Two Tales from Scotland

The Fisherman and the Selkie

A Journey Through Time

Anne Pitcher

When I was a child and young woman in the 1950s and 1960s, I was fortunate enough to spend a long time during the summer on holiday with my family in the North of Scotland at a place called Bettyhill, half way between the town of Thurso and the village of Tongue, on the coast. It has two glorious sandy beaches one at Farr Bay and the other is at Torrisdale Bay which has enormous dune-hills with a salmon rich river coming out to the west of the village called the River Naver. We stayed in a wee croft which had been the old shepherd’s dwelling which was attached to the main farm croft house and now was a holiday house. It was a basic place, but my family loved it. We were right next to the Willie MacKay, the crofter and his mother whom I only ever knew as Mrs MacKay. They often invited us in for a wee “Ceilidh” next door when the old mother would tell us stories and Willie would play the fiddle with lively jigs and sad plaintive tunes. My father was an accomplished fiddle player and we had a great time of it. We listened wide eyed with wonder throughout the whole evening, fighting sleep and the need to go to bed, not wanting to miss any of the wondrous, magical, experience. I only have vague memories of the stories she wove on those nights but the following tale is inspired by those evenings in childhood.

The Fisherman and the Selkie

Once there was a young fisherman who lived in a wee croft in a beautiful part of the north coast of Scotland called Bettyhill. He was content enough to be a fisherman as his father and his father’s father had been before him but he longed for someone to share his life with. None of the local lassies quite seemed to appeal to him. Everyday from his cottage, out to sea in the Pentland Firth he could see the island of Eilean Nan Ron which means “The Island of Seals” in Gaelic. It was said that you could always tell what the weather was going to be if you looked out there. It could be reached by boat from a little harbour near the mouth of the Naver River which flows out to the sea by Betty Hill. It was well known by the fishermen of the area that the shoals of fish out by the island were plentiful but the weather and currents could change so swiftly that it was given a wide berth.

One beautiful sunny day in summer, when soft was the breeze, the tide just right, the fisherman decided to chance his luck and fish off Eilean Nan Ron. He rowed out and threw a long line of baited fishhooks close by the soaring cliffs, on the leaward side of the island. As with all Scottish weather, the day changed from calm and sunny to stormy and wild, suddenly and the waves got up. He pulled his lines up, now heavy with fine fat fish, but decided he would not make it to the mainland. So he rowed with all his strength, his face scoured by the biting sea spray, to a little outcrop of flat rock by the only beach on the island and dragged his boat up using the last of his strength. He noticed a cave in the cliff face and decided to shelter there until the storm eased. Utterly exhausted he fell into a deep sleep and did not notice that as quickly as the storm had arisen, it had died down. A full moon had broken through the storm clouds and was shining a silver pathway on the water.

In his dreams he seemed to hear the most sweet and haunting singing. He awoke and realised that this was no dream. For before him were four beautiful young women dancing and singing, their long, rich, wavy golden brown hair cascading down their backs. As they danced, their white, slender limbs moved with such fluid grace that they seemed to echo the rhythm of the gentle waves on the shore. They were Selkies, seal women. He had heard that they shed their skins and became women but had dismissed these stories as old wives tales and nonsense. The selkie maids had not noticed the fisherman as he crept closer and closer to them. He saw that the selkies had left their seal’s skins folded by a rock beside the sea. Three of the selkies stopped dancing, slipped into their seal’s skin and swam out into the waves. The most beautiful of them all remained, combing her hair in the sparkle of moonlight, singing quietly, enjoying having the beach to herself. As if overcome by some selfish madness he stretched out his hand and snatched the fine seal skin, tucking it under his jacket. The selkie maid did not see his daring action but finally stopped singing and combing her hair and began to look for her skin. She saw the fisherman and started. She looked at him with her sea blue eyes which were filling with tears and said “Sir, have you seen my clothes? I put them somewhere near here and cannot find them.” “A big wave must have taken them out to sea, they must be gone now” said the fisherman. “I shall never return to my family if I do not have my skin” sobbed the young woman. “You’ll come home with me and I shall look after you, do not fear. Maybe some day your skin will wash back to you on the tide.” Reluctantly she went into the boat and he rowed back to his croft and hid the skin where she could not find it. 

The selkie maid suspected that the fisherman had her skin but though she searched and searched she could not find it. The people in Bettyhill were amazed when they discovered that a beautiful woman was living with the young fisherman, a stranger not from these parts. Some said that she was from the families over by Dunnet Head where it was known the Norsemen had come, invading many generations ago leaving their mark in golden hair and blue eyes. But older folk suspected the truth - that she was a selkie maid. But no-one knew for sure. The fisherman was kind and gentle to the young woman, many village folk said he was too kind by half, doing many jobs which were a woman’s place to do. After a while a kind of earthly feeling of love for this man began to grow in the selkie maid’s heart and in time they got married and were content and happy. Every year the fisherman would change the hiding place of the beautiful seal skin so she would not find it. At times a sad and distant expression would come over her face and great salty tears would pour from her sea blue eyes. The fisherman knew she was longing for her selkie family and her life under the sea.

They were blessed with three beautiful girls, lithe of movement, with golden brown hair cascading down their shoulders like their mother. The sea shore had a fascination for them and often in the dusk of the evening or early morning they could be seen together watching the seals bask on the rocks at Farr Bay or at Torrisdale Bay. When the seals sang their strange, haunting melodies they joined in, their voices weaving seamlessly with those of the seals

There were times when the fisherman thought he heard the waves by the shore whispering to him “Return her silky, seal skin so she can swim with her own seal folk once more” But he could not do it for he had grown to love her more and more. He could not imagine life without her.

Then one summer, about the time of year that they had first met, the oldest lassie, a gentle, kind girl had watched her father go rather secretively into the old thatched shed where all the shearing tools for cutting the fleeces from his few sheep, were kept. Once he had left the shed, looking left and right as if checking that no-one had seen him, being a curious sort of lassie, she went into the shed and looked about to see what he had been doing so secretly. She looked around the shed, then found an old box, with the dust on top disturbed. She lifted the lid and found old nets that needed mended on top. She pushed her hand in further and felt something soft and furry, like something alive. Lifting out the nets she found wrapped carefully in a clean sheep’s fleece a beautiful seal’s skin. A strange feeling came over her as if she should recognise this skin and it almost felt as if she heard the sea nearby whisper “Return her to the sea. Return her silky seal’s skin so your mother can swim with her own seal folk once more.” Not knowing what to believe she ran to her mother who was in the croft baking bannocks at the fire. Holding her strange treasure, she came quietly into the croft and stood silently with it in her hands outstretched to her mother. The selkie wife saw the beautiful, fine skin and she knew it was her very own. The blood drained from her face. She knew then that she had to return home to the sea. Calmly and carefully she finished the fisherman’s evening meal. She gathered her three bonnie lassies to her and told them the story of her life. It was for them as if the strangeness and their yearning to be with the seal folk was explained. Calmly but sadly she told them that she must return to her own folk but that she would visit them by the shore at Farr Bay in Bettyhill or out at the Skerray Point on the rocks. But they would not be parted from her and said “Where you go, we will go. Your life under the sea, will be our life. We have known in our hearts that the land was not our home.” With great tears running from her blue eyes, down her cheeks now brown and worn by the hard work of the croft she finished her baking ready for the fisherman coming home. She had grown to love the fisherman but the pull of the sea was too strong. And as early evening fell, the three girls and their mother went down to the Farr Bay shore. She kissed each little cheek, and each lassie felt a sea change come upon them. A fine furry coat grew over their bodies. Their arms shrunk into flat flippers, and where their stocky wee legs had been was a seal’s short tail. Slowly the selkie wife put on her seal skin and slipped silently into the waves lapping at the shore and was gone with her three daughters.

When the fisherman returned he was puzzled by the lack of laughter and chattering and the smell of his meal cooking that normally came from the croft. Then he saw the empty fine sheep’s fleece where he had carefully concealed the seal skin and knew with a deep, deep dread what had happened. Down to the shore he ran great enormous sobs coming from his wretched soul. Down to his knees he fell, his rough, work worn hands over his face. Local folk saw him and not wanting to intrude in his soul searching left him to his lone vigil. There he stayed by the shore till the sun set in rich colours of golds and reds. The full moon came out, shining on the water as it had done those many years ago when he first saw the selkie maid. Back he ran to the little harbour where his boat was tied. Purposefully and strongly he rowed out to sea towards Eilean Nan Ron, until he was floating right by the beach with the towering cliffs above.

That was the last that was seen of the fisherman, his wife and his three daughters But locals said that if you ventured out to Eilean Nan Ron you would be quickly surrounded by five seals - a great big bull seal, a slim seal and three smaller seals. Even today if you walk out to the rocks out at the Farr Bay headland, by moonlight you can still hear seal songs both sweet and haunting which will pull your heart strings.

That story was not only inspired by old Mrs MacKay’s stories but also by actually being taken out by a small boat to Eilean Nan Ron by John George MacKay for a day visit on the island. He was the last man to be born on the Island and had fond memories of the place now deserted. We saw many seals there which seemed very curious and intent on following us.

The past feels so much part of the present in Bettyhill. Time is evident in the remains that are there for all to see. There are 18th century remains of the “clearance” villages a short way inland from Bettyhill at Invernaver by the River Naver. People were driven out of their land to the coast by land owners who wanted to raise sheep there. Going back to 600 BC there are Pictish brochs where people up on the dune hills at Torrisdale Bay by Bettyhill in which people would have hidden when Norse invaders came to raid the land and take slaves. Then going much further back in time to 2000 BC there are the remains of a Stone Age settlement. The following story comes from my personal experience of this history and the way in which I feel we are connected to our past. 

A Journey Through Time

It was the height of summer in Bettyhill, on the north coast of Scotland. The machair - the grass was lush and green with a myriad of wild flowers in abundance. My family was staying at the old shepherd’s croft on the edge of the great long stretch of rolling golden sand dunes with dune hills running on one side right to the sea and the River Naver flowing along  and out to sea on the other side. One bright, sunny day we set off for the day to walk to “The Big Sands” as we called it because it took so long to get to near the sea! We had our backpacks full of food and got to a half way point which was a lovely sheltered spot nestled up against the foot of one of the dune-hills which reached about 500 feet at that point. It had an ancient Pictish Broch on top of it, a relic from times gone by when the local people had to fend off invasions from the Norse coming from the sea. A little stream trickled gently between the dune hills and my family settled down for a time till we could walk the next mile over the dunes to the sea for a swim.

I grew restless and walked towards the glacier moraine left from the Ice Age of millions of years ago. Great glaciers had carved the Naver valley as it pushed out to sea and as it melted it left debris in flat piles of small stones and sand, resulting in a large flat area between high sand dunes and the river. Then Stone Age Man had come and seen it as a good place to live. There was plentiful fish and wild game, fresh drinking water and clay in the river to make bowls. A settlement of round houses had grown there. The evidence of this was even now easily seen by many circles of stone which were the remains of Stone Age Man’s round houses. There had been eight of them in the community, using stone for their walls, turf and animal skins for their roofs. On little raised mounds, just outside the community, were many burial kists where their dead were laid to rest. They were made of slabs of stone in the shape of a rectangular box sunken into the ground with heavy stone lids which were placed on top, which were now lying beside them. I often wondered what had happened to the bodies that had been buried there. Now they were open to the elements. The place always had a fascination for me and gave out a feeling of the veil of time being thin there betwixt past and present.

The clear, blue sky, cloudless only a short time ago, changed as glowering, dark storm clouds gathered and the wind began to rise. Thunder echoed from the hills and forks of lightning cracked out at sea.  I felt as if the whole landscape was focusing on me in this Stone Age settlement and that I was travelling back, back in time.

Into the round house I went, now whole and complete, through a deer skin flap which fitted snugly around the door opening. The stone walls and skin drawn tight over the roof, made it warm inside. My eyes took time to adjust to the darkness inside, dimly lit by animal fat clay lamps. Cooking in the middle of the room on a fire is a salmon freshly caught from the big river nearby.  I realised that the round house was full of young and old folks weeping. A funeral meal was being prepared. Sadness overwhelmed me as I saw that by the fire lay a woman, her face still in death, clothed in her finest deerskin dress, curled in a foetal position like a new born baby. Her finest bone necklace and her best clay bowl were lying beside her. The weight of memories which each person carried within themselves, was tangible – a loved life companion, mother and grandmother. As I watched each person spoke in quiet, hushed tones of the love and care they had known with this woman. She perhaps would go to an afterlife - who knew, but the love that each one carried from her would not die. Then her silent, lifeless body was lifted and carried quietly out of through the door flap towards the stone burial kist prepared for her nearby. Reverently she is placed in the burial kist, her body curved in a foetal shape, head meeting her knees, as she had been carried in the womb, so she was buried. Her beautiful bone necklace and best bowl are placed with her, perhaps to bring something familiar and loved to the Afterlife. With one last look, tears coursing down their cheeks, the men lift the heavy stone lid and place it firmly on top. No wild animal will disturb her remains now. My heart is torn with sorrow for them. It feels as if I knew her and that I had been in her family. Their grief was my grief. Their loss was my loss. My mourning was their mourning.  It seemed then that the weather combined with grief, a wild wind arose and the sky shed torrential tears from dark, mournful, storm clouds.

I was suddenly jolted back into my time, I felt a tearing sense of loss. It seemed that I had lived a whole day back in the Stone Age. I thought my present day family would be worrying about what had happened to me.  I ran back prepared to apologise for the long time I had been away but my family were just gathering their things to go. It seemed I had been gone only half and hour.

I forgot about it until I saw a newspaper article not long afterwards  in about a new archaeological display in a museum in Edinburgh of remains from the Stone Age settlement at Torrisdale Bay in Bettyhill. The next day I went to the museum. It was just as the newspaper had said, for there behind one of the glass cases was an ancient Stone Age skeleton of a woman in a foetal position found in a burial kist by the Stone Age settlement. Beside her was displayed a lovingly made bone necklace and a beautifully formed but slightly cracked clay bowl found beside her.

I have not been back there for many, many years but a part of me will always be up there in that wild and remote but hauntingly beautiful place.

Anne Pitcher (C) 2011