But it is not pleasant to write about. Even thinking over it gives one a grue. The Highlander has forgotten it; as he has forgotten to wear his kilt; cares little whether his language dies or not; and is not moved much by Bonnie Prince Charlies or even the lesser orders of Sutherlands or Lochiels or the Lords of the Isles.

What he wants now—where the spirit has been left in him to want anything constructive—is hope for the future, and these new forests along the banks of the Canal and on both sides of Loch Lochy were somehow like a symbol of a new order. The trees were full of sap, of young life, green and eager, larches and other pines, pointed in aspiration, and with an air about them not of privilege but of freedom. They had been planted by the Forestry Commission. They were therefore State forests; the forests of the folk themselves.

It was a heartening sight, with something of gaiety and invitation about it. That the fishing on Loch Lochy should in consequence be free seemed natural. Myriad points of vivid green light in the rain.

‘What thousands of Christmas trees!’ said the Crew.

This is no veiled plea for State ownership. I may be presumed to know the inner workings of bureaucracy. Writing simply from observation, I have merely to record that the only two efforts at reconstruction which impressed us in our travels were both sponsored by public bodies: the settlement at Portnalong by the Department of Agriculture, to which I have already referred, and this afforestation by the Forestry Commission. One could hope for less individual mistrust in the Highlander, or, if one likes, the Scot, and so envisage a wide emergence of co-operative effort. One can dream all sorts of dreams. But here at last were two positive beginnings in construction, carried out quietly and unostentatiously. And we have seen no notices—so far—warning trespassers in the new forests that they will be prosecuted. One notice only—a warning against the common enemy fire.

The highway crosses the Canal just before the entrance to Loch Oich, and here we watched the Crew trying to waken the dead with her horn. It was a stupendous performance. The dead appeared.

‘It makes you think,’ said the Mate, looking far away. She blew one in his ear, but I caught him as he was going over.

Loch Oich is a small but lovely loch, with bends and shallows and wooded islands. The passage is clearly indicated by beacons and buoys—red to port going north and black to starboard. We passed an ivied ruin on our left which the Mate said was the old castle of the Macdonells, the rock it stood on being the gathering place of the clan (‘the rock of the raven’—their war-cry). It had direct connection with the Well of the Seven Heads near by—a ghastly story. But we were concerned about an anchorage, for none is shown on the official chart. There is a sheltered one, however, just off the wooden pier at Port Macdonell. Going rather far in, we lay abreast of the pier, and on taking soundings from the dinghy discovered a soft-bottomed bank inshore within range of our anchor chain, but as it had four to five feet of water over it, we did not move out. The gear lever had stuck in the old-fashioned way coming in, despite the cupful of oil, so we all felt friendly about it.