Ten miles up a single-track road from Bonar Bridge, at the end of lonely Strathcarron, stands a small whitewashed church that most visitors to Scotland will never find. Croick Church wasn’t built to be famous. Thomas Telford designed it as one of forty plain “parliamentary churches” raised across the Highlands in the 1820s, and it has changed very little since it was completed in 1827. But look closely at the diamond-paned east window, and you’ll find something no guidebook illustration can quite prepare you for: words, scratched into the glass itself, by people who had just lost everything.
What happened at Glencalvie
In May 1845, eighteen families — around ninety men, women and children — were cleared from their homes in nearby Glencalvie to make way for sheep. The eviction had been resisted for years, but on 24 May the factor, James Gillanders, finally succeeded. With nowhere else to go and their houses unroofed behind them, around eighty of the displaced tenants made their way to Croick. Out of respect for the church, they didn’t shelter inside it. Instead they pitched makeshift tents of tarpaulin and blankets in the churchyard itself, in wet, cold weather, with nothing but what they could carry.
Their plight might have vanished from history entirely, but a correspondent from The Times happened to be travelling through the area and witnessed it. His dispatch, published on 2 June 1845, was so affecting that it was read into the record during a Parliamentary debate on Scottish poor law just weeks later — an extraordinary piece of contemporary evidence for what was happening across the Highlands during the Clearances.
The words on the glass
Somewhere around that time, twenty-two short messages were scratched onto the outside of the church’s diamond window panes. Among them:
“Glencalvie people was in the churchyard here May 24 1845”
“The Glencalvie tenants resided here May 24 1845”
“Glencalvie people, the wicked generation”
“Glencalvie is a wilderness, blow ship them to the colony”
They’re still there today, faint but legible, catching the light differently depending on the hour and the weather — which is, historians note, part of what makes them so hard to date precisely.
In the interest of getting the history right: there’s a genuine puzzle here that Croick’s own custodians are open about. The inscriptions are in neat copperplate English, yet the Glencalvie tenants are recorded as Gaelic speakers who could barely communicate with the Times correspondent. Some historians believe the words may have been added slightly later — possibly by John Ross, a local shepherd whose name appears among the graffiti — rather than scratched in panic by the evicted families themselves that same week. Whoever held the diamond that cut the glass, the messages are contemporary to the Clearances and were made by someone who felt the weight of what had happened at Glencalvie and wanted it remembered. That’s not a diminishment of the story — if anything, it’s a reminder that this was a wound felt by the wider community, not just those directly evicted.
Visiting Croick Church today
The church is open every day, free to enter, and about as far from crowded as Highland heritage sites get. Inside, you’ll find a facsimile of the original Times report on display. Outside, the churchyard where families camped for days is still there, quiet and windswept, with hills rising steeply on every side — it doesn’t take much imagination to feel how exposed and desperate that spring must have been.
Bring good shoes for the single-track road, allow time to actually sit with the window rather than photograph and move on, and go easy — this isn’t a polished visitor attraction with a car park and a café. It’s a working church in a scattered parish, and that quietness is exactly what makes the messages hit as hard as they do.
“Glencalvie people, the wicked generation.”
— scratched into the east window of Croick Church, Strathcarron, 1845
Few places in Scotland hold history this rawly. If you’ve stood at that window yourself, we’d love to hear what it felt like.