Island I Vow Info

The Andrew of that Ilk, 11th Chief of the Clan Macfarlane, built the castle here in 1577. It is recorded that the Macfarlane arms were carved into a stone built into the wall of the castle. This included the newly awarded motto, This I’ll Defend, with the demi-savage holding a sheath of arrows and pointing with his left hand to The Crown. See our interpretation of Andrew’s arms on the sign. This interpretation was reviewed and approved by the Lord Lyon and Lyon Court. The carved stone has never been found and may yet lie buried in the ruble of the castle tower!

BE SURE to go in the “the Dungeon” while visiting Island I Vow! There is plenty of room inside this arched cellar even though it is a little tricky to get in through the small door. Be Careful!

We believe there were two arched cellars supporting the castle with a stairway on the northeast (in the indentation that looks like a fireplace with a small window in it). This is consistent with the construction that can be seen at other similar castles.

William Wordsworth’s The Brownie’s Cell
“In this tour, my wife and her sister Sara were my companions. The account of the “Brownie’s Cell” and the Brownies was given me by a man we met with on the banks of Loch Lomond, a little above Tarbert, and in front of a huge mass of rock, by the side of which, we were told, preachings were often held in the open air. The place is quite a solitude, and the surrounding scenery very striking.” (William Wordsworth)

Although his facts took some romantic “poetic license” with the facts, William Wordsworth was inspired by Island I Vow’s beauty and its stories of Macfarlanes, fairies and hermits. From this inspiration, he wrote the poem, “The Brownie’s Cell”.

The Brownie’s Cell

MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND 1814
SUGGESTED BY A BEAUTIFUL RUIN UPON ONE OF THE ISLANDS OF LOCH LOMOND, A PLACE CHOSEN FOR THE RETREAT OF A SOLITARY INDIVIDUAL, FROM WHOM THIS HABITATION ACQUIRED THE NAME OF THE BROWNIE’S CELL.

I  To barren heath, bleak moor, and quaking fen,          
Or depth of labyrinthine glen;          
Or into trackless forest set          
With trees, whose lofty umbrage met;          
World-wearied Men withdrew of yore;          
(Penance their trust, and prayer their store;)          
And in the wilderness were bound          
To such apartments as they found,          
Or with a new ambition raised;          
That God might suitably be praised.                                    

II  High lodged the ‘Warrior’, like a bird of prey;          
Or where broad waters round him lay:          
But this wild Ruin is no ghost          
Of his devices–buried, lost!          
Within this little lonely isle          
There stood a consecrated Pile;          
Where tapers burned, and mass was sung,          
For them whose timid Spirits clung          
To mortal succour, though the tomb          
Had fixed, for ever fixed, their doom!

III  Upon those servants of another world          
When madding Power her bolts had hurled,          
Their habitation shook;–it fell,          
And perished, save one narrow cell;          
Whither, at length, a Wretch retired          
Who neither grovelled nor aspired:          
He, struggling in the net of pride,          
The future scorned, the past defied;          
Still tempering, from the unguilty forge          
Of vain conceit, an iron scourge!    

IV  Proud Remnant was he of a fearless Race,          
Who stood and flourished face to face          
With their perennial hills;–but Crime,          
Hastening the stern decrees of Time,          
Brought low a Power, which from its home          
Burst, when repose grew wearisome;          
And, taking impulse from the sword,          
And, mocking its own plighted word,          
Had found, in ravage widely dealt,          
Its warfare’s bourn, its travel’s belt!                                    

V  All, all were dispossessed, save him whose smile          
Shot lightning through this lonely Isle!          
No right had he but what he made          
To this small spot, his leafy shade;          
But the ground lay within that ring          
To which he only dared to cling;          
Renouncing here, as worse than dead,          
The craven few who bowed the head          
Beneath the change; who heard a claim          
How loud! yet lived in peace with shame.

VI  From year to year this shaggy Mortal went          
(So seemed it) down a strange descent:          
Till they, who saw his outward frame,          
Fixed on him an unhallowed name;          
Him, free from all malicious taint,          
And guiding, like the Patmos Saint,          
A pen unwearied–to indite,          
In his lone Isle, the dreams of night;          
Impassioned dreams, that strove to span          
The faded glories of his Clan!                                   

VII  Suns that through blood their western harbour sought,          
And stars that in their courses fought;          
Towers rent, winds combating with woods,          
Lands deluged by unbridled floods;          
And beast and bird that from the spell          
Of sleep took import terrible;–          
These types mysterious (if the show          
Of battle and the routed foe          
Had failed) would furnish an array          
Of matter for the dawning day!                                   

VIII  How disappeared He?–ask the newt and toad,          
Inheritors of his abode;          
The otter crouching undisturbed,          
In her dank cleft;–but be thou curbed,          
O froward Fancy! ‘mid a scene          
Of aspect winning and serene;          
For those offensive creatures shun          
The inquisition of the sun!          
And in this region flowers delight,          
And all is lovely to the sight.                                    

IX  Spring finds not here a melancholy breast,          
When she applies her annual test          
To dead and living; when her breath          
Quickens, as now, the withered heath;–          
Nor flaunting Summer–when he throws          
His soul into the briar-rose;          
Or calls the lily from her sleep          
Prolonged beneath the bordering deep;          
Nor Autumn, when the viewless wren          
Is warbling near the BROWNIE’S Den.                                    

X  Wild Relique! beauteous as the chosen spot          
In Nysa’s isle, the embellished grot;          
Whither, by care of Libyan Jove,          
(High Servant of paternal Love)          
Young Bacchus was conveyed–to lie          
Safe from his step-dame Rhea’s eye;          
Where bud, and bloom, and fruitage, glowed,          
Close-crowding round the infant-god;          
All colours,–and the liveliest streak          
A foil to his celestial cheek!