My first playmate was “Bobby,” who was brought from Banffshire by my father about forty-six years ago. My recollection of him is, that he was a grizzly-looking wee beggar, and up to all sorts of doggie tricks . . . .

Perhaps it is from my father that I inherit my liking for animals, but I cannot fancy from whom I take the rambling, erratic, roving propensities that on more than one occasion have taken me into the most remote, desolate, and all but uninhabited portions of our Highlands and islands. Likely I suffered from terriers on the brain, and I have little doubt that was the cause; but, be that as it may, I look back upon days and weeks spent among people and dogs that cause me to wish that next winter was at hand, so that I could do it over again. Knocking about amidst wild scenery, and among Gaelic-speaking folks, I have come across those who looked upon me as terrier daft; others fancied I was a blackguard dog-tax collector, while others reciprocated my liking for the wee dog, and gave me all the information they possessed.

It is this information, along with what I have seen, that I desire to convey to the reader. I cannot immortalize the “die-hards” as Sir Walter did the Dandies; but if I describe the types of terriers that I have seen—tell who they belong to, and what they are used for—I may be doing the breed a service. Almost all the fox-hunters that I have met say that they are the only possessors of the good old sort. M’Corkindale, of Hell’s Glen, has had the same blood for the past forty-eight years; Robinson, of Lochlomondside, has had them for sixty years; Cameron, of Glenorchy, about thirty years; M’Gregor, living in a wee cottage at the south end of the Black Mount, has had them for fifty years; Cameron, of the Black Corries, had them from his predecessor twenty years ago; while on the Black Mount, Kinloch-More, throughout Morven, Ardramurchan, and, in fact, all the shires west of a line drawn from the Mull of Galloway to John o’ Groat’s, fox-terriers—as they are known by—have existed from time immemorial. . . .

But to my journey. The time was winter, M’Guffie was my companion, and Charlie was the name of our cob [horse-- Editor]. Charlie, the gig, and our accoutrements were shipped on board the steamer at Greenock bound for Helensburgh. A short sail across the Clyde, and Charlie is yoked on Helensburgh pier, and we are off on the road toward Luss. . . . Going along the banks of Lochlomond we saw a stonebreaker at work on the roadside, and noticed what we took to be a Scottish terrier resting on his jacket. We pull up and learn that the pup belongs to old Robinson, the fox-hunter, that he is living at “Laird M’Murich’s,” and that if we called there we might see him and his terriers. We carry on to Ardlui, where Charlie is stabled, and there learn from the waitress that the fox-hunter is in the kitchen. The old man is sent for. He had been indulging rather freely, but still was sober enough to understand what we were after, and gave us an invitation to be at the Laird’s at daybreak next morning to see his terriers. . . .

Highlighted in the red triangle is the area Captain Mackie scoured in search of old time Scotties. At the apex is the Bridge of Orchy, near where in the glen to the west and south he bought the famous breeding pair the dam of which whelped Ch. Dundee. At the far left is the village of Dalmally, on the right side of the triangle are the villages of Tyndrum and Crianlarich, all of which still exist today as rural villages in Argyll, now renowned for its outdoor recreation.

We were out of bed early enough next morning to do our two or three miles’ walk to “the Laird’s” before daylight, but there was no old fox-hunter there. A short petticoated, red armed, tousie-headed lass told us the dogs were in a dilapidated-looking outhouse which she pointed out. The door was unhung, the floor was damp and dirty; two couple of terriers, and a couple of bleary-eyed, mangy looking, aged foxhounds occupied the shanty, along with an ancient muzzle-loading fowling piece, a powder horn, and a staff that could have done duty as a pike. The building, dogs, gun, and general surroundings seemed to carry us back to the days before game laws or gun licenses were thought of. The terriers stood about the height of the modern fox-terrier. Their coats were a bit open and rough looking, but still hard enough to satisfy a fancier’s wish; they had foxy-looking heads, semi-erect or half-cock ears, gaily carried tails; in colour they were a sort of rusty grey . . . Mentioning that his terriers had white feet, he explained to us that some twenty or thirty years ago he had a particularly game terrier that he got from M’Corkindale of Hell’s Glen, and he liked it so well that he had bred from it till he could get stock no longer. . . .

As I was anxious to hear what the old fellow had to say about the terrier of forty or fifty years ago, I asked him to take breakfast with us. While he was at breakfast he informed us that the terriers of his youth were about the size and weight of those he had now (Editor: 17 - 20 lbs), but were shorter legged and deeper ribbed; that in colour they were much like what he at present had, but that in parts of Argyleshire they were of a sandy colour, with one ear up and the other down; while in Perthshire they were of all colours, but that rusty grey and pepper-and-salt colour prevailed. He did not want terriers with long legs, but he could not help himself, as the old breed was nearly extinct. . . .

We get on the road to Crianlarich in Perthshire, and I occasionally leave Charlie and the gig to M’Guffie’s care, while I wander off the road to visit a gamekeeper or farmer that keeps a terrier or two, but I found nothing worth mentioning all the way to Crianlarich. . . . Next day we are off on the road to Tyndrum, but we halt for a spell at Donald Malloch’s. Donald is a keeper of the rare old sort, and has seven or eight good old-fashioned terriers. Donald is a fair judge of a beast, a bit of an orator, a topper to fish, a good shot, likes his wee dogs, and hates foxes. He makes his own fishing rods, repairs his own guns, and is a firm believer in, and not a bad judge of, the qualities of the “Auld Kirk” [Editor: early church]. The kennel door is opened, and out stream half-a-dozen sturdy-looking wee terriers. They have a thoroughly Scottish look about them, and would shame two-thirds of the “messans” we sometimes see on the show-bench. They are of divers colours, from a grizzly brindle to sandy; in weight they will run from 17 to 20 lbs; knowing-looking big heads, sharp muzzles, powerful jaws, very large teeth, ears semi-erect, or “cock-and-a-half cock”; stout bony legs, the fore ones slightly bent. If these little dogs have any faults, I would say the fault lay in their ears being heavy, and their tails being inclined to curl slightly. Their coats were all that could be desired, unless it may be that they looked a trifle long, but then they require them so, as they live and work a long way above the sea level. . . .

Arriving at Inveroran all right ... we conclude we will tramp to the Black Mount kennels. Mr. M’Donald was from home, but a deer-stalker acted the part of showman. They had only three terriers about the place—”Shadrach,” “Conan,” and “Sperack.” “Shadrach” was a very wiry-haired, short-legged, cobby little dog, about 19 pounds weight. His ears were erect, and a trifle on the big side, but a more compact, thick-necked little fellow I never saw. In colour he looked a mixture of black, white, and red hair, while his coat lay flat, and was not more than one inch and three-quarters long. He would have been a rare one to breed from had it not been for his age—some thirteen years. “Conan” was a fawn-coloured dog, with semi-erect ears, fair head, long sharp muzzle, very large teeth, small eyes well protected by heavy-looking eyebrows; stout hard hair about the face and head; on the body the hair was hard, straight, close, and of medium length. He stood upon short, stout legs, and was altogether a fit companion for “Shadrach.” I purchased “Conan” a year after my first visit to the Black Mount, and may add that, although I bred from him on three occasions, he has left nothing behind him at all equal to what he was . . . .

Midway between Kingshouse and Inveroran there is a house on the roadside occupied by one of the deer watchers, and as he had what we were told was a “raal tarrie” we called a halt to inspect it. One sight was enough . . . . Kingshouse brought us up about midday ... We gave Charlie an extra feed, made him as comfortable as possible, and started on a four miles’ tramp across the Black Corries to find the Iron Lodge, and Donald Cameron the fox-hunter. . . . The terriers he had there were not up to much in the way of looks, but, like most of the fox-hunters I have come across, he fancied they were “a’ wonners.” They at least did what he required of them, viz., bolted foxes, and now and then found a badger which had to be dug out. How they were bred I know not, but, like Cheap John’s van, they seemed to contain a little of all sorts . . . .

We spent the night at Tyndrum, and left next morning for Dalmally, by Bridge of Orchy and through Glenorchy. About midway down the glen we called on Cameron, the fox-hunter, and saw from fifteen to twenty terriers of divers shapes, colours, and sizes. The prevailing colour was fawn or sandy ... while one comical-looking old codger of the one-ear-up-the-other-down type had one side of his head pure white, while all the rest of him was covered with hard wiry short hair of a chestnut colour. I saw one dark brindled little bitch with short legs, small ears nearly erect, a good tail—in fact, an all round good one. She was about two years old, and fit to win in good company. I was prepared to purchase her, but when I learned that the piebald-faced “old codger” was her father, and that “her mother was a bonnie wee Skye terrier wi’ long silky hair,” I would have nothing to do with her. I did purchase a young dog from him; but, suffice it to say, I sent him to France. We stayed at Dalmally over night, and as next day was Sunday, we concluded Charlie would be the better of a rest, and that we would be none the worse of a twenty miles out-and-home walk.

After breakfast on Sunday morning we crossed the bridge at Dalmally over the Orchy, and footed it up the glen along the river side till we came to M’Gregor the deer forester’s cottage. He was at one time employed destroying foxes, and still kept a couple of bitches and a dog of the old breed of terriers. Natty, nice looking things they were, with short heads and faces, short legs, long bodies, well carried tails, and fair coats. Their ears were after the staghound type; the trio had a determined ferrety vermin look about them, and would, bar the ears, have done credit to an exhibitor a few years since. We found our way to church in the afternoon, and next morning I found my way back to M’Gregor’s, and purchased a young dog and a young bitch from him. I also bought a pair of puppies, which I left with him to rear. I am pleased to say that the bitch has produced more than one good litter, and is the dam of the best Scottish terrier at present before the public [Editor: Ch. Dundee]. Frost and snow combined made the roads so slippery that Charlie had to be sharpened, and we changed our route by going from Dalmally to Inverary, thence along the banks of Lochfyne to Lochgilphead. After a day’s rest there, we went to Ardrishaig, Cairnbaan, and back to Ardrishaig, on to Kilmartin, thence to Oban, and home.

©2002 Tartan Scottie.

Read Part III

"Enchantment of a Scottish 'Glen'- Discovering Scottie Collectible Treasure in a Glasgow Flea Market"