Nuala Ní Chonchúir: What the Highlands gave me

‘I left Ullapool in the spring and flew home to Dublin, holding new life inside me, a legacy that I hadn’t planned for’

‘I wouldn’t change a thing’: Nuala Ní Chonchúir with her sons Cuan (left) and Finn and daughter Juno at home in Ballinasloe. Photograph: Joe O’Shaughnessy.

‘I wouldn’t change a thing’: Nuala Ní Chonchúir with her sons Cuan (left) and Finn and daughter Juno at home in Ballinasloe. Photograph: Joe O’Shaughnessy.

Thu, Jul 24, 2014, 12:39

1992. The year of the Maastricht Treaty, the signing of which we were told would mean Europe-wide jobs for all – “the single market” and “keep up your languages” were the mantras of the time.

On June 3rd that year I took my final exam at Trinity College, Dublin. On June 4th I was on an aeroplane to Scotland. I wasn’t emigrating – I was off in search of adventure. A short course at a Scots-Gàidhlig college on the Isle of Skye – part of my BA – had lodged the Highlands firmly in my heart. I was determined to go back for a longer spell.

I lined up a summer job in what would now be called a boutique hotel in the fishing village of Ullapool, on the northwest coast. The hotel had a book shop, a bistro-cum-art gallery, a coffee shop, and it hosted regular gigs. Its proprietors were a former television actor and his dynamic wife, and they were cultured, friendly people. And Ullapool is one of those magical places that exerts its influence without your co-operation.

The landscape is seductive: vast angular mountains, a sea loch, the village itself with its low white houses and neat streets, perched on the edge of the Highlands. But, like most places we become attached to, it was as much about the people as the setting.

Same clan

I loved the welcome I received, the kinship shown to me as a fellow Celt: we were all part of the same clan. A diary entry from that June tells me I was reading the historical novel Glencoe and listening to the Scottish folk band Capercaillie – I was clearly attempting to immerse myself in the culture.

I lived initially in the hotel’s staff house, a warren of bedrooms with thin walls that carried the noise of parties and girl-boy arguments from room-to-room. It didn’t take long to settle in – the staff of 40 or so were mostly blow-ins and mostly under 30 years old. We talked endlessly, partied and learned from each other.

We hired cars and drove north to see the mass of Stac Pollaidh; to visit Thurso, the northernmost town in mainland Britain; to sit at poet Rob Donn’s burial place at Durness; to enter Smoo Cave and walk the beaches beyond our stretch of coast.

Youthful army

We drove south to Inverness, Glasgow and Edinburgh, for shopping, concerts, galleries, theatre and the ballet. Between shifts at the hotel, we took sea cruises around the bay to spot seals, cormorants, fulmars, buzzards and hope to sight a minke whale. We were a youthful army and we stuck together, disbanded, and reformed week-by-week.

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