Letters: Skye’s Swimming Cows

A letter from the June issue of Scottish Field from J.S.Knight, Market Drayton, Shropshire.

I refer to your online article by Mairi Fraser, re-published on 29 March 2019 (originally published in print in 2014), regarding the Skye cattle farmers, the Macdonalds, maintaining an ancient tradition by swimming their cows from Staffin to Staffainn island.

I lived on the Isle of Mull for several years and I heard (no pun intended) of a tradition about swimming cows between islands before taking them to market at Oban. I thought it was an old wives’ tale until I read your article—I was clearly incorrect.

I am an observational poet and thought you might like to pass my poem on to anyone you know who still has contact with the Macdonalds. Feel free to publish if you deem it worthy as I hope to have my poems published one day.

SWIMMING COWS (Crodh Snàmh)

Hail Ian Macdonald, so bold and so grand,

Who led his fine cows to a ‘near-away’ land.

Wearing just ‘Army troos and tackity boots,’ he did stride,

With a moo and a splash, they all took to the tide.

A rugby ball is passed from father to son,

At 1.39, the tide is at its lowest run.

A loud ‘come by, come by’ rings out from Ian,

A centuries-old tradition has begun.

The cattle start to edge through boulders and cliffs,

Towards the reflecting beach, they make their shifts.

With little fuss or hesitation, 20 beasts and a calf,

Sniff the water, snort, and enter the sea at last.

For seven minutes, nostrils aloft, hot breath steaming out,

They swim, like a mighty beef raft, without a doubt.

Towards the other beach, an island, 140 meters away,

Young and old keep pace, in this timeless, majestic, bovine race.

With udders a-swaying and tails held up high,

They paddled through waves ‘neath the wide open sky.

Ian, he cheered, “Onward, my herd!

We’ll find greener grass, of that I am assured!”

At last, they arrived on a shore so divine,

With grass that was greener and cows in a line.

Ian, he smiled, his mission complete,

His cows are now content with the grass ‘neath their feet.

The main croft recovered, the cows well-fed,

On winter’s bounty, they happily tread.

Their varied palate, a gourmet delight,

With Greylag guano treats, they dined every night.

Each year, two days after January’s full moon,

With the tide at its lowest, they’d leave their adopted lagoon.

Back to the mainland, they’d swim with great cheer,

Clearing the island for birds nesting near.

They returned in fine health*, looking like buffaloes,

With muscles so strong, and coats that did glow.

The boats are launched, a beach has appeared,

Where minutes before, none had been near.

A seal pops up to watch the show,

While four-year-old Lexie, in Snow White’s glow,

Trails her dress in the water, so sweet, so fair,

As Hamish and Jock, the Shih Tzus, yelp and tear.

140 meters does’nae seem long, but it’s quite the feat,

Like swimming 11 lengths of a pool, no easy treat.

So here’s to Ian Macdonald, the last of his kind,

Who swam with his cows, leaving no one behind.

May his tale be remembered, a legend so true,

Of Ian and cows, who dared the sea blue.

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