Scotland 36 times since and have a favour to ask.
Can you get rid of the Midges please just for these few days. However, I return to Scotland a couple of time a year and pass by the "Road to the Isles" as often as possible! We always "went up north" on holiday when I was a child, generally somewhere different every year We stayed in a caravan twice I only remember the owner of the caravan being called "Foxy" We also stayed in the Pullman Wagon in Morar Station My Dad always took loads of photos and Super 8 films Would like to have the time to go throw them all one day to got some put on CD I'm trying to locate some of my Stronach ancestor's.
Not sure whether we could be related as I beleive there are alot of Stronach around! He married Mary "Kinlochmoidart" Gillis, d. If you can recommend a data source to trace Donald MacDonald, I would be eternally grateful. I discovered this after a heated discusiion with Ma the other night about the year of Cousin Ann Nimmo Smiths death.
Pleased to say I was right! Must go for a visit soon. It shan't be quite the same without Ann there with her drammies.
Ali Wilkerson Alness 13 February I have traveled in your area for quite a long time I have just been on a trip down "the road to the isles" and somehow happened to find this newspaper, which is very interesting for someone whose heart lives in the Scottish West Highlands, even if the rest of me has to live my daily life in Denmark. I always seek new ways of learning about the country that I love so much, so to have found you and your Facebook profile is just great.
Pamela Newton (Author of La vieja escuela)
Your corner of the world is a place I am going to visit in a not too distant future, and I know I am going to feel just as much at home there, as I already do in many other parts of this most beautiful of all countries. The article also mentions a Malcolm MacLellan who took in one or more of the children of Alexander.
I am wondering if anyone can tell me if Malcolm was Alexander's father. I have a 2nd great grandfather named Allan and a 3rd great grandfather named Malcolm. Malcolm remained in Scotland. They were from the Morar area. Any help would be most appreciated.
Alex Gillis Pictou, NS. Stumbled upon your Wonderful News. Ah Home. I grew up in Ardrossan, Ayrshire. I sure do miss the "old sod". Robert Beith Stark Victoria, B. Sometimes the Gaelic spelling of names is used. I have enjoyed "discovering" your part of Scotland through my genealogical searches. Adolph Wismar, Jr. Quincy, Massachusetts, USA 21 July well,we made our yearly trip to the mallaig area last month,for 3 nights weather was variable but bearable, on the friday we sailed round to inverie, had a walkabout,then lunch at the old forge [a gorgeous venison burger], on the saturday,we did the non landing cruise round the the small isles, but the weather was bad with poor visibility, but restful, so we can only hope that next year the weather improves,so here's hoping.
He sent information on my grandmother MacEachen's ancestors. I did not expect to find information about Hugh MacLean and Catherine MacVarish here, who are ancestors on my grandfather's side. Thank you. John R. Bucksburn, Aberdeen 14 June Great newspaper nice to see the community still thriving. Doing a bit of a family tree for the kids. Got back to early but struggling before then. Some of the relatives still there. Mary and Ginny et al.
Yankee Doodle and the Country Dance from Lexington to Yorktown
Any thoughts or if the catholic parish records go back any further please let me know. Maybe some other 63 year olds remember me as 'wee Mac [marine engineer]'s daughter, 'wee' Heather! Heather Durham Greece 28 April well spring time is here again and we are planning another week-end up in the wonderful mallaig area,we never tire of the cross-country drive from aberdeen across to HEAVEN as we call mallaig and surrounding area,. I just learned of the sad and untimely death on I was in touch with Mark since his father, my friend and himself an artist, passed away a few years ago.
I offer my condolences to his family and friends and hope that the fishermen memorial he was working on will one day be completed.