AND ANOTHER THING
An isle full of noises, sounds and sweet airs that give delight
PAUL JOHNSON
If I were asked to name the most delectable house in Britain, I would pick Eilean Aigas, a pink granite mansion on a rocky, wooded island in the middle of the River Beauly in Inverness-shire. The only approach is over a grand stone bridge which spans the tumultuous river, where salmon cavort in season. Then, as if to pro- vide further protection from unwelcome visitors, the island itself greets you with a notice stating firmly: 'Danger: Children at Large'.
Centuries ago, the island was the site of a castle of the Clan Fraser. In 1838, the year Dickens published Nicholas Nickleby, the head of the clan, Lord Lovat, built the pre- sent house for the Sobieski Stuart brothers, who claimed to be the legitimate descen- dants of Bonnie Prince Charlie. Their pre- tensions have since been demolished in a celebrated essay by Hugh Trevor-Roper, but while they lived their claim was believed by many Highland landowners, including Queen Victoria herself. On the island they held miniature court, compiled a huge tome of clan tartans, and designed gothic furniture, which is still there. A splendid painting over the fireplace in the library shows the pair, bedizened in High- land rig down to the last cairngorm, sur- rounded by their clan regalia. By a self- denying ordinance, they remained unmarried, so their contentious claim would die with them. The property became the dower-house.
The last dowager to live there, Laura Lovat, was the daughter of Lord Ribbles- dale, subject of Sargent's most flamboyant portrait. In the house she kept a court of Catholic writers, which included Compton Mackenzie, G.K. Chesterton, Hilaire Bel- loc and Maurice Baring, who spent his last years there and is buried in the windswept little cemetery up the glen. Tucked into books in the library are innumerable letters from Edith Somerville and Rose Macaulay, Dame Ethel Smythe and other famous guests. Then, from the late 1950s, a new circle of writers and artists congregated around her daughter-in-law, Lady Antonia Fraser. She herself wrote her celebrated Mary Queen of Scots in a wooden cabin overlooking the river, constructed on the lines of the writing huts George Meredith and George Bernard Shaw had built for themselves. The glitterati lounged round the swimming-pool, bought from the profits of the unfortunate queen, played charades in the evening or engaged in desperate games of perpetual ping-pong. I first visited the island in 1973 when George Gale and I were writing our book, The Highland Jaunt, to mark the 200th anniversary of Boswell and Johnson's trip. George recorded:
There was tennis, fishing, a picnic miles and miles up the glen, and a great Common Mar- ket debate in which most of us, being opposed, felt unable to deal properly with the arguments of the most vehement pro-Marke- teer, for he talked with the thickish accents of a European banker.
Yes: there were figures from politics and high finance too. On one of countless sub- sequent visits I recall a morning trying to console a shattered Reggie Maudling, who had just seen in the Sunday papers 'astounding revelations' of his relationship with Poulson, the corrupt architect, and realised this meant the end of his political career. 'Anyway, Reggie,' I remember say- ing, 'you're just too nice for politics.' There was another day when we took what seemed to be the entire Persian royal fami- ly up the glen for a sumptuous collation, served by butlers and maids in caps and aprons. The Crown Prince, then a smallish boy, persuaded or perhaps ordered the secret agents surrounding him to engage in a shooting competition with their revolvers, in which he took a prominent part. Alison Lurie, the American novelist, and I cow- ered behind rocks while the bullets flew.
Then there was 'The Great Sun is Red Fiasco'. Although the river around the islands looks dark and forbidding, it is in fact perfectly safe for a decent swimmer, and is not even deep except in the pools, though the current can be mighty strong at times. We had been impressed by Mao Tse- tung's propaganda swim in the Yangtse River and the photo of his round, sun-like head bobbing above the waves. It seemed a good idea to Antonia, Jonathan Aitken MP and myself to have a similar photo of our three heads sticking up out of the black waters, and my wife Marigold was deputed to take the photo from the bridge. But by the time we three swam to the appointed spot, she was nowhere to be seen. The river was flowing strongly and, after treading water for some minutes, we allowed our- selves to be swept along. It emerged that Marigold had got talking to Mrs Hepburn, the cook, about how to make her famous venison stew, and had 'forgotten all about it'. So the historic snap was never taken.
The island is full of furtive creatures: roe-deer, wildcats and those rare and beau- tiful furry things, pine-martens. In the sum- mer you see little of them, unless you are lucky and surprise a deer asleep in the bracken on a hot afternoon. In the winter they are hungrier and tamer; more visible too. The winters can be astonishingly mild: we have had a New Year's Day picnic up the glen in Riviera sunshine. But they can be very hard, too. The snow piles up in immense drifts for many days, and the whole land is gripped in frost like steel. Perilous ice forms on the outdoor steps of the house, and there is a particular flight, leading to the garden, of which I have a lurid memory. It was New Year's Eve, and my host, Sir Hugh Fraser MP, and I were just going out on a series of seasonal 'visits'. He went first, was swallowed in the dark- ness, and I heard the most almighty crash, followed by expletives. Hastening to his res- cue, I slipped on the ice, too, and tumbled down in turn. Each of us, I recall, had vari- ous bruises, including a black eye or two, but we carried out our visits nonetheless. The next morning, Mrs Hepburn, with vivid memories of Hogmanay Eve, announced to the intrigued kitchen, 'The Lord save us! Major Hugh and Mr Johnson have been fighting!'
Now this blissful isle has been put up for sale by the Major's son, Benji, and those who buy it will find they have a treasure beyond price. My hope is that it will fall into gentle and considerate hands, who will cherish its traditions, and even add to them.
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