After a snooze on the Singing Sands of Gigha, I started back to the road. After a brief visit to the north pier, which sits precariously on beach boulders, ready to topple at any minute, I noticed a waymarker for the ‘Northern Loop—Càrn Bàn’ path. Long ago, I’d read about Càrn Bàn, a once notable site of Neolithic tombs. I’d also read a description of how to get there, a route that sounded quite difficult. But in the intervening years, a network of walkable and bikeable paths has been created on Gigha, and I was delighted to see that this one went to the site. The path started with a boardwalk over a section of marshy ground, which ended just before the two stunning white-sand beaches of Tràigh nam Beachan.
The most evident early Metal Age innovation was to change from collective burial in chambered tombs to individual interment in small stone-lined graves, with or without a protective cairn of stones. Carn Ban on the N. Gigha coast is a good if now denuded example. First dug into in the eighteenth century, the cairn was then said to be about 50 feet across; it probably covered seven short cists—average size about 4 feet by 28 inches, by 20 inches deep—all orientated NNW.-SSE. and with much white quartz, often part of early ritual, included in the packing.
TS Muir, in Ecclesiological Notes on some of the Islands of Scotland (1885), describes the site as it was over a hundred years ago.
Still keeping on in nearly the same direction till nearing Cairnban Point, in the north-eastern extremity of the island, you are brought to another place of sepulture, which I rather think the antiquary will regard as the most interesting spot in Gigha. It was almost dark before I got to it, though even with plenty of light I doubt whether I or any one could have seen much to have made anything out of, without no end of going down into holes and digging therein. Things of the kind are not easily described; but conceive scattered over a weird-looking plat so many cyclopean-like cells, cromlechs, kistvaens, or whatever else or otherwise you may call them, each more or less slantingly roofed over with a ponderous slab, and showing, in two or three of them, appearances of passages in all likelihood to underground chambers.
One remaining tomb did have a ‘ponderous’ slab, but many of the stones from the other tombs, along with those of the fifty-foot cairn that covered them, have been taken over the years for building material. You can see them now embedded in many of the field walls in the area. Scattered around the remaining tombs were several large, white quartz stones, thought to have been placed in them as symbols of wealth for the dearly departed.
The path turned southwest from the tombs to traverse the shoulder of Cnoc an t-Sabhail (Barnhill). After cresting a series of low ridges, the path dropped down to the road.
As I started marching south on the tarmac, my weary legs, used to the mushy ground, began to complain. I had seven miles under my belt and had another four to get back to Achamore. So when a car came by, I stuck out my thumb. All I got was a smile as they zoomed by. I realised I had been pointing my thumb towards the sky, so they probably thought I was just giving them a thumbs-up. Five minutes later, another car came by. This time, I held the thumb a bit more horizontally and was given a ride.
As we motored to Ardminish, I took advantage of the encounter to ask a question. One of the things on my Gigha agenda was to meet up with Kenny MacNeill, who had taken me to Càra in 1996, exactly thirty years ago (see Chapter 3 of Firth of Clyde to the Small Isles). I’d corresponded with Kenny in 2021 to ask permission to use a photo of him (below), and I was hoping to see him. But when I asked where he lived, the answer was startling. I was told he’d passed away unexpectedly a few months earlier and was laid to rest in Kilchattan Cemetery. The following photo shows Kenny taking me to Càra in 1996, and on his way to Cara in 2017 (the 2017 image courtesy of Christina Macauley).
Once back at Ardminish, I made my way to Kilchattan. There was only one new grave, covered with dried-up flowers. I assumed it was Kenny’s, as it was marked by a worn tombstone for a MacNeill who died at sea in 1949.
Later that evening, as the sun started dipping into the western sea, I was snoozing on the bench that crowns the viewpoint above the west end of Achamore Gardens. Seemingly out of nowhere, two children, a boy and a girl, dashed by. They stopped at the verge of the hillside, as heavy brambles prevented running down the hill. Only then did they notice me and say hello. Their mother showed up a minute later and apologised for intruding on my nap. “No bother”, I said. “I’m glad for the company”. I asked if they knew Kenny. All three immediately said yes, and the boy mentioned it was always exciting when Kenny brought out his nautical charts.
Rest in peace, Kenny MacNeill. Though I did not know you well, you gave me, and many others, memories of Gigha and Càra that will last forever.
