A Lonely Grave

The story of a lonely grave I found on a rough uninhabited coast of the West coast of Scotland

A lonely grave

Between the rocky point of Ardnamurchan and Mallaig

lies the wide silvery sands of Morar.

Between Morar’s sands  and Haakon’s inlet

lies the lonely bay of the otters.

Between the three rowan trees on one side 

and a patch of yellow irises on the other

lies a beach of ringing pebbles.

Above the beach, on a small sward of grass,

I found the rough stone outline of an ancient grave.

 

In the year of our Lord 1737 Morag McNab stood at the door of her black house and bade, the Lord willing, her husband Uilliam and her fine son Hector, safe voyage and good fishing. With his father, Hector loaded their open boat, the Caroline, with nets, cork floats, water bladders and bannocks and cheese.

Casting off from the rough stone village pier father and son rowed strongly with roughened hands out into the glassy sea of the inner sound. Catching a fickle wind they set the sail and tacked slowly out into the open sea in search of the silvery herring.

 

As father and son sailed they sang.

‘Where else should we go.

But asail on the sound.

With our friends that we love.

Where the herring are found.

 

Beyond the sacred isle of Canna, the silvery flash of a herring shoal caught Uilliam's eye.The nets were cast and after an anxious period, hauled in. In no time a silvery treasure lay twitching at their feet.

 

‘Thank the Lord, our task is done, said Uilleam.

‘It’s time to return with our bounty.’

Deeply laden in the water, the Caroline returned past the islands of Canna and Rhum to the inner sound. Father and son sat content, in the stern, smoking their clay pipes.

 

When all seemed fair for home the wind blew up and the waves grew high. The land was lost, the boat was tossed. Plucked by a wave, Hector was washed overboard. Uilliam held his son’s hand long but his grasp weakened, their fingers slipped. His firstborn was gone, grasped by the storm. As spring follows winter, the storm dwindled, the waves and wind calmed. Uilliam searched longer than hope lasted, for the remains of that day  and another, then turned, distraught and broken, for home.

As he sailed back, heavy hearted, fearing what was to come, Uilliam sought meaning - the Lord giveth, the Lord taketh away - but knew this would not satisfy Morag, waiting for her only child to return.

 

Morag McNab stood cross armed at the door of her black house, watching Uilliam approach, feet dragging, head down. There was no need for words as he lifted his head. Morag's spark was extinguished for ever!

A few days later, on a far shore, Mairi McLean walked alone, carefree, back to her village. North of Harold’s inlet and south of the three rowan trees, she came on a young man’s seaweed strewn body lying naked  between the yellow irises and the ringing pebbles.

Mairi ran home weeping. The men of the village returned, dug a grave. The minister was called, he intoned the necessary words and the grave was marked by a rough stone outline.

Reviews

[barleygirl]

I very much love the way you start out this story in such poetic prose. Your storytelling is very imaginative & it conveys the mood of this piece perfectly. Given your past stories, I expected a twist at the end, but instead this was a straightforward story reflecting the powers of your imagination. I admire you for seeing some ordinary thing in life & then composing a realistic & believable story to explain it. I love your descriptions of a life at sea, nicely realistic in a lyrical way (((HUGS))) Fondly, Margie

[alanwgraham]

Thanks Margie, I'm very glad you enjoyed this and I can see that the unpredictable can easily become predictable. There is a lot of detail that you need to get right in any historical piece and i have a feeling Ken might spot something. One of the most memorable weeks of my life was when eight of us canoed out over this water to spend a blissful week on an uninhabited island. On the paddle out the cloud came down and we lost sight of land. Sometime later we became aware we were all singing' Abide with me'! So, not entirely from imagination.
We are enjoying summer here - it wont last long!
All the best Alan

[barleygirl]

Love this share! It's like having a sweet dessert treat after the meal of your posted story! *smile*

[Kathleen A McCusker]

Alan, this is a triumph and in my opinion although I am very inexperienced, this could win an award or maybe if you publish it in a book of poetry and send it to Oregon is I will pay for it.

I love the fantasy genre and I absolutely love the names as more UGG seems to be an Irish name of an Irish warrior princess but it may not be. I love the pacing of it the imagery and how the story keeps you wondering how it was off and then when you say her spark was extinguish that one really hit home as I know firsthand what that’s like. So let’s continue reading each other poems. There is so much ripeness for writing poetry it blows my mind and almost everywhere I look and every book I touch there is room for brilliant poem !

[alanwgraham]

Thanks Kathleen. Your very kind words have made my day!This is set in the west coast of Scotland and inspired by a grave I found on an uninhabited coast. I think you may have some Irish blood
All the best.
Alan

[Annette Pisano-Higley]

Alan, this is a remarkable prose/poem that whisks us away to another place, another time. Amazing story of this young man’s grave lost in history. Beautiful language, lyrical, musical almost mythological or Druid-esque feel and tone. An Ancient theme- a mother waits and wails at the loss of her beloved son to the sea, while his beautiful body washes up south of the Rowan trees, is found by a maiden and is given a primitive burial by the men of the village. You, the Poet, finds his grave and immortalizes it in this. Master-Class write. Magnificent and thank you for sharing it with us.

[alanwgraham]

That's very kind of you Annette. I am pleased with the way this turned out and I believe it does have the epic feel that I wanted.
All the best,
Alan

[Neville]

This is an outstanding bit o writing Alan, a tragic tale told beautifully... I salute ya..... Neville

[alanwgraham]

You are very kind Neville. This story had been in my head for a few years since I found that grave. I thought that an epic style of writing felt right for it.
I hope that are surviving the summer.
Regards.
Alan

[Neville]

I am not at all surprised, and what a find it was and true... twas an absolute delight to read, in fact I am still thinking about it......I have spent more time in Bulgaria this summer than here but yes, am surviving, cheers... all good things, Neville

[Moonie]

This was quite imaginative and enchanting to read. I love the in depth descriptions that you've provided, which lend all the more beauty to this poetic-prose.

[alanwgraham]

Thanks for reading this. I have been thinking about this story for ages and I'm glad you enjoyed it.
Regards,
Alan

[Dave Brown]

My grandparents came from Scotland and I have always been interested in the history
Lonely graves, craggy cliffs etc. reinforce my thoughts of certain areas of Scotland
You mention your interest in art
Have you ever come across a Scott artist named J. Storch
My grandmother brought one of his paintings over here (Canada) and although she was an artist she abused his absolutely beautiful painting of an abby, somewhere in the meditterean, as a fire place cover.
Actually your story brings up quite a pile of memories
Enjoyed it

[alanwgraham]

Thanks Dave. It's great to hear a little of your personal story and it always helps when you make some connection to something you read. I'm sorry that i dont know the artist and what a shame about the painting.
All the best.
Alan

[KCthelastboyscout]

A wonderful, epic tale to read.i can smell the salty sea air from the imagery you have written.well done

[Lorry]

A tale beautifully told Alan. I recognise some of the places mentioned, Mallaig in particular, and have come across many cairns in my time, and your words have the same feelings of wonder, as I myself have often wondered about these graves from a time before us all.
Poor Morag. Her worst fears realised and an unbearable loss will change her every waking thought.
Enjoyed this, especially as it names those involved, making it all the more real.

[alanwgraham]

Thanks lorry. Good to see you back here. You can't help think about what might have been when you go about this country.
Cheers.
Alan

[Onlyme]

Could imagine myself being right there in the depth of your poetic story. As all unravels and takes place.

[alanwgraham]

Thanks Dee. I found this forgotten grave a few years ago and I've often thought who lay there.
All the best,
Alan

[Onlyme]

You have a wonderful storytelling way about you Allan. With such charm, grace and flare. Beautiful done.

[Ken Simm.]

Now you know I'm going to like this Alan and I do.

[alanwgraham]

I hoped you would and I'm chuffed. Cheers,
Alan

[Chris Shaw]

A very entertaining read Alan. Very descriptive, you brought all the characters to life and your story is touching. Changing weather when you are at sea can certainly play havoc and take lives. I can imagine the distress Morag McNab incurred learning that her son had been lost at sea. It was certainly a small blessing that his body was washed ashore and he received a decent burial. I always enjoy your writing Alan. Well done.

Chris

[alanwgraham]

Thanks Chris, This forgotten grave has been barely 'buried' in my subconscious for years just waiting for right moment for 'resurrection'. I am very pleased you enjoyed it.
regards,
Alan

[Chris Shaw]

I did Alan. It's strange how you can carry these ideas for years, and then suddenly the right moment pops up and you get it down on paper. Hope all is ok with you.

Chris

[alanwgraham]

Things are going well thanks Chris. I have also just sold a painting at our art exhibition so double celebration with such nice reviews here.
Regards,
Alan

[Chris Shaw]

Well done you. A cause for celebration Alan.