A beautiful book. An invaluable treasure.
From The Summer Walkers: Travelling People and Pearl-Fishers in the Highlands of Scotland by Timothy Neat.
Nineteen fifty seven was a summer with a good deal of sunshine. We had wonderful times. I had the Landrover, I could drive where I pleased but I enjoyed joining in, working with the horses, putting up the big bow-tents, loading the carts for the road, being there to capture the essence of life as the Travellers lived it. I remember one milky white night when we were camped on a little plateau, high above a cliff looking out across the Pentland Firth. The tents were set out along a gently sloping piece of lawn-like grass about what seemed an endless sea of heather: Ailidh Dall was playing the pipes. Couples began dancing. An eightsome reel got underway. All the family joined in, and the lines of the dancers gradually widened and the couples swinging spread out in great parabolas down the slope and away into the heather. It as a night that will stay imprinted on my mind as long as I live. So far north in summertime the darkness is always incomplete; on a clear night one has to look hard to see the stars. I danced with Essie. She was sixteen then, with Mary her mother, with Black Anne, with her daughter Joanne. The tents were humped round a semi-circle and at a short distance, the horses watched us. With the heather in bloom, the perfume coming off ‘the flower on the mountain’ seemed to become substantial in the dewy air. I went back to my small tent thinking, ‘Life is good – life is very good like this.’
– Hammish Henderson, collector of songs and stories, p. 75