the hotelier

My connection to the loch goes back generations. My mother was born on the shores of Loch Morar. My father lived there too. I had aunties and uncles in Meoble, right on the water. I’ve lived here in Morar for 53 years and I used to run the local hotel, just up the road. We had coach tours, families, people passing through on their way to Skye or Mallaig. 

I wouldn’t say I fish it terribly often, but I was out there yesterday—and I hope to go again today. It’s a wonderful place.  It’s the deepest freshwater loch in Europe. There’s a great hole just north of Meoble Pier. Very, very deep. 

I remember my grand-uncle telling me, just matter-of-fact, how they used to pull up lines as boys—and one time they caught these great big eels. Ugly-looking things. Hairy. They got such a fright, they cut the lines and let them go. Makes you wonder what they really saw.  Maybe they were wee monsters. 

Now, I do believe there’s something in that loch. I’ve seen it myself. One summer evening, I was out with my cousin and his two daughters—young teenagers. Calm as anything. Just north of the islands, I looked back and saw something come out of the water. It looked like the back of an Aberdeen Angus bull. Black. Glossy, like wet hair on a beast. The girls were screaming, didn’t want to go near it, but I started the boat and went anyway. By the time we got there, it had gone under. Just a whirlpool left behind. 

Years before that, same spot—I thought I saw a seal. But folk in Arisaig told me, “You couldn’t have seen a seal. Morar’s freshwater.” Said it couldn’t get past the dam. But I saw something. The head, at least. 

All my life I’d heard the stories. Morag. The Vorag. Some described it like an upturned boat. Others said it was a forerunner—something seen before a death. But nobody ever spoke about it with fear. It was just something that happened. 

You see, in these parts, we’ve always had second sight. Things to come casting a shadow. You might hear a baby crying, and a year later one’s born in the house. Folk heard the train to Mallaig before the tracks were ever laid. There are stories from France, too—guests hearing gunfire in their sleep, long before D-Day. Those with the gift, they heard it. The rest didn’t. 

And there are other tales here too—the black dog of Meoble. Pipers disappearing into caves. These stories live on because the people stayed. Passed them down. But that’s changing. Even my own sons… they’re not that interested. Maybe they think, “Well, Dad remembers.” But I won’t always be here. 

And the trouble with books is—they twist the stories. Add bits. And in fifty years, folk will think that version was the truth. But the truth’s in the voice. In the telling. 

So yes—I believe there’s something in the loch. Maybe not a monster. Maybe a presence. A memory. Something that lives just beneath the surface of the stories we tell.