Tke Land of the Hills and the Glens 



of the distant island of Barra, or perhaps it is a corruption 

 of an earlier Gaelic name given to the hill. But the name, 

 as written at present, is held to be meaningless by a prominent 

 Gaelic scholar. Here the coast is wild and rocky, and 

 the headline precipitous and abounding in caves where 

 rock doves have their nests, and where much driftwood is 

 cast by the tide. After the wind has blown strong from 

 the south-west, the great Atlantic swell thunders on these 

 rocks. Slowly and with a great stateliness the long waves, 

 clear and blue in the sunshine, roll forwards towards the 

 half submerged rocks. They do not break fussily and 

 abruptly as the wavelets of the North Sea or Irish Channel, 

 do these Atlantic giants. Gradually curling over, they crash 

 on the black rocks with tremendous power, throwing the 

 spray high in the air to fall to leeward in a slow cascade 

 of shining whiteness. And when the sun is sinking on 

 the western horizon behind grey storm clouds, and when 

 the ocean wind blows freshly, then it is that on the breeze 

 may be carried the pungent smell of the burning seaweed, 

 coming frorfi Saundaig, maybe, or from Green, and around 

 all the outlying rocks there lies a thin grey mist, arising 

 from the breaking of the great waves, which, despite the 

 wind, seems to hang motionless above the surf. 



Many sea birds have their home on Ceann a' Bharra. 

 Here the gentle but somewhat foolish guillemot broods her 

 one egg during the long days of June, choosing as a site 

 for her hostage to fortune a ledge so insecure and slippery 

 that disasters are frequent. Here too the wise razorbill, 

 though in small numbers, finds for her egg a more safe 

 resting-place, usually a cranny hidden away amongst the 

 rocks. Green cormorants are here, too, and from time to 

 time the peregrine and the raven nest in the cliffs, and the 

 grey crow builds her home of the stems of the giant seaweed. 



Tradition has it that long ago a party of witches were 

 passing Ceann a' Bharra, on their way to Ireland, sailing, 

 as was their wont, in egg-shells. A native of the island, 



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