The Morvern peninsula in Scotland. Photo: Philip Capper on Flickr via Creative Commons
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The play’s the thing

The Highland games on a remote Scottish peninsula unite young and old.

For such a large area of Scotland – and 250 square miles is a lot of land by British standards – the Morvern Peninsula is not very well known. People know about Skye and the outer isles; they may be familiar with Mull and Kintyre; but a mention of Morvern often brings blank looks. This is perhaps because in those hundreds of square miles there live no more than 350 people: it has a population density of less than two people per square mile. To put this in context, the south-east of England has over 800 times as many people per square mile.

I am fortunate to have a house on the shores of one of Morvern’s sea lochs. From my window, I look out to the hills of Ardnamurchan, on the other side of Loch Sunart. The largest mountain in that direction is Ben Hiant, the Gaelic for “holy mountain”. In the morning, it is often wreathed with clouds but then it reveals itself in those shades of attenuated blue so characteristic of Scottish uplands. It is holy, I imagine, because some Scottish saint lived there a long time ago. Early Scottish saints, by the way, were often just the local missionaries; their wives were saints, too, as were their children – a nice idea.

At high tide, the sea is 20 feet or so from my front door; ebbing, it exposes a swath of foreshore covered with salt-resistant grass. On this shore, hidden among the shells, there are sprigs of samphire and wild flowers, plants that do not mind being inundated by the sea twice a day. Deer graze there in the evening: shy creatures, watchful, easily panicked.

Morvern is unhurried, which is an important part of its charm. There is one main route through it – a single-track road with passing places on which the sheep congregate and only reluctantly give way to cars. This road leads to the village of Lochaline and the ferry that crosses the sound to Fishnish.

People pass through it on their way to Mull and Iona. They are moved, no doubt, by the empty hills, the high, tumbling waterfalls and the sheer wildness of the landscape. This is the Scotland that is portrayed in the Ossianic ballads.

In July, things get going in Morvern, the highlight being the Highland games. Morvern is very proud of these games and with good reason: of all the games that take place in Scotland during the summer, there can be none with quite as magnificent a setting. A gently sloping field above Lochaline is set aside for the purpose; behind it is a sharply rising forest, dark and impenetrable, but when you look to the front, you have a heart-stopping view of Mull and its mountains. You can see fairly far down the sound – towards the point where the shore turns west and the seaway leads to islands such as Jura, Islay and Colonsay.

Everything is softened in this light, as if portrayed by a watercolourist who has then applied a delicate wash. Often there are veils of rain that drift across the sea and shroud the shores and the hills beyond. Every few minutes, it seems, the sky changes; white light suddenly becomes silver, fades and then reintensifies.

Everybody turns up at the games, as they do in small towns across the Highlands. They are generally undeterred by the two enemies of any outdoor activity in north-west Scotland: the weather and midges. This year, the weather was benign – as it has been, atypically, for the past few games – and the midges were discouraged by the sun. Most of the people present were local, although visitors are always warmly welcomed. This year, we went with an Australian guest – of Scottish ancestry – who was in transports of delight when the Mid Argyll Pipe Band marched into the field in a flurry of kilts. The band sets the comfortable, family-friendly tone for the whole event: it includes ten-year-olds and 60-year-olds, the youngest, tiniest drummers taking their cue from the older drummers beside them.

Then the fun begins. Most people associate Highland games with what are called “heavy events”. These are in essence feats of strength in which kilted figures throw heavy objects as far as they can manage. You can spot these contestants very easily, as they are all built like oxen, have low-riding kilts and look as if they could toss anything, including you, a good distance without undue exertion.

The traditional throwing objects are great ball hammers of the sort that must have had an industrial use in the days when the Scottish economy made such things as ships and chains; today, I suspect that their principal use is at Highland games. These hammers are whirled round and round in a sort of dervish dance and then, if all goes according to plan, are let go. Occasionally one of these mighty men fails to let go and can travel some distance through the air with the hammer before regaining his footing.

Then there is shot-putting, which consists of throwing a cannonball as far as you can and hoping that it does not hit one of the judges. Cabers are also tossed – usually retired telegraph poles. There is an art to tossing cabers, as the contestants need not only brute strength, but also a good sense of balance. This is not a sport for those whose experience is limited to, say, tossing salads; cabers can go in unpredictable directions. At this year’s games, the heavy-event judge unfortunately slipped and could have found himself prostrate in the path of an incoming caber. Fortunately that did not happen.

There is vertical throwing, too, in which people throw a 56-pound weight over a bar that is raised progressively higher. It is important to remember to step aside after you have thrown this weight. One of the heavy contestants told me that at a recent games elsewhere, a thrower forgot to move away. Staring up at the descending weight, he decided to catch it, which was not, it was explained, a good thing to do.

However, these competitors are not easily damaged; this one, I was reassured, had no more than a sore chest for half an hour or so. Scotland is still making these men, it appears, and they move around from games to games throughout the summer, picking up prize money at most of them.

The same contestant told me that he would be taking part in something like 15 games this season. His proudest moment recently was to attend the Scottish games in, of all places, Hawaii. He won. Now he would like to compete in Canada or even Japan. In his youth, he was a regular competitor in the Morvern games in the athletics events. “Then,” he said, “I became stronger.”

The games were about much more than heavy throwing. There were races in which anybody could enter – and did. There was high jump and tug of war. And in a well-known feature of the Morvern games, there was the annual appearance of the members of the Lochaline belly-dancing club, who dance with exposed midriffs to what can only be described as Egyptian-Scottish fusion music. This is not a good idea if the midges are out in force, as midges love exposed stomachs. For other stomachs, there was home-made marmalade to be bought, and rickety tents sold this natural larder’s bounty – venison and seafood.

It would be easy to sneer at Highland games and some do. They are wrong: for most people at this little set of games in Morvern, it’s all about community and tradition and a vague sense of belonging to something. If it affirms identity, with the pipe bands and the tartan and the caber-tossing – Caledonian clichés of the most resounding variety – then it does so in a way that is gen­erous and unthreatening. It is also about how a rather fragile society, far from the opportunities of the Scottish cities, can enjoy itself and remind itself of the advantages of being in an intimate place, far away from Edinburgh or Glasgow.

Identity is a crucial issue in contemporary Scotland. Next year, this country will cast the most important vote for it in many centuries. That has nothing to do with this innocent afternoon of play, this celebration of Homo ludens; or perhaps it has everything to do with it. But that was not on anybody’s mind that afternoon, and understandably so.

Alexander McCall Smith’s new book, “Bertie’s Guide to Life and Mothers” (Polygon, £16.99), is published in August

Picture: David Parkin
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The humbling of Theresa May

The Prime Minister has lost all authority. The Tories will remove her as soon as they feel the time is right.

Being politicians of unsentimental, ruthless realism, the Conservatives did not linger in the grief stage of their collective disaster after the general election. Disbelief, too, was commendably brief.

Currently, their priority is to impose some sort of order on themselves. This is the necessary prelude to the wholesale change that most see as the next phase in their attempt at recovery, which they all know is essential to their career prospects – and believe is vital to a country whose alternative prime minister is Jeremy Corbyn.

For that reason, talk of Theresa May enduring as Prime Minister until the end of the Brexit negotiations in two years’ time is the preserve of just a few wishful thinkers. Some sort of calm is being established but the party is far from settled or united; there is a widespread conviction that it cannot be so under the present leader.

Elements of the great change have been executed, as Nick Timothy and Fiona Hill, May’s former advisers, will testify.

However, this is only beginning, as shown by the debate in the media about how long May can survive in Downing Street. There is dissatisfaction about elements of her recent reshuffle, but it is quieted because few believe that some of the more contentious appointments or reappointments will last more than a matter of months. Her colleagues are also alarmed by the meal she has made of doing what was supposed to be a straightforward deal with the DUP.

The climate in the party at the moment is one in which everything – jobs, policies and, of course, the leadership – will soon be up for grabs. Debate over “hard” and “soft” Brexits is illusory: anyone who wants to be Conservative leader will need to respect the view of the party in the country, which is that Britain must leave the single market and the customs union to regain control of trade policy and borders. That is one reason why the prospects of David Davis, the Brexit Secretary, are being talked up.

Some of May’s MPs, for all their hard-mindedness about the future, speak of feeling “poleaxed” since the general election. Even before the result changed everything, there was dismay about the bad national campaign; but that, it was felt, could be discussed in a leisurely post-mortem.

Now, instead, it has undermined faith in May’s leadership and credibility. “The social care disaster was key to our defeat,” an MP told me. “It wasn’t just that the policy damaged our core vote, it was the amateurishness of the U-turn.” A more seasoned colleague noted that “it was the first election I’ve fought where we succeeded in pissing off every section of our core vote”.

The limited ministerial reshuffle was inevitable given May’s lack of authority, and summed up her untenability beyond the short term. Most of her few important changes were deeply ill judged: notably the sacking of the skills and apprenticeships minister Robert Halfon, the MP for Harlow in Essex, and a rare Tory with a direct line to the working class; and the Brexit minister David Jones, whose job had hardly begun and whose boss, Davis, was not consulted.

George Bridges, another Brexit minister, who resigned, apparently did so because he felt May had undermined the government’s position in the negotiations so badly, by failing to win the election comprehensively, that he could not face going on.

Much has been made of how Philip Hammond, the Chancellor, was marginalised and briefed against, yet reappointed. Patrick McLoughlin, the party chairman, suffered similarly. Conservative Central Office was largely shut out from the catastrophic campaign, though no one got round to briefing against McLoughlin, who kept his head down – unheard-of conduct by a party chairman in an election.

As a political force, Central Office is for now more or less impotent. It has lost the knack of arguing the case for Conservatism. MPs are increasingly worried that their party is so introspective that it just can’t deal with the way Corbyn is spinning his defeat. “An ugly mood is growing,” one said, “because militant leftism is going unchallenged.” That cannot change until May has gone and the party machine is revived and re-inspired.

***

Nobody in the party wants a general election: but most want a leadership election, and minds are concentrated on how to achieve the latter without precipitating the former. One angry and disillusioned ex-minister told me that “if there were an obvious candidate she’d be shitting herself. But most of us have realised Boris is a wanker, DD isn’t a great communicator and is a bit up himself, Hammond has no charisma, and Amber [Rudd] has a majority of 346.”

On Monday a group of senior ex-ministers met at Westminster to discuss next steps. It was agreed that, with the Brexit talks under way, the most important thing in the interests of restoring order was securing the vote on the Queen’s Speech. Then, May having done her duty and steadied the proverbial ship, the party would manage her dignified and calm evacuation from Downing Street.

Those who agree on this do not always agree on the timing. However, few can make the leap of imagination required to see her addressing the party conference in October, unless to say “Thank you and goodnight” and to initiate a leadership contest. Many would like her out long before then. The only reason they don’t want it this side of securing the Queen’s Speech is that the result, as one put it, would be “chaos”, with a leadership contest resembling “a circular firing squad”.

That metaphor is popular among Tories these days. Others use it to describe the ­apportioning of blame after the election. As well as Timothy and Hill, Lynton Crosby has sustained severe wounds that may prevent the Tories from automatically requesting his services again.

Following the Brexit referendum and Zac Goldsmith’s nasty campaign for the London mayoralty, Crosby has acquired the habit of losing. And then there was Ben Gummer, blamed not only for the social care debacle, but also for upsetting fishermen with a vaguely couched fisheries policy. These failings are becoming ancient history – and the future, not the past, is now the urgent matter – yet some Conservatives still seethe about them despite trying to move on.

“I haven’t heard anyone say she should stay – except Damian Green,” a former minister observed, referring to the new First Secretary of State. Green was at Oxford with May and seems to have earned his job because he is one of her rare friends in high politics. He is regarded as sharing her general lack of conviction.

Older activists recall how the party, in 1974, clung loyally to Ted Heath after he lost one election, and even after he lost a second. Now, deference is over. Most Tory activists, appalled by the handling of the campaign, want change. They would, however, like a contest: annoyed at not having been consulted last time, they intend not to be left silent again.

That view is largely reflected at Westminster, though a few MPs believe a coronation wouldn’t be a problem, “as we don’t want a public examination of the entrails for weeks on end when we need to be shown to be running the country effectively”. Most MPs disagree with that, seeing where a coronation got them last time.

With the summer recess coming up, at least the public’s attention would not be on Westminster if the contest took place mostly during that time: hence the feeling that, once the Queen’s Speech is dealt with, May should announce her intention to leave, in order to have a successor in place before the conference season. It is then up to the party to design a timetable that compresses the hustings between the final two candidates into as short a time as compatible with the democratic process, to get the new leader in place swiftly.

Some letters requesting a contest are said to have reached Graham Brady, the chairman of the 1922 Committee of backbenchers. One MP told me with great authority that there were eight; another, with equal certainty, said 12. Forty-eight are needed to trigger the procedure. However, engineering such a contest is not how most Tories would like to proceed. “She has had an international humiliation,” a former cabinet minister said, “and it is transparently ghastly for her. Then came the [Grenfell Tower] fire. There is no sense our rubbing it in. I suspect she knows she has to go. We admire her for staying around and clearing up the mess in a way Cameron didn’t. But she is a stopgap.”

MPs believe, with some justification, that the last thing most voters want is another general election, so caution is paramount. None doubts that the best outcome for all concerned would be for May to leave without being pushed.

Her tin-eared response to the Grenfell disaster shocked colleagues with its amateurishness and disconnection. “I’m sure she’s very upset by Grenfell,” someone who has known her since Oxford said. “But she is incapable of showing empathy. She has no bridge to the rest of the world other than Philip.” Another, referring to the controversial remark that torpedoed Andrea Leadsom’s leadership ambitions last year, said: “You would get shot for saying it, but not having had children hasn’t helped her when it comes to relating to people. Leadsom was right.”

***

May was quicker off the mark on Monday, issuing a statement condemning the appalling attack at Finsbury Park Mosque swiftly after it occurred, and going there shortly afterwards to meet community leaders. No one could fault her assurance that Muslims must enjoy the same protection under the law as everyone else, or the speed and sincerity with which it was made. She is learning what leadership entails, but too late.

Her administration has become unlucky. This happened to John Major, but, as in his case, the bad luck is partly down to bad decisions; and the bad luck that comes out of the blue simply piles in on top of everything else. Grenfell Tower, lethal and heartbreaking for its victims and their families, was merely more bad luck for the Prime Minister because of her slow-witted response and failure – presumably because shorn of her closest advisers – to do the right thing, and to do it quickly.

But then it turned out that her new chief of staff, Gavin Barwell, had in his previous incarnation as a housing minister received a report on improving fire safety in tower blocks and done nothing about it. That is either more bad luck, or it shows May has dismal judgement in the quality of people she appoints to her close circle. Form suggests the latter.

The idea aired last weekend, that May had “ten days to prove herself”, was a minority view. For most of her colleagues it is too late. It was typical of Boris Johnson’s dwindling band of cheerleaders that they should broadcast a story supporting Davis as an “interim” leader: “interim” until Johnson’s credibility has recovered sufficiently for him to have another pop at the job he covets so much.

They also sought to create the impression that Davis is on manoeuvres, which he resolutely is not. Davis has been around long enough to know that if he wants to succeed May – and his friends believe he does – he cannot be seen to do anything to destabilise her further. It is a lesson lost on Johnson’s camp, whose tactics have damaged their man even more than he was already.

Andrew Mitchell, the former international development secretary and a close ally of Davis, told the Guardian: “. . . it is simply untrue that he is doing anything other
than focusing on his incredibly important brief and giving loyal support to the Prime Minister. Anyone suggesting otherwise is freelancing.” That summed up the contempt Davis’s camp has for Johnson, and it will last long beyond any leadership race.

There is a sense that, in the present febrile climate, whoever is the next leader must be highly experienced. Davis qualifies; so does Hammond, who before his present job was foreign secretary and defence secretary, and who has belatedly displayed a mind of his own since May was hobbled. Hugo Swire, a minister of state under Hammond in the Foreign Office, said of him: “He’s got bottom. He was very good to work for. He is an homme sérieux. I liked him very much and he would calm things down.”

But, as yet, there is no contest. Calls for calm have prevailed, not least thanks to Graham Brady’s steady stewardship of the 1922 Committee, and his success in convincing the more hot-headed of his colleagues to hold their fire. Yet MPs say the 1922 is not what it was 20 years ago: ministers have become used to taking it less seriously.

However, many MPs expect Brady, at a time of their choosing, to go to Downing Street and deliver the poison pill to Theresa May if she is slow to go. Some who know her fear she might take no notice. If she were to play it that way, her end would be unpleasant. As the old saying goes, there is the easy way, and there is the hard way. Remarkably few of her colleagues want to go the hard way but, like everything else in the Tory party at the moment, that could change.

Simon Heffer is a journalist, author and political commentator, who has worked for long stretches at the Daily Telegraph and the Daily Mail. He has written biographies of Thomas Carlyle, Ralph Vaughan Williams and Enoch Powell, and reviews and writes on politics for the New Statesman

This article first appeared in the 22 June 2017 issue of the New Statesman, The zombie PM

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