A Christmas at Udrigal
For Christmas 1998, three years before we migrated north, we rented Udrigal House, near the tiny coastal Wester-Ross village of Laide. That was one of our best ever Christmases, as I recall, and was probably when Dee and I first set our sights on leaving Headbourne Worthy, near Winchester, in favour of the Scottish Highlands.
Before we left the house that year, I wrote a poem and subsequently presented it to Joanna, its owner. Udrigal House is reputed to be one of the oldest inhabited dwellings of its type in Wester-Ross, built, I seem to recall, not long after 'The Forty Five' of Bonnie Prince Charlie fame / disaster.
Having lost my copy of that poem I was surprised and delighted yesterday to find same Joanna at my door bearing a copy. The original I sent, she told me, is now framed and hanging on the wall of her fine old house.
Having touched up the verses here and there ... this is it .... I hope to be able to paint a picture of the place where we spent those few, so precious Christmas days and nights.
Christmas at House Udrigal
I dreamed a dream most magicalOf times before House UdrigalOf clansmen, living by the shoreAnd on the hill, well used to warYet speaking, singing poetry.I dreamed this fierce northern land, Made beautiful by Nature’s handFrom ice and loch and living rockWas gifted to its Highland stockWhose origins are mystery.
Those people lived in hardinessIn turv-ed structures windowless,Until that chieftain did decideIn honour of his fair haired brideTo build a house for history,Named ‘Outer gully’ (‘Udraigil’);Here’s where he dug away the soil,Well found on rock his place would beSafe from the storms, the raging seaWithstand all that adversity.
Great boulders came up from the beach;He chipped and shaped and fitted eachTo those beneath, row upon row And joined the timbers one by oneBuilt solid strong in symmetry.And then upon a lintel stone, to markAbove the fire, in letters starkFor all who here sometime might passThat this was “Williams’, Lilias’s”And shall be throughout eternity.
Then in my dream I gladly talkedWith friendly ghosts of those who’d lookedAcross this moody, salty-planeTo distant hills in sun and rain -A view of such great majesty.I spoke with lairds and tacksmen andThe crofters who had worked this landHad built this Highlands House sublimeSired of the wind, the sea and timeThat always shall stay close to me.
Awake! It’s Christmas ninety eight!We walk the dogs and get back lateThen eat and drink and so at lastWe toast our future and our pastFor each is vital, equally.And when we pull the curtains back -A star-less night of stygian black -White lights ride bright up in the sky-And yes, we hear a baby’s cry.For this is Christmas, magically.
Bryan Islip December 1998
Before we left the house that year, I wrote a poem and subsequently presented it to Joanna, its owner. Udrigal House is reputed to be one of the oldest inhabited dwellings of its type in Wester-Ross, built, I seem to recall, not long after 'The Forty Five' of Bonnie Prince Charlie fame / disaster.
Having lost my copy of that poem I was surprised and delighted yesterday to find same Joanna at my door bearing a copy. The original I sent, she told me, is now framed and hanging on the wall of her fine old house.
Having touched up the verses here and there ... this is it .... I hope to be able to paint a picture of the place where we spent those few, so precious Christmas days and nights.
Christmas at House Udrigal
I dreamed a dream most magicalOf times before House UdrigalOf clansmen, living by the shoreAnd on the hill, well used to warYet speaking, singing poetry.I dreamed this fierce northern land, Made beautiful by Nature’s handFrom ice and loch and living rockWas gifted to its Highland stockWhose origins are mystery.
Those people lived in hardinessIn turv-ed structures windowless,Until that chieftain did decideIn honour of his fair haired brideTo build a house for history,Named ‘Outer gully’ (‘Udraigil’);Here’s where he dug away the soil,Well found on rock his place would beSafe from the storms, the raging seaWithstand all that adversity.
Great boulders came up from the beach;He chipped and shaped and fitted eachTo those beneath, row upon row And joined the timbers one by oneBuilt solid strong in symmetry.And then upon a lintel stone, to markAbove the fire, in letters starkFor all who here sometime might passThat this was “Williams’, Lilias’s”And shall be throughout eternity.
Then in my dream I gladly talkedWith friendly ghosts of those who’d lookedAcross this moody, salty-planeTo distant hills in sun and rain -A view of such great majesty.I spoke with lairds and tacksmen andThe crofters who had worked this landHad built this Highlands House sublimeSired of the wind, the sea and timeThat always shall stay close to me.
Awake! It’s Christmas ninety eight!We walk the dogs and get back lateThen eat and drink and so at lastWe toast our future and our pastFor each is vital, equally.And when we pull the curtains back -A star-less night of stygian black -White lights ride bright up in the sky-And yes, we hear a baby’s cry.For this is Christmas, magically.
Bryan Islip December 1998
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