Latest news with #Gaelic-speaking
The National
11-05-2025
- Politics
- The National
Lewis is not the island summing up Trump – that would be Alcatraz
Few, though, do it with the same stable genius, or bank balance, that Trump enjoys. Over the past week, The National has been exploring Trump's links to Scotland. As part of the series, a reporter was dispatched to Lewis to do vox pops, on the search for pithy quotes about one of the island's most famous descendants. Donald Trump's mother, Mary Anne MacLeod, was born in the village of Tong in 1912. One of 10 children in a Gaelic-speaking crofting family, she left the island in 1930, aged just 17, sailing to New York on the SS Transylvania with a suitcase and the dream of a better life. She worked as a domestic servant before meeting Fred Trump at a party in Queens. They married in 1936 and had five children – the fourth of whom was Donald, born in 1946. Mary Anne became a US citizen in 1942 but never lost her connection to Lewis, returning regularly over the years to visit family. In Stornoway earlier this year, a banner reading 'Shame on you, Donald John! #democracy' was displayed, criticising Trump's policies, particularly his stance on immigration, despite his mother's immigrant background. At the other end of the spectrum is a self-confessed Trump superfan who celebrated the election win by marching through the streets of Stornoway with a stars-and-stripes hat and guitar. He runs a niche Facebook page titled 'Isle of Lewis Supports President Trump'. It doesn't command a huge following. READ MORE: Wildfire 'bigger than five football pitches' near Scottish town Lewis, therefore, is a popular destination for journalists hunting for an interesting angle on Trump. In the sunny streets of Stornoway last week, The National asked islanders what they thought of Donald Trump. I particularly resonated with the woman who simply said, 'I think he's a twat'. What I found more interesting though were the comments that were positive. 'He's doing a good job.' 'He's different.' One local said they quite liked how he was 'shaking things up'. Shaking things up. That phrase appears a lot when people talk about Trump. He's not giving things a gentle shake, rearranging the furniture for slightly better feng shui. Instead, with his efforts at diplomacy, the Doge debacles and the never-ending stream of gaffes and ego (posting an image of yourself as pope, anyone?) he's not so much changing the colour scheme as lighting a stick of dynamite in what was once the most revered office in the world and letting it explode. None of his antics are in the name of making things better for the majority – it's disruption for disruption's sake. So why is that something to admire? Maybe it's because we're all a bit miserable. The world doesn't seem to be getting any easier to live in. Maybe the appeal is simply in watching the explosion. At least then you know something's happening. And by the time the smoke clears, you'll have moved on – not noticing that nothing has changed for you and your misery – because there's a new explosion to gaze at, hopefully. Bang, soundbite, move on. That's the deeper shift. We're living in an era that no longer has time for nuance. You're either good or bad. Happy or sad. For or against. Binary thinking has been ushered in by the broligarchs – the social media barons who figured out that outrage is addictive and ambiguity is unprofitable. Nuance died quietly, somewhere between the rise of 24-hour news cycles and the algorithmic doom scroll. The Enlightenment gave us Descartes and reason, but Silicon Valley gave us dopamine hits for outrage. As philosopher Zygmunt Bauman put it, we now live in an age of 'liquid modernity' – where nothing is built to last and everything, including relationships, values, and ideas, must be fast, disposable and marketable. Bauman warned that in such a world, individuals become consumers first, citizens second – and democracy, built on debate and shared responsibility, begins to erode. Tzvetan Todorov, another underrated voice, argued that democracy depends on complexity – on our ability to recognise the grey spaces between black and white. In The Inner Enemies of Democracy, he warned that reducing people to either heroes or enemies, allies or threats, is a hallmark of totalitarian thinking. Real democracy, he said, demands the slow, patient work of understanding – a kind of intellectual humility that our digital age has made all too rare. It's worth remembering that simplicity is seductive. Certainty sells. But truth, almost always, lives in the murky middle. READ MORE: Doctor who grew up in Gaza gives 'emotional' speech at Highlands pro-Palestine march Trump is the perfect product of that system. In 2008, he visited Lewis once – for three hours with a total of 97 seconds inside his mother's house. Not enough time to boil a kettle, never mind develop a proper connection. Many Americans travel to Scotland to retrace their family stories, sometimes to great emotional effect. But not Trump. Maybe it's because there's nothing in it for him. No transaction. No gain. No audience to conquer. He showed up, posed for a photo, and left. That's not heritage, it's optics. And optics are the currency of the nuance-free age. That disinterest in connection extends far beyond Lewis. Recently, Trump suggested reopening Alcatraz – that fortress of punishment on a rock in San Francisco Bay – to house the country's most violent offenders. An island, isolated, hard to get to, devoid of softness or community. It's a symbolic gesture, sure, but a revealing one. In Trump's worldview, there are winners and losers, good guys and bad guys, insiders and outsiders. And the solution to every problem is a wall, a lock, a cage – preferably surrounded by cold seawater. The metaphor writes itself. Alcatraz is the fantasy island for a man who sees the world in black and white. He has no interest in the messy middle ground where most of us live. It's all strength or weakness. Loyalty or treason. If Lewis is the island that gave him a mother and a lineage, Alcatraz is the island that best represents how he sees power: isolated, defended and unaccountable. And isn't that the heart of it? What we're really missing – what has truly slipped away – is connection. Nuance and connection are twins. You can't have one without the other. To see someone in full colour, you need to take the time to look. But our systems don't allow time. They reward instant judgments, hot takes and disappearing posts. We swipe away detail in favour of drama. And here's the uncomfortable truth: nowhere is immune. Not New York. Not Lewis. Not your village or mine. We talk a lot about 'community' these days – but often it's just a gloss. A word we reach for to suggest harmony when really we're all walking around with our own headphones on. This is where the deeper question lies: if nuance and connection have died, can we bring them back? What would it look like to build a culture that embraces uncertainty and complexity again? One that values a thoughtful pause over a viral post? READ MORE: Humanitarian crisis in Gaza at 'all-time low', warns aid charity It would look like sitting in someone's kitchen for longer than 97 seconds. It would look like asking a question you don't already know the answer to. It might even look like staying quiet, just long enough to really listen. Maybe what we need isn't to shake things up. Maybe it's time to slow things down. Sit longer in the kitchen. Listen a bit more. Assume a bit less. Let the grey in. Because nuance isn't weakness. It's the beginning of understanding. And no man is an island – not even the ones who try to be.
Telegraph
25-03-2025
- Telegraph
The epic but unknown alternative to Scotland's North Coast 500
Scotland's North Coast 500 has rightly been described as one of the world's great driving routes, but has, to a degree, become a victim of its own success and can get uncomfortably busy at peak season. For those eager to experience the beauty of Scotland without the crowds there is an alternative. The South West Coast 300 (SWC 300) takes in some of Scotland's most sublime scenery, mountains, forests, sandy beaches, castles, gardens, quiet Georgian towns, and an abundance of history. The southern section of the SWC 300 runs through two of Britain's most beautiful yet least-known counties, Kirkcudbrightshire and Wigtownshire, which together make up the Galloway segment of Dumfries and Galloway. Settled in the eighth century by Gaelic-speaking tribes from Ireland, Galloway feels set apart from the rest of Scotland, possessing its own distinctive mood and character. Kirkcudbrightshire (pronounced Kirk-coo-bree-shire) begins across the River Nith from Dumfries. The north of the county is wild and hilly, home to southern Scotland's highest peak, Merrick (2764ft or 842m above sea level) and Britain's largest forest, Galloway Forest Park, 300 square miles of woodland, waterfalls, mountains and lochs alive with otters, red deer, squirrels and kites. At the head of the list to become Britain's newest national park, in 2009 Galloway Forest Park was designated as the UK's first Dark Sky Park as there is so little human habitation that there is no light pollution to obscure the night sky. On the southern edge of the park, overlooking beautiful Loch Trool, stands Bruce's Stone, a huge granite boulder that commemorates Robert the Bruce's first victory over the English here in March 1307 during the Scottish War of Independence. The south of the county overlooks the Solway Firth, a land of salt marshes, wide bays and estuaries, dramatic headlands, golden sands and small, sturdy towns. Eight miles south of Dumfries are the magnificent ruins of New Abbey, founded in 1273 by Devorguilla, Lady of Galloway and mother of the puppet King of Scotland John Balliol. When her husband John, founder of Oxford 's Balliol College, died in 1268 she had his 'sweet heart' embalmed in an ivory casket that she carried around for the rest of her life. On her own death in 1290 the casket was buried with her before the altar at New Abbey, which became known as 'Sweetheart Abbey', thus giving a new word to the English language. Also buried there is William Paterson, founder of the Bank of England. Further south, standing on a windy promontory in the grounds of Arbigland House outside Kirkbean is a simple gardener's cottage, the birthplace in 1747 of John Paul Jones, 'Father of the American Navy'. It is now a museum in his honour. Emigrating to Virginia at the age of 13, Jones joined the Continental Navy and went on to mastermind the first victory of the American Navy over the Royal Navy at the Battle of Flamborough Head off the Yorkshire coast in 1779. The granite town of Dalbeattie boasts a memorial to local hero William Murdoch, First Lieutenant on the Titanic. Portrayed in the film Titanic as a coward, he was actually, according to eyewitness accounts, amazingly brave and saved many lives by guiding passengers to the lifeboats at the cost of his own life. In 1998, the film company's vice president came to Dalbeattie to deliver an apology. Just outside Castle Douglas, an elegant Georgian market town laid out by merchant William Douglas in 1792, stands Threave Castle, one of the mightiest towers in Scotland and stronghold of the Black Douglases who ruled Galloway during the 14th and 15th centuries. Set on an island in the middle of the River Dee it can only be reached by boat. On the coast to the south, an air of melancholy hangs about the impressive ruins of Dundrennan Abbey, founded in 1142 by David I. Mary, Queen of Scots spent her last night in Scotland here after defeat at the Battle of Langside in 1568. Next morning she made her way down to a creek on the Solway Firth, boarded a fishing boat and sailed away to England, never to return. Kirkcudbright, washed by the Gulf Stream and possessed of a special quality of light, is known as 'The Artist's Town' and supports a flourishing colony of painters and craftsmen whose work is shown in local galleries. The houses are gaily painted and the streets wide and breezy. The village scenes from the cult 1973 film The Wicker Man were filmed in the town. Graceful Gatehouse of Fleet is watched over by a tall Victorian clocktower while, perched atop a rocky knoll on the edge of town, is Cardoness Castle, a well-preserved 15th-century tower house, pretty much impregnable and blessed with far-reaching views across the bay. The coast road between Gatehouse of Fleet and the little harbour village of Creetown was accurately described by Thomas Carlyle, in conversation with Queen Victoria, as 'the finest road in her kingdom'. In the 19th century, Dalbeattie granite was exported all over the world from Creetown, helping to build the Thames Embankment and Sydney Harbour. At Newton Stewart we enter Wigtownshire, Scotland's extreme south-west, a windswept county of moorland, big skies, birdsong – and books. Wigtown, the county town, is Scotland's National Book Town, home to Scotland's biggest second-hand bookshop and a well attended annual book festival. The airy streets have a scholarly feel to them and there is a spacious market place with colourful gardens and a bowling green watched over by the flamboyant old County Buildings, now housing the town library and museum. South of the town is the Bladnoch Distillery, Scotland's most-southerly whisky distillery, open for tours and tastings from Wednesdays to Saturdays. Wigtown is gateway to the mysterious Machars, a flat peninsula thrusting out into the Irish Sea, dotted with lonely churches, pretty villages, hidden beaches and mossy cliffs. Here is Whithorn, the cradle of Scottish Christianity where, in 397 AD, after a pilgrimage to Rome, Scotland's first Christian missionary St Ninian built, and was later buried beneath, Scotland's first stone church. It was painted white so that it could be seen from a distance and was known as the Candida Casa or White House, from which Whithorn gets its name. The nave and crypt of a 12th-century cathedral built over St Ninian's shrine survive. Away to the west: a peaceful walk through woods leads to a pebbly beach and St Ninian's Cave, where the saint came for solitude. On the walls are Christian crosses carved by 8th-century pilgrims. On the clifftop at Burrow Head to the south, the wooden stumps of the Wicker Man's legs mark where the final gruesome scenes from the film of that name were shot. Hidden in woods at Kirkmaiden there is a small chapel where members of the local landowners, the Maxwell family, are buried, while on the hillside above stands a bronze otter, sculpted by Penny Wheatley in honour of Gavin Maxwell, author of Ring of Bright Water, who was born nearby at Elrig, a big grey house on the moor. The Sands of Luce, a long crescent of golden beach, lead to the hammerhead-shaped peninsula known as the Rhins of Galloway. To the north, Stranraer, ferries to Northern Ireland, and Castle Kennedy Gardens gathered about the ruins of a 15th-century castle noted for rhododendrons and azaleas. To the south, Logan Botanic Garden, where tropical plants flourish in the warm winds of the Gulf Stream. Nearby, at Port Logan, is Britain's oldest natural marine aquarium, a tidal fishpond scooped out of the cliffs in 1788 as a sea fish larder for the local laird. Some of the inhabitants, which include cod, pollock, turbot, mullet and hermit crabs, are quite tame and can rise to the surface to be fed by hand. A mile south is Drummore, Scotland's most-southerly village, a delightful collection of white-washed cottages running uphill from a sandy beach and beyond that, Scotland's furthest south, the Mull of Galloway, further south indeed than Durham. Here, Scotland ends in solitary, spectacular style with cliffs 300 feet high, a lighthouse and views, they say, of five kingdoms, Ireland, the Isle of Man, Scotland (the Hebrides), England (the Lake District), and the Kingdom of Heaven.
CBC
07-03-2025
- CBC
Lucky young couple lands gig taking care of uninhabited Irish island
Camille Rosenfeld and James Hayes have landed what feels like a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. The young couple has been chosen to be the caretakers of one of Ireland's most remote and breathtaking locations: Great Blasket Island. "Oh my gosh … it seems like such a dream come true," Rosenfeld told As It Happens' host Nil Köksal. "You wouldn't even think it would be a possibility…. We feel really lucky that we were chosen." Starting in April, the couple will spend six months living on this 1,100 acre island off the west coast of the Dingle Peninsula in County Kerry, Ireland. They currently live in Tralee, which is about 80 kilometres away by land and sea. The island is covered in a lush emerald-green landscape, with rolling hills and spectacular cliffs, encircled by lapping turquoise waves. Dotted with relics and ruins from a bygone past, it's also deeply rooted in rich Irish heritage and history. Once home to a tight-knit Gaelic-speaking community, the island became deserted in 1953 when its last inhabitants were taken to the mainland so they could access what the island didn't have — emergency services for the aging population and milder winters. Since then, it's been left largely untouched, allowing nature to reclaim the land. Rosenfeld hasn't stepped foot on the island yet, but on a recent hike nearby, she says it's a sight to behold. "It's just so green, the greenest grass you'd ever see," she said. "During a few weeks in the summer, there's these beautiful purple flowers that bloom all across the fields. It looks like something from the Wizard of Oz." The island is also teeming with wildlife. The caretakers from last year say there are sharks, seals, sheep, whales, dolphins and rabbits. Getting the gig The caretaking position was advertised by Peter O'Connor and his wife Alice Hayes, who live on the mainland. But they own the five holiday cottages and a small café on Great Blasket, which the new caretakers will oversee. When the hiring couple first posted the live-in seasonal position in January 2020, they were flooded with 80,000 applications. They have since limited the number they will consider to 300. Even so, it's a large pool, and James Hayes isn't entirely sure why they were chosen. "They're lovely people and we got on so well," said Hayes, of the interview "We don't really know why, other than that I think they just think they can get along with us, and that we seem like nice people that are going to work hard." Hayes actually grew up elsewhere in County Kerry. He says even before the opportunity to work there came up, he was already enchanted by the island, and paid it a visit during college. "It really captured my imagination at the time," he said. "It's always been on my radar … the history of the island; it's kind of a cultural landmark." And it didn't take much convincing for Rosenfeld, who's from Minnesota, to get on board when Hayes asked if she wanted to apply. "I suggested it to Camille, and she was totally for it," he said. Excitement in anticipation The windswept island doesn't have electricity, hot water, or wifi, but what it does have is what Rosenfeld yearns for. "Just being disconnected is such a luxury in the times that we live in now," she said. Rosenfeld says she's also excited to welcome visitors who are drawn there for the same reasons. "The idea of getting to meet all of those people who are attracted to the island in the same kind way that we are, that's really exciting," said Rosenfeld. "The chance to do that in a place where you can hear the ocean and see the stars and live by the candlelight is amazing." As a professional artist, Hayes says he'll be seeking inspiration for his next body of work. "What better place to be than an island like this?" Unsurprisingly, they've already thought about what could be the most difficult part of this whole experience — leaving the island when the end of September rolls around. "I think that'll be the most challenging part … trying to find somewhere to live, and I'll need to get a job," said Rosenfield.
Yahoo
26-01-2025
- General
- Yahoo
Scotland's dying art of traditional nicknames
A Scottish tradition of giving people a family name or a nickname based on their appearance, or where they are from or who their parents are is at risk of dying out, an academic has said. The practice has been handed down through generations in west coast Gaelic-speaking communities, and examples include Ceitidh Ruadh (Red-haired Katie) and Pàdraig Murchadh Moilean (Peter, son of Murdo of the eyebrows). Parts of the Hebrides - Lewis, Harris and Barra - have phonebooks listing people's official names alongside their nicknames. Iain Taylor, who lectured at Scotland's Gaelic national centre - Sabhal Mòr Ostaig - in Skye for 20 years, said English language nicknames were replacing more traditional ones. Urgent support needed for Gaelic language - report Gaelic schools thrive while native language declines Mr Taylor, who has written about Scottish personal names and place-names, said there was a good practical reason behind the tradition. In the past, many families in traditional Gaelic areas adopted the name of the local clan chief. He said this had resulted in a relatively small number of surnames. Mr Taylor said: "In places like Scalpay and Harris there were very few first names and surnames generally used. "So you could have 30 John Macleods. "How do you distinguish between them all?" The answer was to give a person a family name, which could be derived from patronymics and matronymics - names based on a father or mother's name. Nicknames are also used, often inspired by where a person is from or what they look like. Mr Taylor said: "I stayed in a township in South Uist and one of my neighbours was Ceitidh Ruadh - Red-haired Katie - and down the road there was Iain Mòr - Big or Tall John." Other names include: Alasdair Dhòmhnaill Mhòir (Alexander of Big Donald) Calum Seònaid (Janet's Calum) Alasdair Nìll Bhig (Little Neil's Alasdair) Am Muileach (The Mull Man) Nonsense nicknames have also been popular. "My cousin's nickname was Queek and we have no idea why," said Mr Taylor. Mr Taylor believes the decline started in the 1980s and was partly linked to improvements to TV transmitters. This boosted the choice of channels for viewers in the islands from just BBC One to include BBC Two and Grampian (now STV). Mr Taylor said a period of decline in the use of Gaelic may have further impacted on the tradition. "I spent three years in Uist and even in that short time English language nicknames were replacing traditional ones," said Mr Taylor. "You were hearing nicknames like Wee Guy and Bigfoot." He said a similar tradition of nicknames, called tee-names, was used in north east Scotland and may have already disappeared. Like the Gaelic tradition, tee-names were used to differentiate between families with the same surname. Mr Taylor, who grew up in Moray, said: "I know some Woods were called Deacon - my great-granny was known locally as Alexina Deacon although she was Alexina Wood officially. "Some Mairs were called Shavie and some Gardiners were known as Bo. "I've seen examples from Portknockie, Findochty and Buckie." Annie MacSween, of Ness Historical Society in Lewis, has also noticed a decline of the west coast tradition. In the late 1970s she was seconded to a project that looked into the feasibility of bilingual education provision for the islands. The initiative also encouraged greater community involvement in the running of the isles. Mrs MacSween said: "A lot of my initial work was in the Ness community and only a number of houses had phones - remember this was a time long before mobile phones. "The community association in Ness decided it would be a good idea to have a local telephone directory. "The first one was printed by the Stornoway Gazette in 1977, I think it was. "In it we had the official names of people and their nicknames or family names." Four editions were printed with the last one in 2018. Over the years, a book recording sheep tags used by local crofters was also produced. It listed crofters by their formal names and also their family name or nickname. Allan Campbell, who grew up in the north of Skye, said the names were an important part of his cultural identity. "I think the patronymic names are really interesting to those who are interested in their own history, and I think that it's really important in terms of the language and the culture we have as Gaels," he said. He said some names were based on a person's trade, such as a blacksmith, while others were clever word play. When he was a schoolboy he was nicknamed Volt because his initials, AC, are an abbreviation for the electrical term "alternating current". He is still known by some people just by his nickname. During his education he stayed in a hostel at Portree High School and patronymics and nicknames were used almost like a secret code. He said: "In the dorm at night, when the lights went out, and the boys were talking about what had happened - maybe of some sort of mischief - they wouldn't be naming people by their real names because quite often the masters would be listening at the doors." Genealogist Calum MacNeil said patronymic names were popular when he was growing up in Nask, a small community in Barra. He said: "Almost nobody that lived in Nask originally came from Nask. "They came from different places on the island. Because of that, we used their patronymic names." Mr MacNeil said nicknames could be potentially contentious. "There were some who were happy with the nickname they were given, and others that weren't," he said. "There were also some that were happy with it but maybe their families weren't happy with it."
BBC News
26-01-2025
- Entertainment
- BBC News
The Scottish nicknames that end up listed in phonebooks
A Scottish tradition of giving people a family name or a nickname based on their appearance, or where they are from or who their parents are is at risk of dying out, an academic has practice has been handed down through generations in west coast Gaelic-speaking communities, and examples include Ceitidh Ruadh (Red-haired Katie) and Pàdraig Murchadh Moilean (Peter, son of Murdo of the eyebrows).Parts of the Hebrides - Lewis, Harris and Barra - have phonebooks listing people's official names alongside their Taylor, who lectured at Scotland's Gaelic national centre - Sabhal Mòr Ostaig - in Skye for 20 years, said English language nicknames were replacing more traditional ones. Mr Taylor, who has written about Scottish personal names and place-names, said there was a good practical reason behind the the past, many families in traditional Gaelic areas adopted the name of the local clan chief. He said this had resulted in a relatively small number of Taylor said: "In places like Scalpay and Harris there were very few first names and surnames generally used."So you could have 30 John Macleods. "How do you distinguish between them all?"The answer was to give a person a family name, which could be derived from patronymics and matronymics - names based on a father or mother's are also used, often inspired by where a person is from or what they look Taylor said: "I stayed in a township in South Uist and one of my neighbours was Ceitidh Ruadh - Red-haired Katie - and down the road there was Iain Mòr - Big or Tall John."Other names include:Alasdair Dhòmhnaill Mhòir (Alexander of Big Donald)Calum Seònaid (Janet's Calum)Alasdair Nìll Bhig (Little Neil's Alasdair)Am Muileach (The Mull Man)Nonsense nicknames have also been popular."My cousin's nickname was Queek and we have no idea why," said Mr Taylor. Mr Taylor believes the decline started in the 1980s and was partly linked to improvements to TV boosted the choice of channels for viewers in the islands from just BBC One to include BBC Two and Grampian (now STV).Mr Taylor said a period of decline in the use of Gaelic may have further impacted on the tradition."I spent three years in Uist and even in that short time English language nicknames were replacing traditional ones," said Mr Taylor."You were hearing nicknames like Wee Guy and Bigfoot."He said a similar tradition of nicknames, called tee-names, was used in north east Scotland and may have already the Gaelic tradition, tee-names were used to differentiate between families with the same surname. Mr Taylor, who grew up in Moray, said: "I know some Woods were called Deacon - my great-granny was known locally as Alexina Deacon although she was Alexina Wood officially."Some Mairs were called Shavie and some Gardiners were known as Bo. "I've seen examples from Portknockie, Findochty and Buckie." Annie MacSween, of Ness Historical Society in Lewis, has also noticed a decline of the west coast the late 1970s she was seconded to a project that looked into the feasibility of bilingual education provision for the initiative also encouraged greater community involvement in the running of the MacSween said: "A lot of my initial work was in the Ness community and only a number of houses had phones - remember this was a time long before mobile phones."The community association in Ness decided it would be a good idea to have a local telephone directory."The first one was printed by the Stornoway Gazette in 1977, I think it was. "In it we had the official names of people and their nicknames or family names."Four editions were printed with the last one in the years, a book recording sheep tags used by local crofters was also listed crofters by their formal names and also their family name or nickname. Allan Campbell, who grew up in the north of Skye, said the names were an important part of his cultural identity."I think the patronymic names are really interesting to those who are interested in their own history, and I think that it's really important in terms of the language and the culture we have as Gaels," he said some names were based on a person's trade, such as a blacksmith, while others were clever word he was a schoolboy he was nicknamed Volt because his initials, AC, are an abbreviation for the electrical term "alternating current". He is still known by some people just by his his education he stayed in a hostel at Portree High School and patronymics and nicknames were used almost like a secret said: "In the dorm at night, when the lights went out, and the boys were talking about what had happened - maybe of some sort of mischief - they wouldn't be naming people by their real names because quite often the masters would be listening at the doors."Genealogist Calum MacNeil said patronymic names were popular when he was growing up in Nask, a small community in said: "Almost nobody that lived in Nask originally came from Nask. "They came from different places on the island. Because of that, we used their patronymic names."Mr MacNeil said nicknames could be potentially contentious."There were some who were happy with the nickname they were given, and others that weren't," he said."There were also some that were happy with it but maybe their families weren't happy with it."
