The Stranger

At night, in the summer of 1746, a four masted sailing ship approached the rugged Donegal coast just off Glencolmcille.

In the dark the crew could see the shadowy bulk of the Glen Head loom above them and hear the on-shore roar of the waves as they completed their long Atlantic journey.

The captain decided to drop anchor and hold his station until an hour before dawn. He knew how treacherous this coast could be, as Philip of Spain had learned to his coast a hundred and fifty years before. These waters were the last resting place of hundreds of soldiers and sailors from the ill-fated Armada of 1588.

As the first hint of greyness began to dissipate the dark night, the captain lit a lantern and swung it to and fro three times. He then shaded the light and after a minute repeated the signal. From the dark shape of the coast an answering light was seen, repeating the sequence of the ship’s signal.

The on-shore lantern was then allowed to flicker and a small boat, with three men on board, was lowered and rowed toward the light.

One man, with a small trunk, disembarked while the other two made a quick turnaround and rowed back to the waiting ship. The man on the shore approached the stranger, took his small chest and heaved it upon his shoulder, and in silence motioned the stranger to follow him.

All the while the darkness was receding and giving way to a brighter grey. As visibility improved the stranger made better progress and soon they came out unto a flat area high above the shore. They stood in silence to regain their breath and surveyed the scene. Far out to sea and heading north towards Aranmore Island the sails of the ship could be seen and for just a moment the guide detected a hint of uncertainty in the stranger’s eyes. To the east a halo of light was beginning to appear on the crest of the hills, heralding the rising sun.

The guide, Sean Gillespie, for that was his name, pointed to a small stone-built cottage high up the side of a mountain which stood before them. The stranger nodded and smiled and they set off on the final leg of their journey. The landscape was rugged but with a wild beauty of its own. Large grey rocks formed scree among the purple heather on the slopes of the hills and here and there, in isolated fertile spots, the brash greenery of bracken made a startling contrast.

When they reached the little, single roomed dwelling and entered its dim interior they saw Sean’s wife, Brid, hunched before the open hearth stirring a pot of porridge. She filled two bowls of the steaming hot gruel for the two men and withdrew to the other end of the room.

Here she began to partition off a section with coarse woollen drapes. This was to be the stranger’s quarters for the duration of his stay.

Sean and his family spoke only Gaelic, while the stranger spoke two tongues, one which Sean recognized as English and another one totally foreign to him, which was French.

The stranger noticed a movement in a pile of clothes in the dark interior of an alcove near the fireplace. The figure emerged into the light of the fire and the flickering flames revealed the face of a seven year old girl with sleep crinkled eyes and yawning mouth. When she saw the stranger supping his porridge the sleep fled her eyes and was replaced with astonishment.

This was Fiona, the only child of Sean and Brid, and now she edged closer on her knees to survey this strange sight. For indeed he was like no other man she had ever seen. Long, delicate fingers on a soft clean hand elegantly curved around the crudely fashioned wooden spoon which he used in a graceful motion to convey the porridge to a pouting, sensual mouth. He blew softly and swallowed with a refinement which Fiona found difficult to credit to a human. Her father’s bulky form was bent low over his bowl and his rough calloused hands sped the spoon to his whiskered mouth with slurps and sighs of satisfaction.

A glinting reflection from the fire drew Fiona’s attention to the stranger’s feet. A shiny yellow buckle crowned the instep of each soft leather shoe, and even the polished leather glowed in the firelight. Her gaze was now drawn to the top of the stranger’s head and upon it was a sight which her seven sheltered years of life had not prepared her for. The hair was white, an almost powdery white which seemed to shimmer. It came down to the nape of his neck and was curled in symmetrical rows right around his head. Fiona rose to her feet and, with curiosity overcoming trepidation, she approached the stranger with hand outstretched to touch the strange hair. Before she could touch it, the stranger put both hands to his head and lifted the hair clean off it. Fiona gasped and fell back sharply. What magic was this, her puzzled mind cried.

Then she noticed that, instead of the bald scalp she had expected, the stranger still had hair. His hair was brown and short and brushed tightly together. And she saw his eyes were laughing and a smile lit his face and was beckoning her to come forward. When she got close he put the wig upon her head and then took from the chest an ornately framed hand mirror.

Fiona looked at her newly bedecked head in the mirror and peals of joyous, childish laughter rang out and brightened up the dim little cottage.

The episode of the wig melted any distance between Fiona and the stranger and thereafter a strong friendship grew up between them. In the mornings he would go with her to release and feed the hens from the little stone-built “craw” thatched with rushes. Indeed, it resembled a smaller version of the little cottage in which the family dwelt. They would go to the turf-stack and bring to the house enough fuel for the day’s needs.

By now the stranger no longer wore his fine clothes, nor the wig which caused such merriment. He now blended more easily into the landscape by wearing the same coarse woollen garb as Fiona’s father.

They were sitting one day by the shore of a little lake, hoping to catch sight of an otter, when Fiona pointed skywards. The stranger looked up and there, gliding effortlessly on the thermal updrafts was a magnificent Golden Eagle. As they both looked in admiration at the great bird Fiona recited a little poem that her grandfather had taught her.  

See the eagle, see him fly,
He is master of all the sky 
As he sees us down below 
We look so small and move so slow, 
If we saw ourselves through the eagle’s eyes 
Our pride would look like so much lies.

There was one ritual which the stranger adhered to solemnly. Towards the close of each day he would go to his trunk and take from it a telescope. Then, with Fiona in tow, he would make his way to a promontory from where he could see out over the Atlantic Ocean.

From the vantage point the stranger would begin his scan of the ocean, starting from the south west and then out into the Atlantic an on up towards Aranmore Island.

Day after day he would repeat the ritual and stay until the setting sun had made the sea a blaze of ever changing, glowing red and pinks.

One evening, two weeks after he first arrived, Fiona and the stranger made their daily visit to the promontory. He scanned the sea as usual and just as the setting sun began to spread its light across the sea he handed the telescope to Fiona and directed her to look to the south west. At first all she could see was the vast expanse of a rapidly reddening sea and then, right on the horizon, a ship with its sails aglow from the setting sun.

They walked back to the cottage, where Sean was standing in the doorway appreciating the last of a fine summer’s day. The stranger stood in front of him a moment, then nodded his head. Sean returned the nod and they went inside and Fiona went to bed.

Sometime in the night, in that misty world between dream and reality, Fiona thought she felt something pressed into her hand, and then deep sleep claimed her.

When she awoke in the morning she unaccountably felt a loss – she knew her friend had gone. She raced from the house and up the hill to the promontory from where she and the stranger had watched the horizon on so many evenings.

Far out to sea and sailing south she saw a ship, and her young heart ached for she knew her friend was on board. She was squeezing tightly on something round and had been since she awoke, but only now become aware of it. She slowly unfolded her hand and there lying upon her palm was a gleaming, gold coin. On the coin there was a face in profile and the face was that of her friend, the stranger. Around the edge of the coin were words she could not read but they said: Charles III Rex. The man who had become her friend was Charles Edward Stuart, the young Pretender, and lovingly known by his followers as Bonnie Prince Charlie.


FOOTNOTE: After the defeat of his Highland army in the spring of 1746, Bonnie Prince Charlie made his way to the Isle of Skye. From there he travelled to France via Glencolmcille in Co. Donegal. 

 His dreams of regaining the throne of his ancestors were not, alas, to be. He retired to Rome, the city of his birth, where he died in 1786 aged 68. Two years later in 1790, Flora McDonald, also aged 68, died. 

Flora Mc Donald was the young woman who had rowed the Bonnie Prince to safety on the Isle of Skye. The song; “Over The Sea To Skye” commemorates that event.