by Marjory Woodfield
Longlisted in the PureTravel Writing Competition 2024
The sanctuary of Applecross has never been without its saint… there has passed one who was a moving spirit in all good works.
From the obituary of Elizabeth McCrae, 1935
I gather shells from the rocky Achintraid beach because that’s where Betsy came from. After she married Alexander, they moved to Shore Street on the northwestern Applecross Peninsula. He was Ali Tàillier.She was Betsy or Bean Ali Tàillier. Together they ran Applecross Temperance Inn.
We take the Bealach na Ba road from Inverness to Applecross. It’s the old cattle trail. The warnings at the bottom of the pass are dire, but we’re reassured by the Scotsman in Inverness who says to us, “Och, what are you worrying about? You’re from New Zealand.”
The inn’s still there, just no longer temperance. We stay on the ground floor, opposite the breakfast room where a framed photo hangs labeled Flora McKenzie, 1845. My great-great grandmother. One daughter, Elizabeth, the other, Mary. Mary immigrated to New Zealand in 1887.
“There’s two otters on the rocks,” he says pointing. It’s evening, we’re walking from Shore Street to Milltown beside a cold gray sea. We don’t see the otters but do come across grazing black-eyed sheep, a cluster of pecking hens and scattered lobster creels along the stony shore. At Milltown we walk around the crumbling former millhouse. It has a For Sale sign, and two millstones, propped against the wall of the house opposite.
Grace runs the Coal Shed Craft Shop. When we visit, I tell her about the photo of Flora, and her daughters, Elizabeth and Mary. “I’ll ask Fiona for the original,” she says. “She’s a McCrae too. You’re probably related. Everyone here’s either McCrae or McKenzie.”
We walk along the shoreline to Clachan where the old stone church still stands. Neat rows of tombstones. So many names erased by wind and rain but we find hers. Elizabeth McCrae. Beloved by all. Helen works in the Heritage Centre behind Clachan Manse, next to the church. She’s sure she has a photo of Betsy and Alexander at home. She’ll look it out for me. We pass exhibits. Gaelic Bible. Wooden burial bier. Photos of crofters’ cottages. Stories of how they once harvested the kelp that nowadays lies in clumps on the low tide sand.
“Start with Roe’s Walk,” Judy says over breakfast. We follow the course of the river Crossan, passing a disused lime kiln and an old ice pond. Distant sea. Mist low over Skye. The bracken either side of our path stretches as far as the eye can see. Where the track forks we choose the Arboretum Trail down to The Walled Garden, part of the original estate homestead. Sweet peas, clematis, fallen pears and apples. “Kale,” my husband says pointing, “your favourite.” In the Potting Shed Café we order coffee and eat parkin. It tastes like gingerbread, but is made with oats and black treacle. Overhead there’s wire mesh fishing baskets, embellished with looping fairy lights. Some would have been for lobsters, others for prawns and crabs. We take the Beechwood Trail back. The path is damp under our feet and there are prints of cattle in the soft mud. We can hear them lowing in the distance. Through a turnstile we stop to read a signpost. Shore Street & Applecross Inn. Feel the first drops of rain.
Helen’s husband comes to see us on his way home from work. “We’ve found these for you.” In the first photo, Alexander and Betsy stand together by the door of the hotel. In the second, he stands in front of a small rowboat on the stony shore opposite the inn. Wooden oars slung over his shoulder. Oilskin jacket and coat. We hear the stories. Alexander. Post-master, general merchant, innkeeper. The post cards he published of Applecross. Betsy carrying baskets of food, following paths to crofter’s cottages. Alexander died at 91, an Applecross nonagenarian. Duine coir, amiable and of a generous disposition, even elderly folk remembered his kindness to themselves in their school days. His goodwill is beyond question and one is justified in saying that his alms have gone to the ends of the earth.
Like Betsy, much loved.
The Coral Beach is a good walk, they tell us over dinner. “South through Camusterrach. There’s an off road park, a 2 km walk, then a bit of a clamber down to the beach.” We drive past sheep along the roadside and crofters’ cottages tucked behind dry stone walls. Unfortunately we’re beaten back by rain. Dampened but not dispirited, we try again the next day. We walk further, and this time when the rain comes, have further to walk back.
We leave for Inverness on Saturday morning. Anne promises to send me more photos. She’ll keep in touch. I point to the stuffed otter on the counter beside the framed certificate that says, Applecross Inn, Scottish Pub of the Year. ”That’s Paddy,” she says. He wears a woolen hat, dark glasses, red bow tie, plaid jacket. “He was a greedy otter who was caught in a lobster creel and drowned. One day I’ll make him a sporran.”
Photo by Chilli Charlie on Unsplash
