Further Revelations Concerning the McLoeppkys
"Big Red McLoeppky"
by Alistair Macduff
The longer I live the more astonished I become about the remarkable unfoldment of life in general, and the extraordinary fragments of history which seem to wash up on the shores of time.
In this instance, I refer to a brief article I wrote about the obscure Clan McLoeppky, who sailed out of the mists of antiquity, settled on the tiny isle of Howest, making their mark there and almost disappearing again.
Virtually a few days after I submitted this dissertation, I left for Scotland, my homeland, just to make another sentimental journey into the Highlands to nourish my soul and replenish my reserves from the constant drain of living in the chromium-plated mono-syllabic society of the ‘New World'.
Deep in the haunting beauty of Wester Ross on a golden August afternoon, I stopped my car near Poolewe, just to breathe the pristine air, and absorb the beauty of the land, when faintly I heard the sound of pipes drifting gently from the nearby hills. As a keen amateur photographer, I always carry my camera with a very powerful telephoto lens.
I set it up on it's tripod and began to scan the landscape hoping that I might manage to catch the piper. There was little to be seen except for the velvety hills, cultivated fields, forests, but then and herd of deer and at their head a magnificent stag. This was indeed reward enough, but suddenly a small white cottage came into view, and in front of it, in it's little garden, the piper!
I felt a strange sensation in my spine and realised immediately that something significant was afoot. This man startled me, even from this considerable distance. He looked wild....very wild, with red, shoulder length hair flowing from beneath a tartan Balmoral. He was tall and lean, and was wearing a ‘Highland Green' jacket with silver buttons. He was of course concentrating on his music, his mouth clamped on the blow-stick, his eyes periodically closing as he played a fine rendition of "Red Hector Of The Battles". I could not see if he was wearing a kilt for some bushes obscured the lower part of him.
The Piper...is it Will? I was fascinated and riveted to the spot as the last notes of the ‘Ground' - the main theme began to fade away.
He could indeed be ‘Red Hector' himself or Rob Roy McGreggor, or any number of other wild Highland characters whose way of life as cattle reeving, plunder, burnings, illicit stills and all the little niceties of the Highland Gentleman.
As the last notes of the Pibroch faded, the wild man vanished and I dove into my car in a desperate attempt to get to him. I drove for forty minutes or so, but simply could not find the white cottage. I came upon a few houses and a little hotel called ‘Scara Brae Inn'.
I ordered lunch and a bottle of their best whiskey. The proprietor, Gordie Geechie brought the bottle and setting it in front of me said, "Ye'll no have tasted anythin like this before!"
It was a single malt called ‘Stags Breath' and right enough I hadn't ever tasted anything like it - it was ‘out of this world' as they say, and had the kick of a high octane racing fuel.
I invited Gordie to join me in a dram or two, or three, so that I might ask him about the wild piper. Having told him my story, I settled down, hopefully to learn all about the ‘Red Piper'.
Gordie let the fumes of the ‘Stags Breath' percolate in his brain for a while, and finally coming back to life, said, "och aye - that's oor mystery man - he's as weel kent as the Loch Ness Monster - aye - and as hard to catch as weel!" Another slug of the ‘Stags Breath' and he said, "Naebody kens anythin about him - he disny talk tae anybody and he disny let anybody tae his hoose - man he's no very sociable, for you see he owns aw the land around here, includin the forest ower ther- an the river."
"What's his name?" I asked. Gordie consulted the bottle, topped his glass and asked me, "Will ye hay another?" - looking at the dropping level I'd thought I'd better while I had the chance.
I asked again, "so, what's his name?" Gordy rallyed his senses and said, "och aye - ah nearly forgot - he's got a queer name - it's McLoeppky - Big Will, but he's kent as ‘Big Red' . Naebody kens where he came frae, but some say he was born in some wee island called Howest - a've never heard o it masel - it's a terrible name isn't it," He said vacantly. At the name McLoeppky I gave a shout "Are you sure that's his name? - Are you sure?" Gordie got a fright at my outburst and said, "aye, that's his name, but it's nae ma fault."
I apologised and emptying the bottle into Gordies glass, said, "Gordie, I'll buy you another bottle if you tell me everything you know about ‘Big Red'.
Gordie glowed with pleasure, and he said, "Man, you're a real toff!" The second bottle in place, tried and approved by Gordie, he launched forth into the strangest saga of ‘Big Red'
An Old wood-block print
seen at Scara Brae Inn
Coincidence?"Weel, ye see, when ah came here frae Kinloch fifteen years go, he was weel kent in the district - at that time English newspapers an magazines was comin' up wi their reporters and photographers tae get the ‘scoop' but ‘Big Red" wid hae nothin tae do wi them, an they wouldny dare go on his land, an when they waited, tryin tae get a look at him he would hide behind the trees and blow his pipes for hours - man they just couldny stand the noise an after a few months they aw went hame tae London or had another go at the :Loch Ness Monster."
"What do you think about it all?" I asked.
"Aw weel," he said, he's a funny yin aw right - he's no got a telephone, an nae electricity - an ye'll no believe me, but he rides aboot his land on a great big stag, steerin it by it's antlers like a bloody bike! Man, ah'm tellin ye, ah've seen it masel."
We were now halfway through the second bottle of Stags Breath - at least Gordie was - I was trying to stay upright in my chair. In a haze of anesthetizing fumes, my illuminated raconteur continued.
"It's funny but aw kinds o different herds o cattle come and go on his land - some say he's a cattle reever, but naebody can prove anything. Ah've heard it said he was a pipe-major in some Highland Regiment in the 8th army, you know, ‘Monty's' lot in North Africa. That might be right enough for a man telt me that there was a red-haird pipe-major in the ‘furrin legion' when he was in Algiers, but man, naebody really kens. Ah tell ye, he's a real mystery man."
I told Gordie that I had got a good photograph of him earlier that day. Gordie, in spite of being three sheets to the wind, sat bolt upright, wide-eyed and alarmed, saying "oh ma Goad, yer no feart - if Big Red finds out, he'll kill ye. Ye'd better get out of here right away."
As there was nothing to be gained by staying any longer, and having got a photograph and probably all the information about "Big Red Will McLoeppky, I took Gordies advice and got on my way.
Gordies parting words were, "Man it was nice tae meet ye, but ye better no come back for a while!"
