David Craine – Finishes An Island Life Trilogy Which Includes A Rather Strange Ending

Hello and thankyou for once again joining me and Ruth on our Skye adventure. This last report is far different from anything you have read so far; it contains an ‘incident’ that I cannot explain, nor would I wish to try. You must make up your own mind.

It is Sunday 23rd May 2023 and a fine day for a walk. Once again Ruth has been consulting the ‘interweb’ and has discovered a new headland to explorewhich is much too far from our cottage to walk. It is a good car journey away and, as with much of Skye, nothing is in a straight line so between us and the location there are quite a few miles of nothing but barren moorland and the sea lochs of Grenshornish, Snizort and Diubaig. We are heading for the Trumpan headland on the Waternish Peninsula, above Ardmore Bay and the Minches. This is a well known sea area made famous in “The Mingulay Boat Song.“

The headland is quite sparsely populated. Ardmore Bay has a farm, just visible in the above photo, and there are a couple of cottages a few miles away but that is about it. Up on the headland and roughly halfway above Ardmore Farm and the cottages, there is a ruined Church and graveyard. This has a grisly history but that is not what this story is about. The church, Trumpan Church as it is named, is nothing more than a couple of walls with an ancient doorway that stares out over The Little Minch.

The graveyard has a couple of Commonwealth war graves and also others dating back probably hundreds of years although some of the gravestones are so ancient and weathered that they can be barely read at all. Indeed, some of the gravestones have subsided and tilted to such an extent that they look like nothing more than a set of teeth, badly needing a dentist’s caring hands.

Trumpan’s abandoned church and its surrounding graves stand alone, surrounded by a low stone wall, separating the hallowed ground from the surrounding fields and moorland which can all be gazed upon from the graveyard. Upon entering, the only creaking and clanging iron gate to the graveyard loudly signals the arrival or departure of any visitor. The road skirts the graveyard and ay car coming or going, or parking in the area set aside for visitors, is seen and heard as it approaches no matter whereabouts you are.

This place is truly isolated…

It was a fine sunny day, a good day for a walk so, armed with the customary rucksack and provender, we drove to Trumpan, parked the car in the area set aside there and we were ready to set off and explore. Our car was the only vehicle there, we were the only people there; nobody else, no hikers, no cyclists, no farm tractors in the field, no sheep bleating, nothing except the occasional lonely cry of an unseen curlew.It was a fine day of sunshine and a slight breeze welcoming us to the headland.

Looking over the road we both saw the ruined church and sort of mutually decided to explore before we set off on our walk. Crossing the road, we entered the churchyard via the ancient wrought iron gate. Closing the gate behind us, it groaned as we pulled it shut; it sounded as though its memories of a thousand entrances over the years were finally taking their toll and it wanted nothing more than to be left in peace to rust quietly away. Leaving the complaining gate, we walked up the unkempt pathway toward the ruins of the church.

I find graveyards fascinating places; we must have explored hundreds in the past years, both in the UK and many places abroad. I can say that Trumpan churchyard will always be one that comes to the forefront of my memory, far ahead of the magnificence of even the Vatican City, St Paul’s Cathedral or even The Cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore, beside the famous Leaning Tower of Pisa in Florence, and all because of the following…

Ruth took out her camera and as is customary, began seeking out an unusual or striking view to photograph. Leaving her to it, I myself began wandering amongst the gravestones, taking my time to read some of the epitaphs. All was quiet, all was peaceful; we were the only people present in the graveyard. The sun shone down upon us and all was good in the world.

Ruth was away out of my sight, somewhere behind the two remaining walls of the church. I was crouching down and attempting to read a headstone when a quiet voice from behind me said, in that lovely soft West Highland accent: 

“It is a good place to rest when your time is over.”

Initially the voice startled me, quiet and gentle though it was. I stood up and turned around, standing behind me and about eight feet away, was an elderly gent, probably in his mid-eighties. He stood very straight and tall, with a shock of grey hair. He was slim, wearing a dark suit, white shirt and dark tieand had highly polished shoes on his feet. He looked very smart in a dated sort of way, and quite ‘overdressed’ for a visit to a churchyard…unless…

I replied something like, “Yes, it’s lovely here.” The man then said, “Yes, it is; all my family are here.” At this point the man pointed to a crooked headstone in front of me, saying, “My younger sister…I visit her most days.” I nodded and said, “That is a lovely thing to do…and she is resting in a lovely place.“

We stood together in companionable silence for a moment or two, then the man said, “I must be away now”. He turned and walked away behind the remaining church gable-end wall. I stared after him and suddenly Ruth, my wife, appeared from behind the same gable-end.

I asked her if she had seen the man walk past her as he left. She replied that there was nobody else here. We did not hear the gate clang or screech and then I remembered that I had not heard the gate make any noise since we had entered and, more to the point, the graveyard had been empty then. I quickly walked around the gable-end, searching along the road and across the fields, confused. I then quickly checked all around the graveyard. It is a small place and it took very little time at all but there was nobody around to be seen. Ruth was still stood where I had left her, and probably wondering what I was doing. I told her what had just happened and she took it in her stride, saying initially that the man must be around somewhere but I was satisfied we were the only people present. Ruth searched around as well, with the same result; anybody entering or leaving the graveyard from any direction could and should have been visible, even if they had climbed the wall and walked off across the fields and heather. We even checked over the walls in case he had attempted to climb over and had fallen.

There was nobody…

Returning to the spot where I had the encounter, I took a quick snap of the headstone which the man had pointed out to me; I wanted something tangible to look to should I later recount the incident.

The name on the headstone was Margaret Mackinnon, died at Glasgow in 1943, aged 41 Years. It was the most recent headstone anywhere near where the man had pointed. I am certain it was where he had pointed…

My little grey cells started to work overtime and I realised that if Margaret MacKinnon had been 41 in 1943 and she was the man’s younger sister, he must have been at least probably 42 years old then, which would make him about 122 years old now.

I cannot explain the above, all I do know is if that was an ‘other worldly’ encounter, then it was a most gentle and not unwelcome one, certainly one that would not make the hairs on the back of your head stand up. I cannot explain it; what is written above is the honest memory of the encounter. The graveyard and area were searched for the man but he was nowhere to be seen, even moments after he had walked away from me and he did not pass my wife Ruth who was in his direct path.

I have said previously that the Isle of Skye conjures up many exciting images. I will add that it also provided me an experience that I will never forget, nor can ever explain.

Thank you for joining me on the last of my ‘Skye trilogy’. I hope you have enjoyed these three accounts of our adventures. There are many more but they will have to stay for the time being in my memories and photo albums.

As an addendum, here is an account prepared by my wife Ruth, after some research, of the history of Trumpan church. It is interesting as a stand-alone document and, coupled with the above, it makes Trumpan church a place that fascinates and amazes in equal measure.

The ruin of Trumpan church stands on a site overlooking the sea on the Waternish peninsula. Trumpan was once a thriving medieval township and this simple rectangular church served as its focal point. The story of both the township and its church came to an end on the first Sunday in May 1578.

Trumpan church has never been satisfactorily dated but it could date as far back as the 1300s. When in use it was known to its Gaelic-speaking congregation as Cille Chonain, or St Conan’s Church. Today the ruin stands surrounded by its graveyard, home to a range of memorials covering a considerable period of time.

In the 1500s, the MacDonalds and MacLeods were engaged in fierce clan rivalry. This came to a head in 1577 when a raiding party of MacLeods of Skye landed on the island of Eigg. The resident MacDonalds took refuge in a cave on the south side of the island. The raiding party lit a fire in the entrance to the cave in an attempt to force those hiding inside to come out. The result was the suffocation of 395 MacDonalds, the entire population of the island. The cave is now known as Massacre Cave.

Revenge was not long in coming. On the first Sunday in May 1578, eight war galleys of the Clan MacDonald of Uist landed in Ardmore Bay, immediately to the west of Trumpan. The resident MacLeods were gathered for Sunday worship in the church when the raiding party blocked the door and set fire to the thatched roof. The only MacLeod to escape alive was a young girl who managed to squeeze through a window. She raised the alarm by running to the village of Dunvegan, ten miles away. The MacLeods from the wider area swiftly gathered. By now the MacDonalds had returned to their ships in Ardmore Bay, only to find them left stranded by a retreating tide. The MacLeods are said to have unfurled their famed Fairy Flag and in the battle that followed the entire MacDonald raiding party was killed.

The bodies of the dead MacDonalds were lined up beside a dry stone wall, or dyke, and buried by simply having the dyke pushed over on top of them. The battle has since been remembered as “The Battle of the Spoiling of the Dyke.”

The township of Trumpan was never re-established and the church has remained a ruin.

Writing – David Craine, Images – Ruth Craine, April 2024