A’Chleit

So, A’Chleit is Gaelic and is pronounced in English as Klaytch. At A’Chleit there is a wonderful old Highland Church. It is right on the shore and it’s design is unique to the West Highlands. http://www.clachanandcleitandgigha.co.uk/achleit/

Praise the Lord

Praise the Lord

A visit to the church reveals the history of the region.

What was a Kintyre boy doing in Peking in 1911? This? http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wuchang_Uprising

What was a Kintyre boy doing in Peking in 1911?
This? http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wuchang_Uprising

A far cry from Loch Awe

A far cry from Loch Awe

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Norman_Macalister

The Good Book

The Good Book

The Role of Honour is grim. More young men from Killean and Kilchenzie were killed in the First World War than live therein now.

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,  Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,  Till on the haunting flares(2) we turned our backs  And towards our distant rest(3) began to trudge.  Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots  But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;  Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots(4)   Of tired, outstripped(5) Five-Nines(6) that dropped behind. Gas!(7) Gas! Quick, boys! – An ecstasy of fumbling,  Fitting the clumsy helmets(8) just in time;  But someone still was yelling out and stumbling,  And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime(9) . . .  Dim, through the misty panes(10) and thick green light,  As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.  In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,  He plunges at me, guttering,(11) choking, drowning.  If in some smothering dreams you too could pace  Behind the wagon that we flung him in,  And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,  His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;  If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood  Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,  Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud(12)   Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,  My friend, you would not tell with such high zest(13)   To children ardent(14) for some desperate glory,  The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est  Pro patria mori.(15)

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares(2) we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest(3) began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots(4)
Of tired, outstripped(5) Five-Nines(6) that dropped behind.
Gas!(7) Gas! Quick, boys! – An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets(8) just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling,
And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime(9) . . .
Dim, through the misty panes(10) and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering,(11) choking, drowning.
If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud(12)
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest(13)
To children ardent(14) for some desperate glory,
The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est
Pro patria mori.(15)

Beach behind the church

Beach behind the church

If you are passing through Kintyre, go visit A’Chleit.

 

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