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National Geographic : 1974 Nov
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I like to say that and wait to be asked how much land I've got. Well, I've got 750 acres. "I got it all when my landlord turned over to me the land of just-retired crofters. I've got enough now, 100 acres arable. For the first time I can give up my second job. I used to work as postman four hours a day. Had to. But no more. The land will take care of us." At the other end of Mull's landholding spectrum is Col. Geoffrey Miller, one of Mull's few resident landlords. I found him mowing the lawn in the splendid gardens at Torosay Castle, his present home, and I asked him about the much-criticized absenteeism of big landowners. "This ancient complaint about absentee landlords is simply not valid. Sentimental overreaction, I think. First place, most come several times a year, and even when they're not here, they're spending money here. What's the alternative? Government ownership? Worse by far. There's no incentive to land owning. We've got 12,000 acres, and in most years we lose money. Can't afford much labor. Have to do a lot of the gardening myself. Have to get into the fountains to pull out weeds, and my blasted boots leak." Words Express an Islander's Love The most eloquent and impassioned apolo gist for Mull is, oddly enough, Angus Mac intyre, the island banker. He has the soul of a bard and the lilting, rhythmic voice of a sennachie-the storyteller of Gaeldom. His English is sonorous and precise, as learned languages are apt to be. The Gael does not mangle syntax or bury it beneath colloquial isms and ephemeral verbal fads as do native English speakers. "This is the last bastion of quietude against the convulsive, frenzied life of the mainland," he said. "Ours is a simple culture, and its verities are eternal." Mr. Macintyre did not sit down. White haired, gentle of mien, he stood framed by the window of his office in Tobermory, with the sunlit harbor behind him, gesturing mildly in elegant emphasis. "Incomers do not change us; no, it is they who are changed. Their pace slows, and they come to feel that there is no need for hurry. That is the philosophy of the Gael, and that is why industry will not succeed here. "The islandman has no industrial tradition, except the making of whisky. It is a great thing for all of us that our old distillery, inactive for 708 some fifty years, is starting up again." He raised a finger and recited: "A clever man, Old Hector, And wise the words he said: 'Without the barley's nectar A man is better dead.' "People tell us we must expand, increase our population, create new jobs. They're wrong. No natural expansion is possible here. And any other kind would destroy the quali ties that give Mull its appeal. "There is an absentee-landlord problem. Absence makes the heart grow careless. Bracken grows thick on shooting estates where once grass grew. One imagines the in finite sadness of the pipes playing the 'Flow ers of the Forest,' the death march, for old ways lost and irretrievable. But let us not destroy what we have left." When the Land Denies, the Sea Provides There is, in fact, one old way of life that is not irretrievable at all but making a heart ening comeback. Fishing has become im portant once again, and will be more so. Four fishing vessels operate out of Tobermory, go ing to sea just after midnight on Sunday and coming home at about seven o'clock Friday evening, having unloaded their catch at Oban on the mainland. It was at that hour that I left Mr. Mac intyre's office, and there, at the pier, was Ian MacDonald's boat, and himself aboard her. "I've a good fifty-footer," he told me, "thanks to a grant from the White Fish Authority and a low-interest loan from the Highlands and Islands Development Board. Besides, the fishing's fine and the prices are high. "So I've achieved my life's ambition-and how many men ever do that?" He pointed up to a schoolhouse above the town. "When I was a wee lad up there, I'd look down to this harbor and think 'One day I'll be the skipper of my own boat.' And now Iam, andIhaveahouseandagoodwifeand a fine son-and I'm free! No laird owns my boat or tells me where I may fish." A small neat man came up, holding a paper bag in his hand. "Good evening to you, Ian, and how are you keeping?" "Couldn't be better!" "I was just wondering if you might have a fish left over?" Ian made a great show of not knowing. National Geographic, November 1974
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