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| Loch Sween Bay | |
| By Talisker | ||||||||||||
| 30 October 2006 | ||||||||||||
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A true ghost story, just in time for Halloween. This is all true - and is from my own personal perspective. Oli It is impossible to conceive of a holiday more vulnerable to the vagaries of the Scottish climate. A caravan, on a small site on the wild West coast, about as far from anywhere, about as close to nowhere as it is possible to be whilst remaining in the United Kingdom. Loch Sween Bay Caravan Park was, and I imagine still is, a singularly remote and isolated facility, with a small cluster of static and touring vans perched precariously in the shadow of the twelfth century castle, the oldest stone fortification in Scotland. I revisited the area on a fishing trip some ten years ago – little had changed. Some of the caravans had been replaced, some renovated, a few were rusted and dilapidated in situ. I had no intention on this occasion of making use of the modest accommodation on site – even after a time lapse of twenty-two years, the place still caused my scalp to contract and the hair on the back of my neck to rise. Truth be told, this had been the very reason for the thirty-mile diversion from Crinan, where Gerry and I were checked in at the salubrious Crinan Hotel. I had to satisfy myself that my memories of Loch Sween Bay were accurate – if my mental images of the site were correct, perhaps my recollections of the bizarre events of September nineteen seventy-four were similarly true. You take an unfeasibly sharp, hairpin turn at Crinan and are immediately face with a dead end sign. This is enough to put off the casual day-tripper, but this is no ordinary dead end road – this is the longest cul-de-sac in the British Isles – forty-two miles no less, of single track road with passing places. The road is metalled for most of the way, but is bumpy and uneven. The passing places are sometimes over-spaced, necessitating lengthy use of the reverse gear on meeting a vehicle coming the other way. Thankfully, this is a rare occurrence. Not many people venture down here, especially in September, when the school activity centre at Achnamara, twelve miles down the peninsular road, has closed for the year. By the end of August, the caravan site at Loch Sween Bay is winding down for the season. The log cabin bar opens sporadically, and only if one of the few hardy residents has the temerity to make a special request. You get the picture, the Knapdale peninsula of Argyle is not so much “off the beaten track” as “off the face of the Earth”. However, as an eight-year old boy, this singular fact held me in no trepidation – in fact, on the contrary, I recall it added a magic frisson to the prospect of the holiday. When we arrived the weather was fine. The sunshine dappled through the trees at the road edge – much of the way the road is a “tunnel”, with a canopy of native trees just beginning to take on an Autumnal tint. We had only met one other vehicle on the long drive from Crinan, a farmer in a four by four – he was good enough to take the Landrover off-road to allow us to pass, then gave a cheery wave as he drove away towards civilisation. This climatic good fortune did not last long however – by supper time the wind had picked up, and a squall was blowing in from the West. The supposedly static caravan swayed alarmingly, the windows swelled inwards and the rain snare-drummed on the plastic roof. I don’t recall much about the evening in question, it was the fourth night of our two-week stay. The weather had barely changed – strong Westerly winds bringing heavy squalls in from the Irish Sea, increasing dramatically after dark. Out of five children, only Gerry seemed to be enjoying the holiday. I remember his vibrant ginger mop, hundreds of yards away down the beach, combing in the rock pools and along the kelpie water line – he was in his element – a six-year old naturalist in his perfect habitat. The rest of us had become rather surly and cabin fever was setting in. We had played cards, done the jigsaw puzzles - all of which had pieces missing - read the mouldy readers digest magazines. The telly was black and white, flickery, crackly and unpredictable. I remember it seemed to have a remission period though on this particular evening, the feature film was “A Fist Full of Dynamite” – a peculiar spaghetti-western with an evocative Ennio Morricone soundtrack – especially the main theme with went “Sean-Sean, Sean-Sean, Sean-Sean”, the name of my twin brother – I remember that clearly. We were in bed early. It was a wildest night yet. I remember hearing mum and dad turning in. I was in a twin-bunk room with Kevin on the top bunk. The room was tiny and like the rest of the caravan smelled strongly of moth-balls. There was no electric light, only gas mantles which went “pop!” when extinguished. I could reach out and touch the cold metal wall of the “room”, which heightened the claustrophobic sensations. I must have fallen asleep, for I awoke with a sense of time having passed. I assumed Kevin was asleep, I heard his regular breathing from the bunk above. Kevin was perhaps my least favourite brother. He is four years older and never seemed to like me. But I was scared before I knew why, and I would have given anything at that instant for some reassurance from the bunk above. It was then that I looked towards the closed door of our tiny, metal coffin room: There, slowly moving towards me was a female figure. Incandescent, smiling, slowly, smoothly floating towards me. “Angela” – I whispered hopefully. Angela was my twelve year-old sister and was sleeping in the living room, on the folded down sofa. There was no reply, but by now I realised in terror that it was not Angela, nor was it my mother, nor was it anyone in our mortal realm. It was a ghost. My mouth dried instantly, I lost the power of speech, I was transfixed, paralysed by terror. From somewhere I summoned the power to put my arm out towards the phantasm. My hand and arm passed straight through the vision with an icy chill and again touched the cold and reverberating metal wall. Let me try to describe the ghost, which was in itself not a terrifying figure. It was clearly female, young but adult, wearing a long flowing gown which was luminescent white, with light blue attire beneath. The feet wear bare. There was a veil over the face which did not obscure the features, which were kindly, beautiful and benign. An enigmatic smile held on the face and the eyes were fixed steadily on me. Later I was to say that the figure suggested to me the Virgin Mary, or perhaps a guardian angel, although there were no “wings” – just a shining beneficence. Then I did the strangest thing in the circumstances – I went to sleep. Some indeterminate time later I awoke, and remembered the vision almost immediately. By this time, I was lying with my face towards the inner wall, facing away from where the vision had been – so I slowly turned around. It was still there! Still smiling with hands clasped in front of its glowing breast, just as before. This time I was even more terrified. I turned away again and I think I wept. I could not escape without “touching” the spectre. I could not make a sound. I steeled myself and tried to think what to do – somehow, I eventually managed to dart for the door, feeling the iciness again, on my arm and legs as I passed through the ghost. I dashed to my parents room and threw myself, weeping uncontrollably on their bed. Soon every light in the caravan was on, everyone was awake, everyone had heard about my “dream”. I was utterly convinced, and remain so to this day that it was no dream. In spite of the general scepticism, the entire family left for home the next morning. Ten years later, when I was studying at Glasgow University, I did a little research into the history of the site and castle. In the middle ages the castle was sacked and many were put to the sword, including a young noble woman, whose description matched precisely with my childhood visitor. Oli (30/10/06)
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