MACKINNON BROOK – A HUNDRED YEARS AGO

In the words of John Gillis, “the wind whispered fiercely” in the early 1900s as it had when Hugh and Mary(MacNeil)MacLean first came from the Isle of Barra in 1817 to the shelf of land between the summit of Cape Mabou and the “wind worn coast” (John Gillis’ words).

The six households knew the cold wind of winter and the down draft of the blasts that came from the East and the summer warmth of the breezes coming from the southwesterly quadrant. As the Beatons went across the brook itself to the neighbouring families of MacArthurs, MacKinnons and MacDonalds, they inhaled the salt of the spray from the Northumberland waves. Those families were nearer the Beinn Bhiorach and the Sight Point community. The two Beaton families on the Mabou Mines side of the settlement shared the small harbour with the four other families. There, the brook met the sea with a continuous melody and a little rattling of peebles. Their fishing boats were pulled high up on the rocks.

And the road, a horse and buggy trail, provided the exits to the outer world of coal mines and churches and stores and railways. It ran straight across the edge of the clearings with only a slight crook where it crossed the brook that raced down from the hills above. Alexander Beaton, a widower, kept the post office with help from his five daughters. Now and then, letters arrived from the members of the MacPhee family, former residents who had gone off to Mabou Mines and to the western states.

Other communications found their way from the other descendants of Hugh and Mary MacKinnon who had sought more convenient farms in Broad Cove and places beyond. The lure of other locations was carried in the wind as “it whispered fiercely, ‘move on, move on!’” And move on all of the young in the houses in 1911 did. Thus, fifty years later no sound of children at play, no noise of wood being split, no feet stomping on the wooden floors of a kitchen as the fiddle enticed all to participate could heard across fields as houses were empty.

In the evenings of summer as the breeze became more gentle and the sparkle of the lighthouses on Prince Edward Island identified the land across the gulf, a hundred years ago, stories were told of the arrival of the Barra and South Uist settlers to this fertile plateau. Over and over, the horror of the death of immigrant Hugh was renewed – a man merely trying to bring home the piece of paper which certified that his application for a land grant had been approved. The ice of Sydney Harbour gave way beneath his feet just four years after he and other Barra people had arrived in Sydney,

The courage and direction of Mary the widow was reported with much respect to her descendants and all others who would listen. The coming “over the mountain” of the Beatons was remembered as well since with them came music and literacy and very soon a school house just below Squire Beaton’s huge log dwelling.

But change and departure were in the wind. After a time of being closed, the walking trails again welcomed people from many places. Both high on the side of the ridge and lower down as well, the well-groomed walk ways encouraged people to breathe deeply, to look for violets and strawberry blooms in the spring and daisies and pearly everlastings in the summer and wild asters and roses in the autumn.

Change, gradual but constant greeted those of us who have been lovers of MacKinnon’s Brook for years. The cleared fields which showed the industry of the early families were disappearing. The cellar holes once so evident were being lost to young trees. The hillsides where once so many hundred sheep grazed were slowly being covered with new growth.

But the wind still blew. The roar of the sea could still be heard as waves strove to uncover some of the fossils and ancient tree stumps turned to stone embedded in the cliffs. And wild raspberries could still be found particularly where trees had been cut after the recent infestation by a pernicious bug.

As the northerly winds blow the snow away from the shore and strive to open the windows and the doors of the two remaining structures, Scott MacMillan’s “MacKinnon Brook Suite” brings back to our memories the stories of the place and encourages us to feel again the joy of the wind along the shore, to smell the salted air, to watch the young eagles in flight and to recall early picnics where the fields were open and swimming in the sea where the brook joined its waters to the great ocean beyond.

Listen again to the MacKinnon Brook Suite – love its joining of traditional tunes and new composition, its blending of symphony sounds with bagpipe and whistle played by a MacKinnon descendant!

There is comfort in the renewal of acquaintance with a cherished piece of music.

How odd it seems that this suite with all its blending of past and present, its reminder of the great story of immigration and emigration, of love and death, of children and ceilidhs, of haymaking and berry picking is not yearly performed in Inverness County, is not part of the curriculum of the Strait Regional School Board! How very strange we let our story slip away...a w a y.

In the sound of the strings, one can recall a teacher of art and design bringing young college age students to “the brook” and the life-long love affair of one of those students with the former home of the MacKinnons and the MacPhees, the Beatons and the MacArthurs, the MacDonalds and the MacInnises.

He and the Rosners and other generous people have made it possible for us all to partake of the site – free as the wind to explore its corners and heights. Many others, particularly a local sculptor and artist, have designed and constructed extraordinary walking experiences, created to seem as though they had always been there.

While some people may “in their dreams behold the Hebrides” or other ancestral homes, others of us may even in the darkness of January revel in the awareness of the dazzle of the sun setting on the waters, in the refreshment found in the fresh water of the brook itself and the feeling of unity of earth and sky and sea with our inner selves. Such is the MacKinnon Brook experience! In the words of John Gillis, “some did their best to leave us something of themselves.” (other quotations as well from the poetry of John Gillis)