The Keeper of the Loch

I’ve lived around Loch Morar about forty years. Been keeper most of that time — fisheries, boats, wildlife, surveys. Usual bits.  Some say I look after the beastie too. 

The loch’s a changeable thing. Calm one minute, sharp the next. It shifts as you move along — east end’s deep and fjord-like. Feels ancient.  And there’s stories here — not just beasties, but people. 

There’s one about Lord Lovatt, during the Jacobite days — the English were after him. He and a priest were shouting abuse across the water. Locals thought they’d been clever, took all the boats to the island. But the English brought their own — carried them in over the estuary and rowed over.  Lovatt tried to flee, but they caught him at Lettermorar. Last person to be beheaded in Britain. Cheery little fact. 

Then there’s Morag. Or the Vorag, as Mary called her. 

Mary lived right on the loch. Said she’d see her while doing the dishes — out in the bay. 
I asked, “Just once?” 
“No, no, no. Many times.” 
And Mary wasn’t one for making things up. I trust folk like that more than the ones with cameras. 

Most folk who’ve seen her aren’t scared. Just matter-of-fact. “She’s there.” Not doing harm. 

Mind you, some do get spooked. A couple Geordie lads hired a boat, came back shaken. Said big dark shapes came right at them, then dived. Asked about seals. I said, “You'll only get seals out there if they’ve got hiking boots.” 

I saw something once myself — two shapes moving fast across the loch, left a strange wake. Checked the map — over a mile off.  Scholar lad said birds. I said, they’d need to be bloody big birds. 

There’s even a theory about a tunnel to Loch Ness. Bit of a trick, that. But clever. 

I’d say it’s the place that breeds the stories.  It’s the people. The locals. Lives full of folklore. It’s not just the land — it’s the voices on it. 

The stories change, too. Some say she’s the ghost of a dinosaur.  Two mysteries for the price of one. 

Others say she fell in love with a boy, took him into the water — but he couldn’t breathe. So she laid him gently on the shore.  The villagers tell that one better than me, but I've always quite liked it.  Makes Morag seem tender, you know? 

What bothers me most is folk who treat the place like a bin. That’s harder to see than any beastie. 

So if you’re going to tell Morag’s story — fine.  Just tell it right. 

She’s part of here. Like the hills. Like the rain.