My Christmas Present : A Special Place- Cille Choirill.

My Christmas present from my wife Kay is this- a photo we took in Scotland, mounted for hanging on our wall. A special photo of a special place for our family.

Cille Choirill, Glen Spean, Brae Lochaber, Inverness-shire.





Cold, wet, hungry and exhausted the small party picked their way through the rocks in the dark and the rain, travelling at night down the long glen, and hiding by day from the marauding parties of Redcoats intent on punishing the rebellious Clans. Lashed by fierce gales, the fugitives struggled to maintain their footing in the mud and shale, unable to risk a light to see their way, relying only on pale moonlight where it seeped weakly through the storm clouds. The stocky mountain pony carried a bloodied body across its back.



Eoghunn Ruad Chulodair, a Mackintosh, died on this journey, his legs shredded and his wounds too severe to be staunched. Struck by grapeshot during the Clans charge upon the Duke of Cumberland's troops at Culloden, 16 April 1746, clansmen loyal to their local chief carried him from the battlefield and made their way south back to the family home in Glen Spean. In the killing time of Culloden...that scant desperate hour...over 1200 clansmen were slaughtered in a valiant but futile charge to break the English lines. For loyal kin to risk their lives under fire to carry the mortally wounded Eoghunn from the field, then to dodge the cavalry attack, and spirit him away, all the while avoiding the snapping hyenas of Redcoat pursuers, and carry his body so far home, must speak of how those clansmen regarded Eoghunn Ruad Chulodair.

From him are descended our family.

It has long been a dream to travel back to our ancestral lands, and to seek out Cille Choirill where the body of Eoghunn Ruad Chulodair ( Red Haired Ewen of Culloden ) was buried under the floor just inside the door. How strange it would be, if he could ever see that over two centuries later his descendants would pilgrimage to his resting place....

In September 2010, we travelled up route 82 from Luss on Loch Lomond, exploring Glencoe on our way, and taking walks in the glen and forests of this vast and magnificent valley. Purple flowering heather still draped the lower slopes, and the first touches of Autumn's golds tinted the forests bringing the deep greens of Scot's pines into contrast. There is a visitor's centre on the main highway, and in the village itself a very interesting museum. At both we spent time reading up more of the history of the area, and of the massacre of MacDonalds by Campbell lead English troops, that occurred in the early morning of  February 13th, 1692. It was a very full, interesting and enjoyable day for us, and although we had not hurried, arrival at Fort William was mid afternoon, spurring a last minute decision to head on through to Glen Spean. Cille Choirill was a powerful magnet...something pulled us there...a very strong sense of anticipation.

You could easily miss Cille Choirill, being high above the road, and masked by hedgerows and trees from passing motorists. That but enhances it's mystique and character...it welcomes those who have travelled to seek it out, and those loyal residents of the area who now lovingly tend and care for it, and worship there. The 15th century church was built in honour of Saint Cairell, who preached Christianity in the area around 600AD, and is named after him, in Gaelic

Cille Choirill attracts its own, as it has over the centuries, the wee graveyard full of generations of clan, parish worshippers, and Chiefs of Keppoch buried within it's walls under the floor. During the latter 1800's the church fell into disrepair, but was renovated and rededicated Sunday July 10, 1932, and its living spirit has been maintained since. A key may be obtained at the dwelling on the A86 Glen Spean road, 2 km from Roy Bridge, just opposite the turn off for the narrow road that winds uphill to a small parking area beside Cille Choirill.



The sky was overcast, lending an eerily dark and foreboding atmosphere to our arrival, but at the same time welcoming, as if the whole presence of the church and host of sleeping persons there would awake if they deemed our visit of worth or import. The interior of Cille Choirill is basic with very little ornamentation, just a functional Catholic Church. Around the walls, a few plaques and crosses marking the graves of those buried within.

Eoghunn Ruad Chulodair remains unmarked where he lies just inside the doorway. I stood for a while there, soaking up the atmosphere of the interior, a place of peace and reverence, where for centuries people have sought solace and salvation, prayed, married, and christened their newborn. Ancient churches like this are not just stone buildings, but living repositories of the history of countless lives: each generation setting another stone in place, another tombstone outside, another entry counter-signed in the Registry of Births, Deaths and Marriages. We stuffed 10 pounds into the donation box taking the Cillie Choirill history brochure in return, then walked out to explore the dimly lit graveyard.


By the time we reached the rear, to look back down on Cille Choirill, we noticed a circle of light upon the hills the other side of the glen, as old Sol managed to fight through the cloud banks and follow us up the glen. The light was coming our way, and in a fitting welcome finally it threw down upon us its full brilliance and warmth, and the whole setting upon that quiet hillside awoke to receive us...accepting us as more of its own...we had returned...we descendants of the Great Scottish Diaspora of the '45, and the Clearances, were home...reclaiming kinship, and being welcomed back into the clan.

 

The fugitives, joined by other relatives and kins-people, worked in the dim mutton-tallow lamplight to lever up the heavy flagstones of Cille Choirill's floor. Digging out a narrow pit, they lay their revered clan leader within, wrapped in the the plaids and sheepskins gathered from his croft, then covered him with dirt, and relaid the stone above him. The weeping of his wife and young son accompanied the prayers as the little grave was filled in. No sign of disturbance of the floor was left as tell-tale for Redcoats to seek excuse to wreak vengeance upon the inhabitants of the village in the heart of the area where rebellion had been strongest.

Eoghunn Ruad Chulodair lies undisturbed at Cille Choirill.

Cille Choirill now hangs upon our wall at home. A pilgrimage home completed.

A special photo of a special place.

As a footnote: Chatting with my visiting brother a few weeks before Christmas, and we talked of his wish to also travel to Scotland and do much as we did - research our heritage, and of our visiting Cille Choirill. We looked through the score and more of photos we had taken. Shortly afterwards, we and our wives settled in to watch a DVD, and we thought the most appropriate with Christmas coming upon us  was "Joyeaux Noel", a film about the impromptu Christmas truce of 1914 between Scots, French and German troops in the front-line trenches. During the first part of the film, the young men of each side are shown signing up and leaving their home villages to head off to war. At the start of the Scottish home scenes is a clip of a young boy cycling down a shingle track towards a wee stone church and its graveyard...Cille Choirill is that church used for that scene.
Coincidence surely, but strange as 10 minutes before we'd been in conversation about it.

Cille Choirill calls its own....

My Christmas Present : A Special Place- Cille Choirill.

Tweet