A HIGHLAND SHINTY MATCH. By ‘ROCKWOOD.’ 1889

A Highland Shinty Match (1889)

By “Rockwood” 1889

Editor’s Note:
This story is presented in its original, unedited wording, with formatting added for readability. A colourful and dramatic tale from 1889, it recounts a legendary Highland shinty match between the McNabs and McIntyres where pride, tradition, and love were all at stake.

We’re proud to revisit that historic match not just in words, but with two original sketches that accompany the tale. These illustrations, long hidden from public view, bring new life to a moment that has lived on in Highland memory, this is a rare glimpse into sporting folklore told as it would have been remembered.

SHINTY, a game which very much resembles hockey, is rarely ever played south of the Tweed, or, for the matter of that, out of the shadow of a Highland mountain. It is one of the very oldest games, however, of the hardy Scottish mountaineers, and still, in some of the remote glens, clan meets clan as in the olden days when they fought with claymore and targe for the honour of their chief; or, what was more common, the cattle of their opponents.

Highland sport, like Highland warfare, is generally very rough, and although there is nothing of the “win, tie, or wrangle” about it, it is conducted at blood heat. Indeed, a shinty match, with fifty stalwart clansmen on either side, stripped to the kilt, with bare heads, arms, and breast, rushing, and shouting, and jumping, when viewed from a hillside a short distance off, looks very much indeed like a pitched battle wherein firearms are not allowed to be used.

One of the most exciting of these matches ever played was that between the McNabs and the McIntyres in a quiet vale on the shores of Loch Lomond. The McNab of that ilk had long wooed the widow of a deceased chieftain, one who, like Roy’s wife in the well-known song, dearly loved a Highland Walloch.

But the McIntyre was also a champion who admired this dame, or rather this dame’s land, which lay contiguous to his own, and so made a marriage according to northern notions “maist adveesable.”

The lady herself was rather in a difficulty, for if she gave her hand to the McNab she would raise eternal warfare between her clan, the Grahames, and the McIntyres, who were friendly; and possibly, as had happened many a time indeed, this had been the cause of her widowhood the rivals would likely fight with the broadsword till they had, Kilkenny-cat like, wounded themselves beyond recovery.

In her dilemma she sought the advice of her piper, who believed in settling all disputes as to a lady’s hand by a contest of some sort, just as did our more noble ancestors in the tilting ring.

“Weel,” said Duncan, “what does your leddyship say as to their dancing for you, and I’ll play the bagpipes? That wass the way I won my own wife. It was at Gillie Callum, and weel do I recollect our late chief saying, with a laugh, that I was like the good warriors of the ancient times, and won my wife nobly at the point of the sword?”

“Dancing? Oh, no, Duncan!” said the lady, smiling. “I will never allow the dignity of the clan Grahame to be lowered by the people saying that I was danced for, like a brooch at the annual games.”

“Then let them throw the hammer for you, or toss the caber, if you like.”

“Neither will do,” said the fair widow, with a sigh. “I might as well ask them to do the high jump or run the sack-race for me.”

“Deid, my leddy, I wish that Donald Campbell and me had competed for my wife at a sack-race. It’s running yet we would have been, I’m thinking, for I did not want her; but I have such regard for my dancing that I would not make one false step to save my life. But the question is, How are you to be Mrs. McIntyre, or how are you to be Mrs. McNab? Now, if it is Mrs. McNab you would prefer to be, I would say, hang your hand on the annual shinty match, which is to be played next Saturday.”

“Ah, Duncan, you have it now!” said the lady. “But, oh, are you sure that the McNab and his men will gain the day?”

“You trust me to let McNab know, and I will risk my life that the McIntyre and his men will have no chance whateffer.”

“Then, as you value the comfort and prosperity of your late chieftain’s widow, let the McNab know in such a manner as he may choose his men well, so that I may marry the man I love.”

“That will I do, Leddy Grahame” (Duncan always addressed her as “My Leddy”), said the old man proudly. “And you will stand on the green knoll of Doonielochan and see fair play, and I will blow my pipes to stir the shinty men as never man blew since Fingal’s Cave was the music-hall of our sweet ancestors.”

On the following Saturday, great was the stir on Loch Lomond side, for it had come to be known in every glen and strath in Stirlingshire, Dumbartonshire, and Argyleshire, that the annual shinty contest between the McNabs and the McIntyres was to be fought with a more than usual fierceness, and that the acres and fealty of the Grahames, as she was termed, was at the disposal of the victorious side.

The weather was fair, the atmosphere clear and frosty, and the peaks of Ben Lomond and the Buchanan hills these lofty hills which guard Buchanan Castle, the seat of the Duke of Montrose were clad with snow. Inchtavannach and Inchloaning, the lovely islands which are the admiration of hundreds of tourists who sail up the lake in summertime, seemed set in the shining lake like emeralds in a silver shield, and the old Cobbler above Loch Long seemed to set aside his last on the plea, like his brethren of St. Crispin, that his rosin was frosted and unworkable.

Down past Luss marched the McNabs, proudly, with their piper in front, blowing a stirring pibroch, their chief following with a huge shinty formed from the root and stem of an oak sapling, and ornamented on the handle with silver rings, each of which recorded a victory. Four deep to the number of forty the picked players of his clan followed, and then came the veterans of bygone battles, and the aspiring youths anxious to see the fight and hopeful of being asked to participate in those of future days.

The McIntyres, from the Stirling shore, marched round by way of Balloch, and the two bodies met on the banks of the Fruin, close to the home of the Colquhouns.

Here the chieftainess of the Grahames, who had been rowed over Loch Lomond by eight of the strongest of her clan, had taken up her position on the little round knoll of Doonielochan, with Duncan, her faithful piper, who strutted up and down in full blast and with ribbons blowing as proud as a turkey-cock.

The McNabs were the first to prepare for the struggle, which they did by tossing aside bonnets and jackets and baring their brawny arms to the elbows. Not slow to follow were the McIntyres; and then, with shinties at the shoulder, they marched past the Queen of Beauty, the chieftains saluting the lady with all the dignity of veteran officers at a royal review.

Sides having been tossed for, the McNab elected to place his men with his back to the slight easterly breeze which had commenced to blow. The goals two birch trees, twenty feet apart, at the end of the glen, and two larch pines at the other having been determined, the fair lady, who was herself to be the prize, flung the little “knag,” a hard piece of wood cut from the boll of a beech tree, onto the ground.

The McIntyre struck it ere it fell, sending it far towards his winning goalposts, the two larch pines, and in a moment the battle was raging with all the fury of a Highland foray.

Swinging his powerful club shaped like a golf club, only all natural wood as cut on the hillside a McNab returned it with interest, amid applauding shouts in Gaelic and cries of “Well done, Evan!”

A scramble followed in the very centre, very much like a football scrimmage, and loudly rang shinty against shinty, whilst every now and then men sprang backward with exclamations of pain, their bare legs having received the blow which was intended to beat the weapon from the hand of an opponent.

The McIntyres then began to press the McNabs heavily, and twice the knag was within a few feet of the former’s winning line, always to be forced back, however, by a well-aimed stroke from one of the wariest of clansmen.

From goal to goal the battle had raged, neither side having been able to score till the sun had reddened for setting in their wake.

It was then that the McIntyre, with one grand rush, ran the knag far down to the larch pines, followed by the members of his side with blood streaming from the blows on their heads and faces, the results of dangerous sweeping strokes made at the object as it flew through the air, and with legs swollen and black with bruises struck it through, amidst roars which rang from side to side of the loch.

The McNab was crestfallen and hung his head. The members of his clan were silent, and the Fair Lady of the Grahame now, so far, the betrothed of the McIntyres wept inwardly, though outside she dared not show her grief. Duncan was silent pipes and all though he would fain have played a coronach.

No time was lost, however, in changing sides, and in a moment the battle was raging again as fiercely as ever.

The McNabs seemed determined to wrest back the fallen banner, but the McIntyres guarded their goal carefully, the chief himself taking up his position close to the larch pines, so as to check all attempts of his opponent to strike through the winning shot.

Time after time were the invaders repulsed, and the veil of the fair Lady Grahame was wet with tears.

One more rally, however, and McNab charged over his rival and struck with terrific force the bit of beechwood far through and beyond the trees.

The result, so far, was that both sides were equal, having scored one goal each, and Lady Grahame smiled again, for her hand was free, whilst Donald played the stirring pibroch of the McNabs.

Dusk was now about to fall, and with but fifteen minutes or so more to play, the game was started afresh.

Several men on either side had withdrawn disabled, but their places had been supplied by youthful onlookers, who had been burning to distinguish themselves.

The McIntyres, whose chief was burning with rage at having the prize wrested from him in the very moment of victory, pressed hard and charged with great fury, and the fair lady on the little green hill of Doonielochan was at times so nervous that she could scarce watch the competition.

At last, almost at the close of time that was when the very last of the setting sun had disappeared behind the hills above Loch Long there was a determined rush of the McNabs to their opponents’ goal.

The sun, like a red shield, was sinking down quickly, and in one half minute more a draw would have been called, when McNab, nursing the knag on the edge of his club single-handed till well down to the birch trees, struck suddenly a terrific blow, causing it to rise and fly through the air as if discharged from a gun.

McIntyre saw it coming and aimed a blow at it as it passed; but it missed, and a Gaelic cheer from a thousand throats proclaimed that the hand of the fair Lady Grahame belonged to the proud chief of the McNabs.

Slowly, silently, and sullenly the McIntyres marched down past the woods of Auchendennan and home by Balloch, whilst the McNabs escorted the fair Lady Grahame to the pebbly strand of Loch Lomond.

Seated in her galley, with her future husband beside her, and Duncan playing his pipes in the bow, a merrier or a happier party never crossed the Queen of Scottish Lakes.

Shinty matches are still played, as of old, in Glen Fruin, but it is needless to state that none of them ever approach in excitement that in which the McNab played the McIntyre for the hand of the widow of the Grahame.

The End..