And across the water from us, the last stones of the Fort to which Glencoe of the Macdonalds had come to hand in his people’s submission—too late for their enemies and those who remembered battlefields like Inverlochy.

How great the change since then! Though hardly yet a suggestion of what will be when the Highlands develop their natural industries through water power and recognise they have fish and trout and salmon, mutton and game and meat, heather honey and milk and berries, roots and vegetables and whisky, that cannot be excelled, if they can be equalled, for quality and flavour anywhere in the world. The end is not yet. To realise that this is no vague prophecy—consider the envious eyes of industrial combines. These combines will beat the landlords and the scenic sentimentalists. And if it does not go well with the workers after that, the workers will fight. There will never again be a repetition of the defeatism of the Clearances. The folk will come into their own. God hurry the merry day!

We spent a forenoon round about Corpach, talking to the lock-keepers, buying an official chart of the Caledonian Canal (one shilling), and arranging to begin the through passage to Inverness at three o‘clock (£3). We discussed the prospect, for we had never passed through locks and wondered about head and stern ropes. We had a good head rope, and tied the two long sheets of the foresail for a stern rope. At one o’clock a canal official called and asked us if we could arrange to enter at two-thirty, as two fishing boats were going through at that time. We of course said we could; but we were a bit disappointed, for I had a good idea of what packing three boats into one lock would mean in the way of care. A drifter can hit an iron stanchion a fair side-wallop without damage; but if she closed in on us in a back wash, it would be like crushing an egg. Not but that we might look after ourselves, if we could rely on the engine. Moreover, it takes over two hours to clear the locks here, for after the two entering locks you come to what the guidebooks poetically call ‘Neptune’s Staircase’—a series of eight locks.

When we got under way it was with more misgiving than we had faced rocks and seas. If we had thought all excitement over, the first two days in the Caledonian Canal made us think again.

We got round sharp on two-thirty to find the drifter Invernairne (Hopeman) and the seine-netter The Gleaners (Lossiemouth) already in the open lock. The Mate had to stand forward, ready with rope and fender, so I had to watch where we were going, disappear to the engine, reappear, and bespeak the Crew at the helm. I was more anxious to make a decent entrance before these fishermen than I would have been before any yachtsmen, but if I kept going too long and then could not get out of gear—well, that must not happen. I judged my distance—but not the flow of water from the lock against me; I went forward again and again came short, for there was nothing less than a spate flowing; my bobbing up and down may have amused the onlookers, but I kept that engine going and finally drew alongside the Invernairne with the flywheel still revolving. For which I was more relieved than any steam engineer might guess I