The River Findhorn, which rises in the Monadh-liath Mountains, flows
through the glen of Strathdearn. Its scenery passes from Alpine to
Lowland, exhibits almost every variety of the picturesque, strikes the
eye with force or delight all the way from the source to the sea, and
is not excelled in aggregate richness by the scenery of any river or
stream north of the Tay.
The river is remarkable for the rapidity with which it rises and
falls, and for its swift torrent, which, when in flood, often takes a
straight course at the cost of much injury to life and property. In
1829 Sir Thomas Dick Lauder, with powerful dramatic effect, told the
story of the floods which then ravaged Morayshire along the courses of
the rivers descending from the Monadh-liath and Cairngorm Mountains,
notably the Findhorn and Spey, both of which rose to an unexampled
height, in some parts of their course to fifty feet above their natural
level.
The valley of Strathdearn will amply repay a visit. The Findhorn begins
at the very head of the valley, and first issues forth through a
remarkable rent in the rock called Clach Sgoilte, or the cloven stone.
As it passes onwards it is joined by various small streams, proceeding
from minor glens called shealings, into which the Highlanders were in
the habit of driving their cattle to feed on abundance of the richest
natural grass, sheltered from the scorching heat of the summer sun.
There are, indeed, many lovely spots along the course of the river,
and by the little rills among the hills, unknown now, save to the
shepherd and the gamekeeper, servants of the sportsman who rents the
district. There are the natural wood trees, ‘the oak and the ash, and
the bonnie elm tree,’ the alder and the birch, the lady of the wood,
and then the rivulets which drop from pool to pool, and anon hiding
themselves among sandstone ledges deeply bedded in dark sedge and
broad, bright burdoch leaves, and tall angelica, and tufts of king and
crown and lady fern. Up the glens there are bits of boggy moor, all
fragrant with the gold-tipped gale, and the turf is enamelled with the
hectic marsh violet and the pink pimpernel, and the pale yellow-leaf
stars of the butterwort, and the blue bells and green threads of the
ivy-leaved campanula. And then to stop a few minutes and look around
on the earth, like one great emerald, set round with heathery amethyst
roofed with sapphire, in the distance the blue sea and blue mountains,
and covering all the bright blue sky overhead; and under foot the
wayside fringed with the purple vetch, the golden bed-straw, and the
fragrant meadow-queen, while at intervals the wild rasp bushes, adorned
with their crimson berries, offer a tempting refreshment to the passing
bird, and the bare footed boy and girl ramblers. The time of the wild
rose is past, but the hips and haws will soon put on their red, red
coats, the coral beads are even now in cluster on the rowan tree, while
the bramble trails over every ditch with its delicious load of juicy,
purpling fruit. ‘Eheu fugaces labuntur anni!’ Well does the schoolboy
love the rough skinned bramble, and often in the sunny days of boyhood
do his fingers and lips know the stains of its luscious blobs:—
‘The bramble berries were our food,
The water was our wine,
And the linnet in the self same bush,
Came after us to dine.
And grow it in the woods sae green,
Or grow it on the brae,
We like to meet the bramble bush,
Where’er our footsteps gae.’
As the ramble proceeds, the surrounding country becomes highly
picturesque. Now we have a crag robed in lichen cropping upwards, and
crowned with heather and tangled foliage; now we have a little runlet
jinking among the seggans, and singing a sweet undersong as it steals
down its tiny glen; and now a landscape all yellow with ‘golden shields
flung down from the sun,’ in the foreground, and the glorious hills
backing all behind. Verily, Strathdearn is a lovely glen.
About a mile from the church of Moy there is a singular hollow, called
‘Ciste craig an eoin,’ (the Chest of the craig of the bird), surrounded
by high rocks, and accessible only through one narrow entrance.
Situated close to the Pass called ‘Starsach nan Gael’—the Doorstep
of the Highlanders—it was used as a place of concealment for their
wives and children by the Highlanders during their absence on predatory
excursions into the low country. This is the scene of one of those
romantic achievements which so marked the rebellion of ’45.
Previous to the battle of Culloden, Prince Charlie was for some days at
Moyhall, the guest of Colonel Ann, as Lady Mackintosh was called. The
Chief himself, with a prudence to be commended, took the Royalist side,
leaving what in this case was hardly the weaker vessel to espouse the
cause of the Prince, for whom the distant clans were arming. Mackintosh
himself was absent in Ross-shire, in the King’s service, but his wife,
who was a daughter of Farquharson of Invercauld, entertained the
Prince, and was so enthusiastic in his cause that she afterwards raised
a regiment of 400 of her husband’s clan and followers to support him.
With these she joined Lord Strathallan, who had been left by
Prince Charles at Perth, to collect troops and military stores,
and these Mackintoshes afterwards fought at Culloden. Her ladyship
was no favourer of half measures. At times she rode at the head
of her regiment, with a man’s hat on her head and pistols at her
saddle-bow—hence her soubriquet of Colonel Ann.
That Prince Charles was at Moyhall, the guest of Lady Mackintosh, was
well known to the Earl of Loudon, whose detachment of Royalist troops
then occupied Inverness, about twelve miles distant. At breakfast
his lordship, discussing his information with his officers, suddenly
formed the decision to move on Moyhall in order to surprise the young
Chevalier, gain the offered reward, and save the country from further
bloodshed. A Highland lassie who waited at table in the ‘Horns’
overheard their plans, and at once, bare-footed and bare-headed, ran on
to Moyhall to tell of the danger.
The tidings produced consternation and confusion, for there were no
troops to defend the House of Moy, nor meet the coming foe. But Colonel
Ann and the council of war she assembled were equal to the occasion.
Donald Fraser, the Chief’s blacksmith, afterwards known as ‘Caiptin nan
Cuignear,’ the Captain of the Five, at once left his forge, and taking
along with him five men whom she named, hurried off with sword and
musket to repel the 1500 invading troops.
It was in the dusk of the evening when they reached the narrow pass of
Craig an Eoin, two miles from the Hall, and there they waited the
approach of the foe. There was a quantity of turf divots and peats set
up to dry in small hillocks or stacks, and Donald and his men, in order
the better to watch the motions of the troops, placed themselves a few
hundred yards asunder among these heaps, concealed by the shadows of
the hills rising on either side.
They were hardly in ambush when they became aware of the approach
of the soldiers. It was the dusk of the evening. Now was the time
for action. Fraser waited until the army was within 100 yards, when,
starting up, the command was passed from Donald, and then from man
to man, in a loud voice, along a distance of nearly a quarter of a
mile—‘The Mackintoshes, the Macgillivrays, the Macbeans to form
instantly the centre; the Macdonalds on the right, and the Frasers on
the left.’ All this in the hearing of the commander-in-chief of the
Royal army, accompanied by the firing of the muskets of the concealed
party. Macrimmon, the piper in the advanced guard of the Macleods,
fell, and this, coupled with the fear that masses of Highlanders were
ready to surround them, and cut them to pieces, caused the troops
to flee back precipitately to Inverness, where Lord Loudon, not
considering himself safe, continued his route to Sutherlandshire, a
distance of seventy miles, where he took up his quarters.
Fraser returned quietly with the dirk of the fallen piper, and was
locally promoted to the rank of captain. He fought afterwards bravely
at Culloden, and his sword is still kept, with many another piece of
rusty armour, at Tomatin House.
Thus ended what has been humorously called the Rout of Moy.