The 6 July, 1999 saw the first of the deportees on
their way to a new life.
 There
were few to note their departure and those who did,
were mostly strangers, untutored in the ways of the
highlands and therefore ignorant of the hardship of
life in Wester Ross. Indeed the very name, with its
multiple R's is alliterative of the rugged rocks which
are a feature of this unhospitable coast line and the
restrictions in reception for mobile phones and Channel
Five.
Those who might have watched the exodus would not have
guessed at the fear and trepidation felt by the group
assembled in the boat because of the brave smiles that
adorned every face despite the uncertain future they
faced . . .
They had been selected, not at random, but by age,
those on or about fifty years being the prime subjects
for deportation. Two of them were actually 50 on that
very day. Others had been picked for their support.
As I say, they were gallant souls indeed, though a
stranger coming amongst their midst would have no inkling
as to the depths of the uncertainty they felt on setting
out (who knew where) on the maiden voyage of this brave
vessel. Two lone pipers stood on the quayside (if two
pipers can be lone) their fingers gliding over their
chanters as the notes of a lament floated across the
still waters of the Lochcarron ocean. A cheer rent the
air as the ropes were cast off and the crew bent to
their oars (or their beers).
The die was cast. As the shores of Plockton became
smaller and smaller in the early evening air, the passengers
turned their faces to the future with courage. They
knew that never again would they see fifty again and
they must look forward to a new life known as Middleage.
A more immediate problem, however, was at hand —
the supply of food and drink for the voyage. Men, women
and crew fell to stowing these provisions with a will
as fast as conversation would allow. (And I must report
that there was not a single case of scurvy reported
during the whole of the journey.)
Having slaked their thirst and hunger for the meantime,
other concerns came crowding into the minds of those
who still had them (minds, that is). The vessel was
on its maiden voyage. Untried on such an expedition,
would she win through or suffer the fate of other maiden
voyagers captured in pictures? Her name gave courage:
was not Jason's vessel (he of the Golden Fleece) known
as the Argonaut? Well, it was. And did that name not
hand its self down to this, the Argus, who along with
her fellow Index present a catalogue of names associated
with the Greek gods — the Titans of . . . no,
forget that.
Could they put their faith in Captain Callum? The kilt
was reassuring but the multicoloured hat, with its biblical
associations sat less comfortably on the weatherbeaten
brow.
A new shore loomed ahead. Was this the promised land?
Named Kishorn they were told, but though lively in days
of yore, it lay silent, cold and empty in its desolation.
Captain Callum spun the wheel and the party turned
South, searching the deserted coast for any sign of
life. Deserted buildings and abandoned concrete artifacts
were all they found. They made for open water. "Make
for Dubhaird," came a call. And so they did, but
before they reached safe haven, night overtook them
and they were forced to drift helplessly. But not hopelessly.
Song after song parted the blackness, all the company
taking up the chorus until Captain Callum started the
oarsmen, and sensing his uncanny way through the pitch,
came upon a welcome new landing place that had appeared
as though by magic.
Cheer after cheer came from the assembled deportees
for the relief that was at hand: the toilets were still
open.
Lawrence Williamson, 1999 |
