In Search of Time Wasted: Peregrinations from Seil Island

By Michael Shaw

The lure of India pervades this book, as do the charms of Seil Island and Scotland's Western Seaboard. There are tales of modest adventure and mild disipation, but the author also makes an attempt to examine the evolution of those seemingly incomparable regions during the eventful half century he has known them. The amazing renaissance of India is compared with efforts in both India and Britain to address development,poverty and exclusion. The upper middle-class war babies of Britain are described as ultimate legatees of the most fortunate empire in the modern world. Preceding generations enjoyed imperial prosperity, but most fortunate were those born to inherit the wealth of empire while avoiding the hardships of war; to enjoy or squander that inheritance as the world struggled to achieve a more equitable distribution of good things. Sadly, and perhaps inevitably, destrying some of those good things in the process.
Just as imperial wealth survived the empire for a generation, so elements of graciuous pre-war tourism briefly survived the calamity of the second world war: this phenomenon too is examined in accounts of travels in Europe before the rise of travel by large numbers. The Highlands and Islands of Scotland have hardly faced the problems of the Mediterranean coast, but they too have shared the dilemmas of prosperity versus conservation.
An essentially frivolous observer reports some of his experiences, and examines the serious issues of development, globalization, and national aspirations. The citizen of a very small country gives some account of how these momentous matters have been observed from a tiny island.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Nov 14, 2008
• ISBN: 9781467018005

Michael Shaw

By profession, Mike is a professional musician, working as a keyboard player and private music teacher. Mike has been teaching piano, electronic keyboard and electric organ for over thirty years and as a keyboard player worked in many night clubs and entertainment venues. Mike has also branched out in to composing music and has written and recorded many new royalty free tracks which are used worldwide in TV, film and internet media applications. "My favourite piece of music is "Music" by John Miles, it describes how my life has been and continues to be, I consider myself very lucky" Mike is also proud of the fact that many of his students have gone on to be musicians, composers and teachers in their own right. "Learning to play a piano, keyboard or any musical instrument is the greatest gift anybody can gives themselves" Listen to Mikes royalty free music here: http://audiojungle.net/user/audiomichaeld/portfolio?ref=audiomichaeld See Mike playing the Roland Atelier organ on YouTube here: http://www.youtube.com/user/captinmichaeld

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© 2008 Michael Shaw. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 11/6/2008

ISBN: 978-1-4343-4443-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4670-1800-5 (ebk)

Printed in the United States of America

Bloomington, Indiana

Contents

About the Author

Imperial Hotel

I

Seil Sound - Planning for India – Other travels - Inefficient retirement – Kilbrandon described - Schooldays – Inadequate education - Unsatisfactory character – Donald Ross - recruitment to India

II

Flying in 1962 – Arrival in Delhi – Mussoorie Express – Dehra Dun - Domestic establishment – Charlie’s advent – Doon School- John Martyn – Holdsworth - Colleagues – The colony – Teaching - Routine – Chinese invasion – Good neighbours - Nehru and non-alignment -

Social life – Cure for a hangover

III

The Doon – Local history - R.D. Singh – Mussoorie – Hill expeditions – The Ganga – The Sivalik hills - Shooting - Deoban– The high snows – Dak bungalow – Trouble with Hindi – Unexploded bomb

IV

Indian languages – Calcutta: comparisons with Glasgow – Nabobs and Burra Sahibs – Taj Mahal – Madras – High Range, a Scottish kingdom - Christmas – Tea – Elephant – Tempted by a career – Rajasthan – Narendra Singh - High living in Bikaner – Shooting Sand

Grouse - Dancing girls – Jodhpur- Umaid Bhavan – Decline of princely States Mayo College - The hot weather- A gourmet restaurant - Punjab in May – Kashmir- Aunt Di’s houseboat – Gulmarg – Monsoon awaited – Bombay – An old ship – Aden – Egypt – Tempted to

jump ship

V

Highland balls – Arrested in Edinburgh – 32 Heriot Row – The Free French – Knockie in wartime – Undisciplined children – Governess – Wester Ross – Expelled - North British Hotel – S. D. Singh – Dalmatia - The Polish general – Old St. Paul’s - Hotel Plaza

– Bertie – Old-time guests – A state secret – Development on the Coast – Sir William Younger – Deferred employment

VI

Railway expert – Herr Schlecht - Grainau – Istanbul – Lure of Islam – Wonders of Esfahan – A hovel in Afghanistan – Herat – Kandahar – Kabul - John Martyn’s farewell – Back in the classroom – Baljit and Diana - Tibetan refugees – Late nights in Mussoorie

– The poor: India and Scotland - Indian Military academy – His Highness Jaipur – Scottish weather in Simla – Teresa arrives – A night in Fatehpur Sikri

VII

An old-fashioned route – Season in Kashmir – Aunt Di again – Midnight oil – Parties in Gulmarg – A trial trek – No maps - Kola Hoi Glacier – Snow – The Gujars - Son Mus pass – The army – A judge in Punjab – Monsoon – Shared enthusiasms – Seasonal parties –

Riches of Rajasthan – Jaipur –Amber – Udaipur – Col. Mohan Singh – Umaid Bhavan – A Maharaja and a goat in Jaisalmer – Tiger skin in Bikaner - Indian renaissance - White Settler’s life – A Kenyan ranch – Guy Grant – Lioness disturbed – Settler’s disconnect

with modern Kenya – Governance in India Africa and Scotland – Edinburgh ball.

VIII

The Aviemore project – Spey Valley - A proper job – Happy staff – Training - A model winter – Fishing – Bridge – A Dinner party – Learning to ski – Departure - Newcastle and Tyneside – A traditional brewery – The Blue Star – Airport - Dodgy superiors –

A nationalised industry – Pubs and Hotels – The Bird Inn -Charlie and Macya - Flims – Army Ski Association

IX

Head Office - Stockbridge, Edinburgh – Area manager – Jock Stein - Manchester – Switzerland – Private ‘plane to Shetland - An unhappy passenger – Scottish sports – Seabird – Claret and Beaujolais – Accident at Strontian – A new face at Flims – Catherine in

London – Appointed to Aviemore - The hotel household - itinerant workers - Hotel improvements – Marriage – A new family – A manager’s life – Sailing with the Ballantines – Tamara and Torquil - Purchase of Inshaig Park

X

Back at home – Local friends – Building works – Work and Family – The farm – Changes in names – Tourist Board – Argyllshire Gathering – Two Christmas dinners – Sale of the hotel – A new dwelling - The Country Shop - Favourable weather – Retail experience –

Illness - Contemplating death - Convalescence – Shand Kydd kindness - Dr Flims - Malta – Consultancy - Shooting parties

XI

New business – A quick refurbishment – Fresh prawns - Robbing the poor for the rich – Oysters – Lambing - A visit from India – Russia - St. Petersburg – Literary youngsters - Prescient remarks from a communist – A sad loss – The lottery of faith -

An exciting Client – Highland politics – Argyll and the Islands Enterprise – American Submarines and Irish Ferry - Highland Convention – Land Reform - Funds from Europe – A new governance for Scotland - Lessons for developing countries

XII

Lallie awakes to India – New Delhi conserved – Shah Jahanabad – Chandni Chowk – A Delhi dinner party -

Agra and shopping – Bharatpur, a terrible hotel – Jodhpur – Non-stop excitement – Jaisalmer – Osian – Khimsar - Dehradun

XIII

Family company – Kilbrandon Oysters – Regulations – J. McSplinter & Others – The Family connection – Indo-Scottish trip to Africa – Nairobi Rongai and Gogar – Bogoria birds and Baringo crocs – El Karama again – Raiders – Tsavo elephants – The Coast – Douglas

Collins – African traders

XIV

Edinburgh interludes – Loss of Fries Ballantine – Sale of Country Shop - Lions and Donkeys – National Trust for Scotland – Corporate finance – Conservation – St. Kilda – Slate Islands Heritage Trust - Visitor Centre – Crane project– Community Council – Hall

committee -Neglected children – Summer holidays – Royal visit – Epiphany holidays – Foreign trips – Mediterranean spring – St. Petersburg & Vienna - Canal cruises – Coming of age – America

XV

Tamara to India – We follow – H.H. Jaipur – Samode – New friends - Orchha – Tikamgarh –North Rhine – Mother’s death –Cochin – The backwaters –-Orchha hotel – Imperial Hotel – Charlie’s death - Retirement - Indian impressions – The British Raj – India, Malta,

and the new Scotland - Evening

About the Author 

Michael Shaw was born in Inverness during the Second World War, the third of five children. As a young man he landed short-term employment at The Doon School in Dehradun. So thoroughly was he seduced by India, that he has returned repeatedly to explore the country, and visit his many Indian friends. He trained in Scotland and France as an hotelier and worked in tourism, economic development and conservation.

His voluntary work has been much influenced by the example of his father, who was instrumental in some of the most important legal and administrative changes within Scotland in the twentieth century. While Michael’s contribution to the public service has been modest to the point of insignificance, and of the variety that attracts little attention; it has afforded him an illuminating view of contemporary affairs.

Michael Shaw has enjoyed a life of travel, variety, and, he would say, of privilege. He has amassed the riches of a wife, two children, and many friends worldwide. The Indian dimension has played an interesting counterpoint to a life also much influenced by his family home, Kilbrandon, on the Island of Seil, innermost of the Hebrides.

In 2000 Michael Shaw published, Seil Island: A portrait. (Eastop Publications)

Imperial Hotel 

Learning to enjoy time wasted is a precious gift. The Island of Seil, on Scotland’s Western Seaboard, is a perfect location for its study. The moist air has a special soporific quality, and the scenery is beautiful beyond all other places. In this one matter I have been a dedicated student, but my studies were early helped by the guidance of a valued friend.

A November evening, in the year 2003, on the steps of the Imperial Hotel in Delhi: Catherine and I had invited a group of eight special friends to dine with us before we left for Scotland, after three glorious weeks of holiday in India. Dinner was over, our car was waiting, and it was time to go. Charlie and I were the last to embrace. We had been the closest of friends for more than forty years. Many meetings and many farewells, but this time there was a momentary and complicit glance: for absolutely no good reason, we knew it might be our final farewell. Within two months Charlie was dead, carried off by a sudden fatal heart attack.

Surendra Kandhari, to give Charlie the name he preferred, and to which he was entitled, strolled into my rooms at the Doon School, Dehra Dun, in August 1962. Strolled, is an inadequate description of Charlie’s locomotion, but it is a word he often used himself, and must serve to convey a measured, relaxed, but purposeful walk, which carried him into every situation and along every path, throughout his life.

The Headmaster had just welcomed me very warmly to the school, and sent me to my bungalow with instructions to settle in and employ such servants as I might need. I was admiring the view; wondering hopelessly why I should require any servants at all, and how I might set about recruiting them, when Charlie came to the rescue. I was then eighteen; he was a few years older.

Above all, Charlie was a schoolmaster. He was a man from whom people loved to receive information. He gave instruction so larded with entertainment, friendship, humour and encouragement, that every communication was a pleasure, and every chat a conversation. While explaining to me that I would require one full time personal servant, my bearer, and the part time services of a sweeper and a dhobi, Charlie also embarked on a lifetime of imparting information on life in a school, the realities of India, and his own very special philosophy. I must have been an adequate pupil, and we became firm friends.

That was the start of my first wonderful year in India. It was a golden time. We packed that year with so many adventures, and so much fun, and I was exposed to so many new and challenging experiences, that it influenced the whole of my life. Other visits to the school have followed, as have numerous expeditions to much of India. Charlie came often to Scotland, at first in his bachelor state, visiting my bachelor quarters, and later with his family, becoming much loved by my wife and children. We travelled together in England and Africa, and brooded over each other’s children when they too came to travel. I never became a proper schoolmaster, and Charlie was never anything else, but our friendship prospered, and was punctuation to our lives for the next forty years.

I

Seil Sound - Planning for India – Other travels - Inefficient retirement – Kilbrandon described - Schooldays – Inadequate education - Unsatisfactory character – Donald Ross - recruitment to India 

At breakfast this morning we were entertained by a pair of otters playing in the sea, close to the jetty at the bottom of the garden. Otters have become relatively common around Seil Island, but we enjoy them none the less for that. Is there another beast that, even in its adult state, spends so much time in profitless play? Probably not: they must be the ideal example of time benignly wasted. The view from the library window here at Kilbrandon is almost as good as from the breakfast table, but the otters have gone. They seem to favour early morning for their public appearances.

Actually the library is in a mess. There is an excellent office outside, but we built it without introducing a window towards the sea. This was partly to save money, and partly because a view to the sea was deemed to be a potential distraction from serious work. That was probably the right decision: when deadlines loom the office is certainly the best place in which to get things done. The library however lies at the heart of the house, allowing full access to any interesting domestic happenings. It also enjoys that fine view.

In the distance the Island of Shuna is enriched by fugitive appearances of Shuna Castle. Invisible in the morning, and a mere smudge in the afternoon, the evening light reveals the building in rich honey glow, and in early summer the ever-spreading rhododendrons, surrounding the abandoned castle, are visibly purple, belying their distance from us. Seen from the library, when the otters end their morning shift, a heron usually relieves them, fishing in the shallows. The waters of Seil Sound, rarely without the interest of passing yachts and fishing boats, is a perpetually changing palette of greens and blues and greys. The sunlight plays on the multitude of colour in the garden, and enticingly illuminates the paintwork of Little Lady, the old motor launch lying at her mooring, and begging to take us out for a trip. The temptation to work here can usually be justified by the need to use the books.

The long art deco table was a wedding present to my parents, before the Second Word War. I have known it all my life, and come to love it. In my extreme youth it was strictly the preserve of grown-ups, only the dark space beneath it was for me a hiding place, a cave between the pedestal legs. Later it was the scene of family meals and Christmas dinners, the high polish on the pale striped mahogany reflecting the silver and glass by candlelight. Right now it’s a jungle. Roughly marshalled at one end, the scattered and crumpled leaflets, the badly folded map of North Rhine Westphalia, and a much worn Baedeker’s guide to the Rhine (1906), give evidence of our recent return from an expedition to the Eifel, that delightful and little known corner of Germany, just three hours in the car from the ferry terminal at Zeebrugge.

Further along the table, occupying all of the considerable space, the jungle grows even deeper. Endless scribbled notes and a teetering pile of books, from modern guides to historical memoirs, mostly relating to places we shall never visit, almost obscure a large map of India. This is the raw material for a forthcoming trip. Life can be divided by the status of our Indian adventures. We can be newly returned (evidenced by the sort of detritus, already described, that relates to the Eifel, but on a larger scale). We can be considering our next expedition in the abstract (usually resulting in an untidy scattering of Indian books around the room), or we can be engaged in the serious detail of a real plan. Such a plan is well under way at the moment, and the resulting chaos is almost enough to draw the eye from the seductive view beyond the windows.

1%20View%20Ch%201.JPG

The view from the library.

Wasting time in the library, planning visits to India, Lamu, the Eifel, Corsica, Venice, Moscow and St. Petersburg, to list some of our recent wanderings, would be perfectly respectable if the grand plan for my retirement had worked out as it was meant to. The bulk of our commercial activities were disposed of in an orderly manner, and our principal activity, the oyster farm, was put out on a lease some three years ago. Kilbrandon is perhaps the smallest estate in all Scotland, and our farm runs but forty sheep. So far, so good. A term of service on the board of the National Trust for Scotland ended a year ago, the project to build a new Village Hall, of which I was the chairman, seemed to be going well, and the position of chairman in the local conservation charity did not appear especially demanding. Conditions seemed to favour a well-organised retirement. As it has turned out, however, these last calculations were defective.

Having served as chairman of the Area Tourist Board, and likewise of the Local Enterprise Company; to chair a panel for the National Trust for Scotland, advising on economic development and communities, would seem to be a natural progression. It was careless, though, to forget that in these matters, one thing is inclined to lead to another.

The village hall project, affairs of the Slate Islands Heritage Trust, and meetings of the Community Council, none of them especially arduous individually, when taken all together, continue to require a surprising commitment. A willing commitment, because these Islands are so special that it would be mean to grudge the time. The request to chair a local Agricultural Trust came with a promise that there would be no duties. That at least has proved to be almost true: we have one ten minute meeting each year.

These various mis-calculations have kept the office busy, and even running Scotland’s smallest estate and farm requires a certain degree of paperwork. Time wasted in the library is much more enjoyable, but any activity that competes with the call to duty carries a lurking hint of guilt. A hint that is all too often ignored, as schemes emerge for further travel or further browsing among the books.

Kilbrandon House began life as a little farmhouse, built, probably, at the end of the 18th Century. In 1826 a much larger house was tacked on in front, to provide a stately residence for the minister. It sits very close to the sea, on the Island of Seil in Argyllshire, looking south down the sound to the islands of Torsa and Shuna. My father bought it in 1951, and the following term, aged seven, I was expelled from my Edinburgh day school, being classed as uncontrollable, and enrolled at Wester Elchies, the prep school of Gordonstoun, in Morayshire. I was to start in April so had the month of March at home. On 20th March, my eighth birthday, the furniture vans arrived, and Kilbrandon really became home.

We were by then five children. Paddy aged fourteen, Teresa, twelve, myself, eight, Maryanna, six, and Liz, three. We had almost total freedom throughout the school holidays, free to sail boats, shoot rabbits, catch fish, ride horses and make expeditions by sea and by land wherever we wanted. Maryanna and Liz were still in the nursery, living and eating for the most part under the eye of Nanny and a nursery maid. The three older ones taking meals in the dining room, where we were expected to sit quietly and listen to the conversation of our elders. This was no great hardship, although no doubt we chafed occasionally when told to pipe down, because even at that tender age we could sense, if not appreciate, the quality of the chat. My parents’ guests were the leaders in their several fields. We listened to professors of Greek, of Medicine and of the Law. Senior civil servants, bishops and army officers came to stay, as did the leaders of Industry and Banking. We could eavesdrop on artists and writers, among them Compton Mackenzie and Eric Linklater, both of whom had a keen love of the Scottish islands. On the whole the tone was liberal and forward looking, there was much talk of charitable and official works, and a devotion to the concept of public service. When they discussed desirable reform these people considered not just what should be done, but how they might contribute to doing it.

For our parents Kilbrandon was a place for holidays, but it had little in common with the holiday home of today. My father was an advocate, and the leisurely regime followed by the Scottish courts at that time allowed my father to be away from Edinburgh for some four months in each year. These breaks more or less coinciding with school holidays; home for the boarding school children was Kilbrandon. In addition my mother would often stay on in the country while my father worked in Edinburgh through the week, returning for weekends. Liz was pre-school, and for one summer Maryanna attended the local primary school. When we were away the farm and the garden were looked after by John Brown, the grieve, and he sent eggs and fresh vegetables to the family in Edinburgh. Kilbrandon was therefore never empty, and seldom without some member of the family for very long. The atmosphere was that of a home, not a holiday house. It was a very happy place. It still is.

For the next ten years I travelled each term to school, which I hated, and returned each holidays to Kilbrandon, which I loved. The excitement of coming home, which characterised each return to Kilbrandon when I was a child, has been repeated all my life, and continues to this day, even when I have been away but a few hours.

In terms of size alone, it is absurd to describe Kilbrandon as an estate, but it is, in miniature, just that. To the South and East it is the sea, and the South West corner of the property shares a bank of Ballachuan Loch, encompassing the whole length of a tiny river that runs down from the loch to the sea. This gives it trout fishing, and an additional bay whereon is built the boathouse. In the North East corner is a beautiful walled garden, contemporary with the house; and the rest of the property is made up of a small farm with a pretty farm building formed from a former dwelling house. Over the years we have also added some minor bits of property within and around the villages of the parish.

It’s twenty-three years now that Kilbrandon has, once again, been home to my family and me. Initially we occupied the older wing, to the rear; taking on the whole house only after the passing of my parents. We now wander in the garden and policies that were planted and improved by those devoted parents. We must now care for the landscape formed by them over a period of fifty years. We have become the older generation. The theory of retirement has prompted some thinking about the past, but having no career worth recalling, this has become an examination of time wasted.

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Kilbrandon

Summer term of 1962: time to leave school, qualified for nothing, and with no ambition. Perversely, however, with no fears for the future, simply believing perhaps, that The Lord would provide. In a word I was spoilt. Born into a world of privilege and certainty: asking no questions of the future. Should this be attributed to some failure of character, or was it the intended result of my education? It is only in advancing age that the question presents itself, ‘though it remains relevant, because I remain qualified for nothing, and without ambition, but The Lord has provided.

So ten years in the Gordonstoun system was drawing to an end. It had started at a charming little castle, what in Scotland we call a keep, overlooking the river Spey in Morayshire. This was Wester Elchies, the most junior department of the school, and I had been sent there at the tender age of eight. Strangely I can remember some of those earliest schoolmates, whom I have never met again, quite clearly. One, Von Stauffenburg, was a nephew of the tragic German officer who had been executed for his part in an attempt on the life of Hitler.

Wester Elchies was a delightful place, with a skilled and caring staff. I had lots of fun but was very unhappy. I even made a serious attempt to escape, being recaptured some miles from the school after almost a whole day on the run.

My first term at Gordonstoun proper had a memorable start. We travelled, unusually, from Edinburgh rather than from Argyll. We were a little squad of boys, all different ages, and unsupervised, on the train to Elgin via Aberdeen. As a new boy I was of course the lowest form of life, but acquired special prestige because the guard on the train was the husband of my parent’s housekeeper in Edinburgh; and I had access to the guard’s van. My status was further enhanced when I reported that the train was running into deep snow, and that we would get no further than Aberdeen that day. Of course this was disbelieved at first, but soon proved to be true. On arrival at Aberdeen we were told to report at the station next morning.

The senior boys made off to the nearest pub, leaving four of us juniors to fend for ourselves. We looked at our pocket money and realised we could not afford to stay in a hotel, but some kind person recommended the Salvation Army hostel, and there we went. The Salvationists were very kind. Our fellow inmates, (the accommodation was in a great big dormitory), were for the most part not a class of person with whom we were familiar, and we, with our school uniforms, our extreme youth, and our posh accents, must have been pretty exotic for them. Everyone treated us with kindness and generosity; the only snag was the cold. We froze. In the morning we decided that come what may, we must find warmer quarters if we were to spend another night in