Alasdair MacIlleathain

Under the mist of a Sunday morning, MacDonald ships quietly approached Ardmore Bay in northern Skye. It was 1578 and Trumpan Church slowly filled with Clansmen loyal to the MacLeods ready to begin their worship. It was the first Sunday in May, yet unbeknownst to them, it would be the last day of their lives. 

            The ships slid into the sandy bay and the MacDonald raiders swiftly swept up the steep slope, surrounding the church with a ring of steel. As silent as the swirling wind they bared the door and set the thatched roof ablaze. A shout from outside, or perhaps a cruel laugh from MacDonald Clansmen, mixed with the smouldering straw above them would have alerted them to the danger they were in. 

            You can imagine the panic. Women weeping as they closely cradled their children. Men, warriors and crofters hardened in battle and by the harsh environment that is Skye, helplessly bashing and clawing at the small door, helpless despite their efforts. Anyone who did make it out or through the cramped door would have been quickly cut down by the heavy claymores wielded by the bloodthirsty MacDonalds. They could only have escaped one or two at a time. 

            For the people inside those stone walls, nothing could save them. But perhaps they could be avenged. 

            The only person to escape was a young girl. No one knows how old. Perhaps just a child, but more likely in her teens. Her mother desperately pushed her through the window at the eastern end of the church. I say window. Yet it is little more than a slit in the stone. She could barely fit, but she just about managed, severing her breast as she did. 

            But she escaped, desperate to find help. Desperate to save her mother and the others trapped in the church. She ran over ten miles to Dunvegan and raised the Fairy Flag, crying out in despair at the devastating attack. 

            The MacLeods were quick to react, wasting no time, they rode to Ardmore Bay with haste, surprising the MacDonalds who were waiting by their stranded ships. The slaughter at the church was over, only the stench of smouldering bodies remained. Yet the MacDonalds had made a fatal mistake. While they were preoccupied, the tide had retreated, stranding their ships on the sand. Confident that all were dead and their presence was unnoticed, the charging MacLeods must have wrought fear through their very hearts. 

            The battle was merciless. The MacDonalds were cut down with steel and anger. They had brutally murdered defenceless innocents as they prayed, and now it was the Macleod’s turn to brutally kill these murderers as they undoubtedly prayed for divine intervention themselves. But none was to be found. 

            With the beach littered with bodies, and the pillar of smoke billowing from the hill above, the MacLeods refused to respect the murdering MacDonalds, throwing their bodies against a Dyke, a dry-stone and turf wall, which was subsequently pushed over onto the MacDonalds, hence the name “the Battle of the Spoiling Dyke”. According to local tradition, the bones of the MacDonalds could be seen sticking through the turf for several following years, a constant reminder and monument to both massacres that took place that fateful Sunday in May. 

            Trumpan Church still stands today. Ruined as the day it was destroyed. The small doorway that once held the door that trapped so many remains open for anyone to walk through so that no one can be trapped in that church again. The window from which that young girl bravely escaped still looks out across the Trotternish peninsula towards the sunrise. It is a haunting reminder of the tragedy that took place that day. Yet the beauty and tranquillity of it is just amazing. The history that surrounds the church. The font carved of stone that sits in the corner of the church, the priests (or trial) stone, a prehistoric standing stone in the churchyard where once accused people would be blindfolded and told to insert their finger into the hole near the top to discover whether they are guilty or innocent of a crime. Even the gravestones that show the continued use even centuries after the church had been destroyed. 

            The story of Trumpan church is not just a tragedy, but also one of resilience. The Highland and Island ability to bounce back and continue tradition. Something that is so important to the way of life in places like Skye. 

            If you are to visit Trumpan Church, then I do ask you to remember to be respectful. Remember those who died and remember that it is and will remain a sacred place to the people of Skye and the Waternish Peninsula. When you look at that tiny window, remember the brave young girl who managed to squeeze through and raise the alarm despite the danger she faced. And if you go down to the beach at Ardmore Bay, look up and imagine the billowing smoke. But don’t forget to keep an eye out when passing the dykes, you never know what might be sticking out from them! 

Sources:

Trumpan

https://canmore.org.uk/site/10939/skye-trumpan-church

https://www.britainexpress.com/attractions.htm?attraction=725

https://portal.historicenvironment.scot/designation/SM949

Kieran, Ben. Blood and Soil: A World History of Genocide and Extermination from Sparta to Darfur, Yale University Press, 2007

Roberts, John Leonard. (1999). Feuds, Forays and Rebellions: History of the Highland Clans, 1475–1625. (illustrated ed.). Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press.

Images are my own. 

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