Bleak past shrouded by enveloping mist
It would be redundant to say the Scottish Highlands are beautiful.
There is a sort of raw otherworldliness about the Highlands, with their towering mountains wreathed in mist, deep dark glens and silver lochs. The air is crisp with notes of pine and peat, and you can drive for miles without seeing a single living soul — save for the sheep.
Glencoe is one of my favourite spots in the Highlands. A steep-sided valley on the west coast of Scotland, the glen cuts a dramatic path from the northeast near the village of Glencoe and Loch Leven, southwest towards Rannoch Moor, with the A82 road running through its length. Three towering, rugged mountains loom over the glen — Beinn Fhada, Gearr Aonach and Aonach Dubh, known collectively as the Three Sisters of Glencoe.
Glencoe's dramatic landscape owes its origins to cataclysmic volcanic activity that took place some 400 million years ago. Later, Ice Age glaciers chiselled the glen into the striking forms we see today. According to local myth, the great Celtic warrior Fingal once called these highlands home. His son, Ossian, a bard and dreamer, is said to have drawn inspiration from the glen's wild beauty.
I took my little sisters to Glencoe last September, along with my best friend Fidra. It was a moody, misty day, befitting a place so soaked in sorrow and memory.
On February 13, 1692, a grisly massacre took place at Glencoe. Around 120 government soldiers led by Captain Robert Campbell of Glenlyon arrived in Glencoe and were hosted by the MacDonalds for nearly two weeks, breaking bread and sharing wine with them under the Highland code of hospitality.
Then, early in the morning of the 13th, the soldiers turned on their hosts, and murdered 38 MacDonald men, women and children in their homes and in the bloody snow as they fled. The massacre began simultaneously at three settlements across the glen — Invercoe, Inverigan and Achnacon — but the MacDonalds were pursued over the glen and into the mountains, where many more of them perished from the elements.
The slaughter had been ordered by John Dalrymple, Scottish Secretary of State, ostensibly as punishment for the MacDonalds' failure to swear allegiance to William of Orange by a government-imposed deadline. Following the Glorious Revolution of 1688, many Highland clans remained loyal to the deposed King James VII of Scotland (James II of England), and refused to recognise William III as their new sovereign.
In response, the government issued a proclamation in August 1691 promising a royal pardon to any clan chiefs who swore allegiance to William before January 1, 1692.
Anticipating defiance, the authorities prepared "letters of fire and sword" to authorise violent enforcement against those who failed to comply. Despite much initial hesitation, most clan leaders took the oath, after seeking relief from their earlier oaths to James Stuart, the deposed king in France.
Chief MacIain of Glencoe delayed his submission until the final day of the deadline, December 31, 1691. But upon arriving at Fort William, MacDonald discovered there was no official present to record his oath, so he was forced to travel to Inveraray, where he finally swore loyalty on January 6. While this delay was accepted by local officials, Dalrymple was having none of it. The attack at Glencoe was part of a larger goal — to pacify the Highlands, suppress Jacobite sympathies and break the power of clans perceived as disloyal to the crown.
The massacre at Glencoe shocked and horrified Scottish society, not only because of its brutality, but for the unmitigated betrayal of deeply held Highland values. Captain Campbell's personal involvement was particularly wounding — he was related by marriage to some of the MacDonalds.
While the government brushed it aside after a brief inquiry and the resignation of John Dalrymple, the massacre helped galvanise support for the Jacobite cause in the decades that followed. Even today, Glencoe represents the wider suffering and betrayal of the Highlands — the historic Clachaig Inn in Glencoe bears a (tongue-in-cheek) reminder of this lasting bitterness with a sign on its door that reads: "No Campbells." (I doubt this rule is enforced, however).
There have been some fascinating archaeological excavations at Glencoe. In 2018, a team from the National Trust for Scotland began surveying several areas of the glen related to the massacre, and in 2019, they focused on the settlement of Achadh Triachatain, at the far end of the glen. The archaeologists found evidence that the settlement had been rebuilt after 1692 and occupied until the Highland Clearances of the mid-18th century.
In 2021 the National Trust completed a full-sized reconstruction of one of the buildings excavated at Achadh Triachatain using traditional techniques and materials. My sisters and I visited this building; it was sturdy, atmospheric and a welcome respite from the near-constant drizzle.
Only last year, a team from the University of Glasgow discovered a bent plaid pin, musket balls, pottery and coins at what is believed to be the house of MacDonald of Achnacon, the head man of the village (who narrowly escaped with his life in 1692). Who knows what other treasures are hidden there beneath the grass of Glencoe?
The ramifications of the Glencoe massacre have rippled through the centuries and will continue to do so. Glencoe is more than a beautiful place — it is a cautionary tale, a trope of fantasy literature, a warning, a legend, a nightmare for some.
It is a place where beauty and history meet, and I can't wait to return.
• Jean Balchin is an ODT columnist who has started a new life in Edinburgh.
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NZ Herald
20-05-2025
- NZ Herald
Scotland Highlands bus tour shows you the best of the region
Passing the ancient stronghold of Stirling Castle, Alistair regales tales of William Wallace and Robert the Bruce and reveals that while William Wallace was hanged, drawn and quartered, he was not known as Braveheart. Instead, the real Braveheart was Robert the Bruce, who, inspired by a spider's persistence to anchor its web, defeated King Edward 11 in the Battle of Bannockburn. We also pass the grave of Rob Roy MacGregor, known as the Scottish Robin Hood. Our refreshment stop is at the Gateway to the Highlands in the charming town of Callander. Nestled near Loch Lomond in the heart of the Trossachs National Park, it offers an array of gift shops and bakeries. Further along, Alistair points out some hairy Highland coos (cows). We stop to swap hairdressing tips as Alistair tells us their glamorous ginger fringes double as fly swatters and weather shields against rain, snow and sleet. We feed carrots to the three gentle giants and give them head massages before we leave. Entering the U-shaped glacial valleys of the Highlands, it's like we've slipped into cinematic legend. Not only were Braveheart and Rob Roy filmed here, but also Harry Potter, Monty Python and the Holy Grail and Skyfall, where James Bond returns to his Scottish roots. I suspect I've also slipped into Outlander country, imagining Jamie and Claire Fraser strolling hand-in-hand through the glen. Within Lochaber Geopark, we traverse the low road flanked by volcanic crags, their treeless slopes strewn with cascading scree. The hauntingly beautiful Glen Coe, once home to hundreds of Highlanders, is known as 'The Weeping Glen'. Alistair recounts the tragedy of 1692, when 38 members of Clan MacDonald were massacred after welcoming government soldiers into their homes under the guise of Highland hospitality. Passing Britain's highest mountain, Ben Nevis, we arrive at Fort Augustus on the Caledonian Canal, and the legendary Loch Ness. After lunch at the Loch Inn, where I balk at ordering a Haggis Burger, we board the Spirit of Loch Ness for a one-hour cruise. Our boat has state-of-the-art sonars that beam live images on screens. Sean, our captain, gives us hilarious yet gripping commentary. Part of the 250m-deep, peat-infused water is named Nessie's Lair. Only two people have reached the bottom, where, even with lights, they gained no vision. Images of a rift valley appear on the underwater scanner, and the sonar picks up large shadows. The first mysterious sighting dates to 565 AD when St Columba saw the monster attacking a man and commanded him to stop. This spawned hundreds of witness accounts referencing a creature lurking beneath the surface. Sean tells us that images of 8m-long sturgeons, hundreds of years old, have been picked up. Could these be the monsters? In 2018, New Zealand scientists tested the waters for DNA while delving into the theory that a plesiosaur had survived the dinosaur extinction. The DNA results surprisingly revealed creatures 'larger than a shark and smaller than a whale'. The abyss was filled with giant eels! I do manage to snap a photo of Nessie, but confess it was a Nessie transfer some canny Scot had applied to the window beside me. As the afternoon settles in, we head back to Edinburgh, briefly stopping at the Commando Monument and training ground for Britain's Special Forces, before veering south through Monarch of the Glen country in the Cairngorms National Park. Our final refreshment stop is at Queen Victoria's favourite village, Pitlochry, where we indulge in its famous whisky ice-cream in salute to our Highland adventure. Back in the coach, Alistair introduces us to a host of Scottish musicians such as The Red Hot Chilli Pipers. Soon we're singing our way to Edinburgh with the refrain from The Proclaimers' famous song, 'But I would walk five hundred miles; And I would walk five hundred more', even though we've only travelled 340 miles on our 12-hour round trip through the Highlands of Bonnie Scotland.
Otago Daily Times
18-05-2025
- Otago Daily Times
Bleak past shrouded by enveloping mist
It would be redundant to say the Scottish Highlands are beautiful. There is a sort of raw otherworldliness about the Highlands, with their towering mountains wreathed in mist, deep dark glens and silver lochs. The air is crisp with notes of pine and peat, and you can drive for miles without seeing a single living soul — save for the sheep. Glencoe is one of my favourite spots in the Highlands. A steep-sided valley on the west coast of Scotland, the glen cuts a dramatic path from the northeast near the village of Glencoe and Loch Leven, southwest towards Rannoch Moor, with the A82 road running through its length. Three towering, rugged mountains loom over the glen — Beinn Fhada, Gearr Aonach and Aonach Dubh, known collectively as the Three Sisters of Glencoe. Glencoe's dramatic landscape owes its origins to cataclysmic volcanic activity that took place some 400 million years ago. Later, Ice Age glaciers chiselled the glen into the striking forms we see today. According to local myth, the great Celtic warrior Fingal once called these highlands home. His son, Ossian, a bard and dreamer, is said to have drawn inspiration from the glen's wild beauty. I took my little sisters to Glencoe last September, along with my best friend Fidra. It was a moody, misty day, befitting a place so soaked in sorrow and memory. On February 13, 1692, a grisly massacre took place at Glencoe. Around 120 government soldiers led by Captain Robert Campbell of Glenlyon arrived in Glencoe and were hosted by the MacDonalds for nearly two weeks, breaking bread and sharing wine with them under the Highland code of hospitality. Then, early in the morning of the 13th, the soldiers turned on their hosts, and murdered 38 MacDonald men, women and children in their homes and in the bloody snow as they fled. The massacre began simultaneously at three settlements across the glen — Invercoe, Inverigan and Achnacon — but the MacDonalds were pursued over the glen and into the mountains, where many more of them perished from the elements. The slaughter had been ordered by John Dalrymple, Scottish Secretary of State, ostensibly as punishment for the MacDonalds' failure to swear allegiance to William of Orange by a government-imposed deadline. Following the Glorious Revolution of 1688, many Highland clans remained loyal to the deposed King James VII of Scotland (James II of England), and refused to recognise William III as their new sovereign. In response, the government issued a proclamation in August 1691 promising a royal pardon to any clan chiefs who swore allegiance to William before January 1, 1692. Anticipating defiance, the authorities prepared "letters of fire and sword" to authorise violent enforcement against those who failed to comply. Despite much initial hesitation, most clan leaders took the oath, after seeking relief from their earlier oaths to James Stuart, the deposed king in France. Chief MacIain of Glencoe delayed his submission until the final day of the deadline, December 31, 1691. But upon arriving at Fort William, MacDonald discovered there was no official present to record his oath, so he was forced to travel to Inveraray, where he finally swore loyalty on January 6. While this delay was accepted by local officials, Dalrymple was having none of it. The attack at Glencoe was part of a larger goal — to pacify the Highlands, suppress Jacobite sympathies and break the power of clans perceived as disloyal to the crown. The massacre at Glencoe shocked and horrified Scottish society, not only because of its brutality, but for the unmitigated betrayal of deeply held Highland values. Captain Campbell's personal involvement was particularly wounding — he was related by marriage to some of the MacDonalds. While the government brushed it aside after a brief inquiry and the resignation of John Dalrymple, the massacre helped galvanise support for the Jacobite cause in the decades that followed. Even today, Glencoe represents the wider suffering and betrayal of the Highlands — the historic Clachaig Inn in Glencoe bears a (tongue-in-cheek) reminder of this lasting bitterness with a sign on its door that reads: "No Campbells." (I doubt this rule is enforced, however). There have been some fascinating archaeological excavations at Glencoe. In 2018, a team from the National Trust for Scotland began surveying several areas of the glen related to the massacre, and in 2019, they focused on the settlement of Achadh Triachatain, at the far end of the glen. The archaeologists found evidence that the settlement had been rebuilt after 1692 and occupied until the Highland Clearances of the mid-18th century. In 2021 the National Trust completed a full-sized reconstruction of one of the buildings excavated at Achadh Triachatain using traditional techniques and materials. My sisters and I visited this building; it was sturdy, atmospheric and a welcome respite from the near-constant drizzle. Only last year, a team from the University of Glasgow discovered a bent plaid pin, musket balls, pottery and coins at what is believed to be the house of MacDonald of Achnacon, the head man of the village (who narrowly escaped with his life in 1692). Who knows what other treasures are hidden there beneath the grass of Glencoe? The ramifications of the Glencoe massacre have rippled through the centuries and will continue to do so. Glencoe is more than a beautiful place — it is a cautionary tale, a trope of fantasy literature, a warning, a legend, a nightmare for some. It is a place where beauty and history meet, and I can't wait to return. • Jean Balchin is an ODT columnist who has started a new life in Edinburgh.
NZ Herald
16-05-2025
- NZ Herald
Coromandel Peninsula's Devcich Farm shines a light on Dalmatian pioneers
Their legacy, the Devcich Farmstead, is listed as a place of special significance with Heritage New Zealand Pouhere Taonga, for 'reflecting significant developments in Dalmatian settlement in early twentieth-century New Zealand'. The sheds, now clustered under a Croatian flag, also reveal their industriousness and range of skills. Simun Devcich arrived in New Zealand from Podgora with his two brothers, Marion Anton and Nicola, just after the turn of the 20th century. They worked their way up through gum digging and trading and into farming, buying the block, which was much bigger then, in 1915. Simun had married another immigrant from Dalmatia, Matija Mercep, in 1913 and had five sons and two daughters. He eventually took on the farm from his brothers, going from dairy to sheep farming, with his three eldest sons working alongside. Commercial farming has stopped now, but Simun's granddaughter, Lorenza Devcich, has restored the buildings and runs a menagerie of coloured sheep, llamas, Highland cattle, emus and assorted exotic birds on the land, which remains, with tourists often staying in the old homestead. 'My grandfather and his two brothers, they came from Yugoslavia to escape the army,' she said. 'Even for years after, the young men would leave because as soon as they got of age … they would get thrown into the army. 'My grandfather had about 11 pack horses that he and his boys, my uncles and father, used to pack supplies right up into all the camps at the top end of the valley. 'When they'd first come here, a lot of [the gum diggers followed by loggers] had no money, so a lot of it was on credit. 'He also bought gum and sold it. So, they'd come back here with the gum, and that's how he'd get paid.' Dalmatian immigrants were among New Zealand's wine-making pioneers, and the Devcich family produced wine on a small scale from the late 1920s, under their Golden Valley label. Lorenza remembers helping her father Ivan in the wine shed, which still houses a wooden fermenting vat and other wine-making tools. 'And there's probably the last standing bottle of sherry up there, still with some sherry in it. It hasn't been touched,' she said. 'And maybe it could even be one of the ones that I bottled, because my job here was the dog's body.' Lorenza still tended to the 80-year-old grape vines today, using 'the worst talkback radio station' she can find to blare out and scare away the birds. 'The sherry and the wine were all made from grapes grown on the property,' she said. 'All the beautiful, big black Albany Surprise, I think it's called, … is still there producing." While the saw mill now stands quiet and the trading post has shut its doors, the farm courtyard is now home to a strutting peacock, brightly coloured pheasants and guinea fowl. Lorenza stores their feed in a shed once used to stable Simun's beloved racehorses, an interest he took up in later life. 'They got fed all the lovely, cooked barley and everything. 'You'd go into the house, and you'd smell it cooking on the old coal range ... all the old farm horses, the pack horses and everything else, just lucky if they got thrown some hay.' She has somewhat sad memories of Simun. 'He got kicked in the stomach by a racehorse and ruptured his stomach, and he survived that, but then not long after, he had a stroke. 'I used to love sitting down talking to him, but when I'd start talking to him, get him to tell me the history, he'd get upset and start crying.' He died in 1971, once a strong, active man and very much the 'boss' in his day, and one of the pioneers of the valley, Lorenza said.
