the highland storyteller

I wasn’t born and brought up in Arisaig—I was born on the road in the 1940s after the war. My parents were travelling, looking for work, and I was born in a caravan. 

I stayed in Arisaig from my early teens. I played the pipes and went around learning dance steps, songs, stories. When I was sixteen or seventeen—around 1965—I travelled on foot around the Highlands gathering more.  I went up and down the West Coast of America, telling stories, playing the pipes, singing songs in coffee houses. I shared stages with Janis Joplin, Jim Morrison, the Byrds… but I was never really interested in that scene. 

I still consider Arisaig my place of origin. My home. As for the lore — my great-aunt was my main source. She was born in 1880, never married, and sort of adopted me. She made sure I was a Gaelic speaker, took piping lessons, learned the traditions. She passed all the family heirlooms to me. But I don’t recall her mentioning anything about a loch monster. 

I do remember, in passing conversation, hearing about a ùbhist. That’s how it’s said in Arisaig. In modern Gaelic, ùbhist. In English, it means “monster.” They use the same word when they talk about Loch Ness—ùbhist is the term. It’s a compound word: bèist means “beast,” and ù means “all.” So it’s an “all-beast.” You mutate the B—part of Celtic grammar. 

A priest on the north shore of Loch Morar once mentioned it to me. He said there was such a belief. But he never claimed to have seen anything.  

And yes—Loch Morar has an atmosphere. More than Loch Ness. Loch Rannoch, too. The islands on Morar are very striking. Fraser of Lovat hid there after the ’45. The area near Meoble is thick with stories—especially about the savage dog. And yes, I’ve heard ùbhist used as a harbinger of death. The priest in Morar said that, and others have too. 

But beast stories? I’ve only ever heard a few passing mentions. Maybe four in my whole life. That’s not like the other stories I know—those would go on for 20 minutes, passed round the fire, everyone listening. That’s what I still do today—full-length stories, followed by pipe tunes. 

And no, I don’t record them or write them down. There’s not a single story I haven’t found written somewhere already. But what matters is the telling. The live performance... Because when they were told in the past, no one had idle hands. It's not a stage presentation. You're sitting in front of the fire. You're mending a net. or repairing a shoe or darning socks. 

So I keep to the old way. 

Because once the real way’s gone—we don’t get it back.