Glen of the Eagles

Gleann na h-iolaire

One plain grey November afternoon Finn drove up the glen from the coast. In the boot: camera, bins and ’scope. Despite the misty tops, he hoped for some shots of eagles. First time ever.

A sharp left turn off the main road, then a steep incline hemmed in by spiny gorse. In his excitement he took the crest too fast, his sump scraping the road’s grassy ridge. Beyond the col, the braided river spread across the valley floor, splitting and silting around stands of willow and birch.

Then, the abandoned two-storey croft-house: two blind windows; on the roof, a rowan sapling disrupted the dishevelled slates. Just beyond the lambing shed squatted the porridge-coloured roughcast walls of Archie’s bungalow; the mock-Georgian door framed in amber glass.

“Say ‘hello’ to Archie if you’re going up there,” Eilidh had said. “I’ll get it in the neck if you don’t call on Dad’s last uncle.”

Finn pressed the doorbell. A puny Ping-Pong sounded vainly in the seeming vastness of the empty glen. There was no response; just the mournful burble of curlews on the hill cutting through the white noise of water rushing in the burns.

Finn was on the point of giving up when Archie appeared, wearing a shapeless beige cardigan over navy-blue dungarees.

“It’s Finn.”

Finn recalled Archie with the air of a village elder at the wedding dance, installed on a bent-wood chair in the corner of the hall; his hands clasped on the ash stick planted between his legs. Finn had been wheeled over to pay his respects. Archie asked him how long he had been “in the computer business.” Finn explained that he was a content creator, and although he worked on computers, they were not really his business. Archie asked if he was a golfer. Did he fish? Finn replied that, no, his real hobby was bird-watching and photography. He’d been placed in last year’s national wildlife photography competition. At that moment the band struck up a Strip the Willow, and Finn’s words were lost in the clatter of chairs scraping, and eager feet treading the wooden floor. The chief bridesmaid grabbed his arm and steered him towards the dancefloor, bringing his audience with Archie to a close.

Standing on his doorstep this winter afternoon, Archie looked Finn up and down. Under his gaze Finn shifted his weight from one foot to the other, aware of the just too pristine sheen on his waxed-jacket, and the store-fresh look of his Hunter wellies. A border collie sniffed at Finn’s jeans and, finding nothing of interest, slunk back into the house.

“Oh aye.” said Archie. His tone gave nothing away.

“I thought I’d have a look at the glen.”

“You’ll hae a cup o tea,” Archie said, turning and receding into the gloomy interior, with an erratic list that betrayed his bad hip.

“Should I take off my boots?” Finn called after Archie.

“It’ll no’ matter,” his host said over his shoulder.

Finn followed Archie’s slipper-shuffle across the hall’s patched vinyl that had long abandoned any association with colour, and past the shepherd’s crook nestled in the corner. Archie nodded towards two unmatched armchairs. Finn chose the one with fewer cigarette burns.

Archie stood at the Belfast sink with his back to Finn. “On holiday from the big city?” he asked, in a tone that suggested he was putting something out there.

“Yes, I thought I’d come to have a look…to see how you are.”

“I’m alright!” grunted Archie, as though challenging some aspersion.

“Eilidh sends her…best…her love.”

Archie paused, tea bag poised above a mug, and twisted from the waist to fix Finn with a quizzical look.

“You’re Eilidh’s man!” he asserted as though Finn might try to deny it.

“Yes, yes. Finn. We met at the wedding back in April.”

There was a sickly whiff of propane as Archie lit the gas ring and perched the kettle on top. He went to a wall cupboard and returned with a pair of shot glasses in one hand and a half-full bottle of Johnnie Walker in the other. He placed the glasses on the worktop with a click. They were rimmed in gold and decorated with transfers of cock pheasants which had worn off in places. Finn watched nervously as Archie filled the glasses to the brim, with one hand gripping his other wrist to avoid spilling the whisky. Archie handed a glass to Finn and raised his.

Slainte.

Finn knocked his back in one, gagging at the taste of his least favourite drink. When the fire in his throat had died down a little he croaked: ‘I hear you have eagles up the glen.”

“Aye.”

“Many pairs?”

“Och, it’s no’ too bad. They don’t bother us much. I put bait down now and again,” he said with a glance towards the shotgun mounted above the fireplace.

Finn started a conversation about the weather. They agreed it would likely be a hard winter, the rowan berries were that thick. Archie bemoaned his troubles with the Subaru’s rear differential, then went on to complain about his Council Tax bill, and the numbers of immigrants crossing the Channel. ‘There’s no more room in this country,” he said. 

Finn shifted his backside in the armchair and dunked his shortbread finger into the sweet tea. He drained his cup, rose, and returned his mug to the worktop.

“You’ll have to visit me and Eilidh in Glasgow sometime,” he said.

“I’ve no’ been to Glasgow since the war,” said Archie.

“Oh well, Eilidh said to tell you you’re always welcome.”

“Aye,” said Archie.

Finn drove straight home.

The cloud was probably too low, anyway.

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