Culloden

It's time to do a series of posts about where I went in Scotland.

I reached Fife on the third day, and stopped for two nights. The following day I had morning coffee with one friend, and a fabulous Michelin-starred lunch with two others, followed by a visit to Killie Castle and pretty Pittenweem on the coast. Next morning, it was time to hit the road again, and that afternoon found me installed at the Culloden Moor Caravan and Motorhome Club Site. Once set up, I went to Nairn (for some food shopping and fuel), Ardersier, Fort George (just to look at the ramparts: it was by then closed for the day) and - as sunset approached - the Culloden Battlefield.

The morning-coffee friend had been here before, and had recommended a visit. She always experienced a strange and haunting atmosphere. I wondered whether I would also find the Battlefield evocative. It was, after all, the scene of a bloody clash of forces in 1746 - Bonnie Prince Charlie's last throw of the dice, having called to arms the flower of the Highland clans. Pitted against these clan fighters was the disciplined English Army. I'm not going to give a history lesson: Wikipedia's article at https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Battle_of_Culloden seems to describe events well enough. The Prince and his loyal clans did not prevail. His men were slaughtered. The Battlefield was a scene of death, both men and the Jacobite cause they lost their lives for. And it marked the beginning of a vindictive policy on the English side, designed to subdue the Highlanders forever. The Prince himself escaped to France, and stayed abroad for the rest of his life, without hope or further purpose.

Given all this, I expected to pick up some lingering vibes, and feel that fey atmosphere my friend had mentioned.

What did I see? First thing: a humdrum car park. Then easy paths to a Visitor Centre.

Thankfully it was built to be unobtrusive, a low-lying design off to one side, that didn't break the skyline. It wasn't open when I came. I could bypass it without regret. So far, no vibes.

Facing me was a wide grassy area, mostly flat, criss-crossed by paths. And one old cottage.

It looked as if it might have been here back in 1746.

The Battlefield is in the care of the National Trust for Scotland, and at one time this cottage must have served as the main spot to display information. You couldn't go inside. 

So, let's inspect the Battlefield itself. They had set up two lines of flag poles, those nearest the cottage flying red flags (for the English government forces, led by the Duke of Cumberland), and those in the distance blue flags (for the Highland clan forces, led by Bonnie Prince Charlie). The flagpoles seemed to add scale, a way of judging the size of the Battlefield and the killing zone between the opposing lines. The Prince's men would have been in front of those woods centre-right in the shot below. Too far for a musket ball, until the Prince's men charged. But within range of the English cannon.

The Battlefield seemed devoid of natural defensible positions. It was just a plain - flat or at best gently undulating, with nowhere to hide a lot of soldiers, and nowhere from which to attack downhill from a commanding position. But as I walked around, I found a little stream in a gully that would have proved a muddy hindrance to anyone attempting to move across it. A place where men died, for sure.

In the yellowing light, in the chilly breeze, it wasn't hard to imagine the sides arrayed for fighting. On the English side, the calm but curt orders, the disciplined loading of guns, grim faces, red coats. On the Highlanders' side, determination, bravado, clan honour, tartan, blind hope. And the yells when the Highlanders charged.

There was one feature on the Battlefield that wasn't there in 1746: a large commemorative cairn.

Nearby, a plinth bearing sad words in Gaelic, with a translation.

It had all ended in a bloodbath; all that loyalty wasted; nothing left but to lament the disaster, and cry for the passing of a traditional way of life in the savage aftermath. It's not too fanciful to trace from here the cruelties of the Clearances one hundred years later. The Highlander was beaten, and in English eyes had to be kept down, never to rise again. As if poor crofting tenants could ever be a threat.

Within sight of the cairn were other stones, much weathered.

These marked where the various clan members were buried. A dismal and inadequate memorial.

There was also a stone to mark where the English soldiers had been buried.

So, did I pick up those vibes? After seeing all this, yes. The chill wind and fading light must have helped, of course. How dreadful the Battlefield must have looked after the rout of the Highlanders. Bodies and discarded arms everywhere. Cries of pain. Weeping. And all for what?