The death of Lawrence MacEwen of the island of Muck at the age of 80 has caused outpourings of emotion; for he was widely revered.
The most fertile of the Small Isles, Muck has been in the MacEwen family since 1896.
While other islands have suffered through dubious ownership and the adverse effects of loss of community, Muck is an exemplar with an excellent working farm and fine livestock.
Responsibility
For the past 40 years, Lawrence and his hard-working wife, Jenny and their family have kept Muck afloat, keeping pupils in the school and jobs on the island for residents.
Lawrence, the second of four children, took over the island’s running in 1969 when his older brother Alasdair left to farm on the mainland.
“I was both excited and nervous,” Lawrence told friends, and he added that he would run the island through evolution, not revolution.
This he did to significant effect with his unique brand of benevolent paternalism far removed from the idea of feudal land ownership.
Passionate
Despite the annoying appellation Lord Muck, the laird was first and foremost a farmer who loved his flocks, both human and animal, with a passion, and in particular his cows.
He was a charming, kindly eccentric with a loud voice and warm smile; he dressed in boiler suits and wellies, and seldom wore socks.
Lawrence was frequently compared to a noble Viking with red-blond hair, a beard, and huge hands ingrained with contour lines of hard graft.
Livestock
This was apt, given that he spent so much time travelling by boat laden with livestock from Highland pony stallions and bulls to sheep or a Jersey house cow.
Tales of his Herculean strength are legendary, and he could shunt weighty beasts on and off boats with ease.
Lawrence appreciated that as children are free to roam, they learn vital life skills – how to fish, clip sheep, mend roofs, tell a good beast from a bad, grow vegetables, weather storms, and be resilient.
Skills
As a result, Muck has always had an ethos of self-sufficiency and later, Lawrence would ensure that those that came to live on the island (they were vetted for suitability, and other residents took a vote) would have the ability to survive.
“If you have problems before you come to the island, they will only get bigger when you are here,” he stated.
Muck must move with the times, and though visitors might view the island as a time warp, this was not the case.
Construction
There were ambitious building ventures, battles for a new school, a village hall, and a suitable pier.
Lawrence insisted that the pier should be built at Port Mor rather than on the leeward side of the island for fear of spoiling the outstanding view of the vertiginous peaks of Rum and Skye.
Unfortunately, that decision meant that the island is cut off frequently in inclement weather.
Weather dominated Lawrence’s life and was recorded daily in his diaries.
Dramas
Accounts reveal the era of coal puffers and the challenges of loading cattle into slings from flit boats to the Caledonian MacBrayne boat in the bay, and dramas with bulls – one ran amok around the herring shantytown in Mallaig.
They also record the lengthy process of electrifying Muck in 2013 when it was one of the last places in the country to have 24-hour power.
Sadly, they also reveal too many tragedies that devastated the community. Lawrence found solace in his hard-working ethic and the peaceful hours he spent caring for a few cows in the byre over winter and hand milking every day.
Publicity
He also had a superb sense of humour, regularly regaling listeners with his epic sagas. His life was immortalised in my book – A Drop in the Ocean, and a recent moving documentary film – Prince of Muck. Lawrence loved publicity.
Dozens came to the island for his funeral. Then he was taken one last time by his preferred mode of transport, his red Fergie tractor, and buried in a grave on the hillside where his beloved cows could be close, scratching on lichen-covered gravestones while peacefully chewing the cud. This is what Lawrence wanted.
He is survived by Jenny, three children and nine grandchildren.
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