Ferla Mór

James McGowan
4 January, 1996


‘Ferla Mór’, said the old Highland gentleman.  We turned round to see him, our whisky snifters catching the crackling firelight.  Hairy legs propping a sagging drape of a dark tartan plaid, he sat on his low stool, leaning on his walking staff held like a sword in the dark corner of the public house.  A gently smoking pipe drooped from his white whiskered face, and his eyes held a sparkle.

‘That would have been Am Fear Liath Mór’, he repeated. ‘Ye were lucky to see him’

We had been talking round the table by the window, four of us, a drinking man’s version of campfire ghost stories.  Whisky snifters littered the table, and outside the rain scatched at the old window panes, the wind whistling around the hanging boulders which held the roof down.  Kenneth had just finished his tale.

‘Ferla Mór!’, Robert repeated, his eyes lighting up.  ‘The Big Grey Man!’  He hunched his shoulders in mock menace. We all laughed.  Robert downed the last of his dram, and chuckled with us.  ‘I’ve heard stories about that big fellow’

The old Highlander nodded. ‘Aye, that will be him right enough.  He’s what chased ye off yon mountain ye were talking about: Ferla Mór’

‘What’s this about a grey man?’, Kenneth asked.  ‘Nobody chased me off the mountain - I just got frightened by some noises - I didn’t see any grey man’  He waggled his glass in the air.  ‘Any more for another snifter?’

We all shouted: ‘Aye!’

‘Get one for the old fellow, I added.  ‘You will take a dram with us, father?’

The old man got up from the stool, climbing his stick until he was upright.  ‘Don’t mind if I do.  It’s good to take a drink with ithers who know the hills.’  We dragged a stool over and made space at the table for him.  ‘So many people visit the high places these days, but few really know them.’.  He sighed as he sat down.

Robert returned with a tray.  ‘Wire in folks, doubles all round.’  We all lifted a snifter.

‘Slainte’, said the old man, and we all concurred as we downed the whisky.  For a moment we were silent, as the golden liquid caressed our innards.

I was eager to start the storytelling again.  ‘So, father, do you have any eerie tales for us?’

The old man took his pipe out of his mouth and looked at us.  ‘That I do, more than most men round these parts perhaps.’  He finished off his drink.  ‘Another one of those might let a tale or two slip out o’ me yet...’  We all grinned.

‘Another round then’, I said, getting up.  I returned with a full bottle and glasses on a tray.  ‘We don’t want the story spoiled by lack of whisky, do we boys?’

‘Before I begin,’ said the Highland gentleman, ‘can I ask if any of ye are staying round abouts here tonight?’

Robert replied.  ‘I am staying at the Rothiemurchus Arms with Donald there.  Kenneth is staying here at the pub.’

‘I am under canvas tonight’, I said sheepishly.  ‘I have a spot picked out on the hill there, a little howe with some heather to keep the worst of the water off.  Unlike like you softies, I’ll be out on the hill tonight!’

‘Ah.....’, said the old man.  ‘Take a look out there for a minute....’  We all turned to the window.  Outside, it was that strange time of the evening, when the strength has just gone out of the light in the sky.  It was not dark, but even in the warm pub, we could feel the first chills of  the highland night.  A track led down from the public house to the bridge.  The burn was black but we could hear it from where we sat, gurgling its way down the glen.  Beyond the bridge, the land rose again and didn’t stop until it reached the heights of the Cairngorm plateau.

‘