Kevin McKenna: The flip side of life in Scotland’s rural idylls

It first figures in Scotland’s story in 849, when King Kenneth brought some of St Columba’s relics here from Iona. All that remains of the original are some carved stones forming the base of the cathedral tower. It’s now under the jurisdiction of the Church of Scotland.

Happily, it’s also open and soon it begins to warm my scarlet, Catholic soul. It’s reassuringly Scottish and Protestant, possessing a quiet austerity that requires no Roman folderols and curlicues to enhance its stripped-back grandeur.

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Outside, an acre of pasture leads down to the River Tay, double-wide and in full spate. As you walk back up through Cathedral Street the river peeps out here and there between the cottages. Some of these have blue plaques bearing witness to Dunkeld’s place in Scotland’s tempestuous past. These are the ones which survived the Battle of Dunkeld on August 21, 1689 when the Highland clans, rallying to James VII fought hand-to-hand with William of Orange’s covenanters as part of the first Jacobite Rising.

On the other side of the town square is the Three Churches charity shop. I’d been advised to visit this little redoubt and ask for Jean and Lesley, the two women who look after it. I’m in luck as today it’s their turn behind the counter.

“I love this place,” says Jean, “it’s got everything you could possibly need in a small community.”

She’s a retired teacher, originally from Yorkshire who has “been around the world a bit”. But Dunkeld is where she’ll now remain. “This is our 16th home and I won’t be leaving.”

Lesley, a retired dinner lady, is eager to convey how friendly Dunkeld is. It’s a character trait not often visible in affluent, self-contained neighbourhoods such as this where outsiders, especially those not deemed to be of the right social timbre, are tolerated rather than welcomed. Yet it becomes a common refrain from all those I meet. Said Lesley: “This shop raises funds for three of the local churches, all of whom are involved in great outreach work.

The Battle of Dunkeld (Image: free)

“And besides, we’ve become a little social centre where people, perhaps feeling lonely, will pop in for a chat.” Standing proudly on the second-hand bookshelves, amidst dog-eared thrillers and po-faced histories is this week’s Book of the Week: Blue Peter’s fifth annual, circa 1973. I’m warmed by this too.

The sense that a good heart beats in Dunkeld is reinforced by the Corbenic Café and Craft shop, up on Bridge Street. It’s part of the nearby Corbenic Camphill Community, 120-strong, of which 46 are adults with learning challenges.

A leaflet in the café tells you more: “Work is seen as an important part of people’s lives at Corbenic, and residents are encouraged to contribute as much as possible in the life of the community. The Corbenic Shop and Café is a social enterprise which provides a link with the wider community.”

The centrepiece of the square itself is the Atholl Memorial Fountain, a 160-year-old monument to the unfashionable concept of benign aristocracy. It was built and paid for by local people to commemorate the passing of George Augustus Frederick John, 6th Duke of Atholl, who had devoted his life to the needs of the citizenry. The site chosen for the memorial is the old Market Cross and it dispensed water the Duke had enabled to be piped in from the hills beyond.

Yet, of all those whom I encountered, few actually live in Dunkeld. It’s become one of Scotland’s most expensive places to live. If you’ve less than £800k to your name you won’t easily find somewhere here.

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This is the flip side of life in Scotland’s rural idylls. The chocolate-box scenery and outdoor activities which attract affluent, year-long throngs of the planet’s perma-leisured are of course vital to Scotland’s tourism sector. But very few of those who maintain the fabric and machinery of places like this will ever be able to call it home.

Those who recently attended a busy public meeting to address the problem of affordable housing in Dunkeld have urged local councillors to refuse permission for the conversion of residential property into holiday lets.

It’s the eternal dilemma faced by place like this: how to reconcile the needs of local people with those of a key industry requiring the currency of high-end tourism. The website of the Housing Action group highlights some of the stresses. “We have become aware of Airbnb holiday-makers complaining about crying babies in surrounding residential flats.

“We very much recognise that our local economy depends on tourism, but the balance has changed in recent years, as in most of rural Scotland. A large proportion of our population is over 75 and we have no accommodation for carers either in their home or in residential care. We can no longer provide housing vor shop workers, hotel staff, teachers and tradesmen as our house prices are driven up well above the national average.”

Effectively when you visit a place like Dunkeld, extravagantly blessed by Scotland’s natural bounty, you’re effectively being told: “By all means look and take a walk around the place. But do please take care not to bang the door on your way out.”

UP ON Bridge Street, the quirky shop names belonging to local businesses are testament to a slower lifestyle, free from the predations of the global fast-food, quick-buck, overnight-flit sector. If you saw a Deliveroo or Just-Eat on this street there would be placards saying “Down with this sort of thing”. Instead, there’s Hatton House Art & Design; Earn Equestrian & Country Sports; Going Pottie by Jaggedy Thistle and the Clootie Company. And if you like your chocolate truffles washed down by “superb malt whiskies” then just such an emporium exists for your needs here too.

Within The Dunkeld Community Archive and Chapter House Museum resides one of the most extensive collection of community records. Here you’ll find the minuted chronicles of this area’s social and cultural interactions going back centuries. Nothing is considered unimportant. In expertly-archived cardboard boxes you’ll find the minutes of Birnam Arts from 1884 to 1932 and every decade since.

Underneath them are the church documents and certificates bearing witness to baptisms, communions, marriages (and marriage banns); the congregational and elders roll and the poor fund between 1834 and 1940. All of it guarded and annotated under the expert eye of archivist and researcher, Imogen, a young woman telling old stories.

“I graduated in Ancient History and was taken on last year as a volunteer, but thanks to grants from Gannochy Trust and the SSE Griffin Windfarm I’m now a full-time employee. It’s a delight and a privilege to be working in a place like this and I’m currently creating a virtual museum for visually impaired people and 3D images of our items and artefacts.”

Today, she’s joined by Munro, a musician and traditional music expert. There then follows one of those exchanges that can occur when pig-ignorant lowland urbanists like me are set loose in places like this. Dunkeld is the centre of Scottish traditional music and he’s setting up for a recording to mark Tartan Day in the US and telling me about Dunkeld’s close cultural and traditional musical links with Asheville in North Carolina.

He mentions a musician by the name of Niel Gow. “Will Niel be joining you,” I ask and, because he’s as polite as he’s knowledgeable, there’s only the merest hint of a giggle. It turns out that Niel Gow is the father of Scottish fiddle music and died in, ahem, 1807. Every day’s a school day.