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The Ghost
The Post Box The School Dance The Skeegs The Cat Glutton |
Dooking
The Loch Poet Fergus O' The Black Rock Sneevlin Doogie Patterson's Reef |
Well I remember the room where I slept, lit by a tiny gas light, that hissed and spluttered in the night. Its flickering light cast moving shadows on the wall. They danced and swung as if having a life of their own. The window cast back the reflections and if there was a wind outside the atmosphere took on a sinister tone. As I lay in bed I fancied all sorts of things going on, though really it was my imagination working at top speed, turning harmless shapes into menacing creatures. Yet there were times when I sensed other 'things', that lay beyond the pale. I felt eyes watched me, long dead eyes, past occupants of the house moving about in their own dimension, some with kindly thoughts others with evil in their hearts. The gaslight lent credence to their movements and I wondered who the past occupants were.
One late Autumn evening, as I lay abed, reading by the pale light of the gas jet, a cold shudder passed over me, the light dimmed as if it had been turned down, I looked across to the light and in a an instant made out a shape near the jet, somehow it turned, then was gone, and the gas spluttered forth with renewed energy. In my boyish fear I cried out in terror, bringing my grandmother into the room.
"Whits wrang wee Donal!" she exclaimed, turning up the jet higher, "Ye look as if ye hae seen a ghost."
I pointed over to the gas jet.
"There was a shape at the light," I croaked, "it was looking at me!"
"Dinna be daft!", snapped my grandmother, "ye read faur tae mony books ye wull weer yer brain oot, a heard o foulk ending up in Lochgilphead Asylum wie thinking they saw ghosts in thur hooses, sae awa back tae sleep an al keep the gas oan on a low jet."
The light in the room dimmed as she turned the supply down and left. I heard the door click shut as I settled down under the sheets. Alas sleep did not come to me. A strange scraping noise seemed to be coming from the skirting boards. 'What could it be?' I thought. Then there was a slithering motion on the floor. A large black shape sped to a far corner -- it was a rat! Fear again swept through me, my imagination went into overdrive -- what if the rat came up into the bed? A fearful cry escaped my lips, bringing my grandmother rushing into the room.
"Whits wrang the noo wee Donal, can
a buddie get nae peace tae dae hur knitting?" she rasped turning up the
gas jet, "its a good job yer uncle and Jock are awa oot the nicht or they
wud gie ye a right lunnerin
, thurs wan thing Jock hates an thats wee boys
feart o the dark!"
"But I saw a rat!" I cried. "Creeping across the floor. My pals told me that rats can come and eat you up in the night, especially young boys."
"Whit nonsense!" exclaimed my grandmother, "Ye read and listen twa much wee Donal, rats dina eat foulk, only if they ur deid in the grin, or lyin in some battle field, onyway thur is nae rats or mice here, Jock's cat hus seen them a aff sae awa tae sleep agin."
With that she left the room, having turned the jet down again. As she went out my grandfather came in puffing his pipe. I heard her talking to him in the hall, then he entered the room, turning up the jet again.
"Whits up wie ye wee Donal havin yer granny in an oot o the room, furst it was ghosts then rats, a pit arsenic doon on the flair the other nicht sae ony rats should be deid lang ago, ye wull hae tae be brave in the nicht: a tell ye whit al hae tae spend the rest o the nicht in here jist tae gie ye hope."
As he spoke my grandmother re-entered the room with a candle and put it down on the bedside table.
"Noo Jock if ye ur gan tae sleep in the bed wie wee Donal dina snore twa much fur ye wid wakin the deid wie the row ye mak, an nae takin tae a oors."
My grandfather snorted, then took his boots off. When he got into bed he reached for his pipe then lit up. As I was nearest the wall the smoke made my eyes water.
"Ye ken wee Donal this is a strange auld hoose, an dina say tae yer granny, but I hae seen things in the nicht, especially efter I had been at the Gluepot. Aye strange things hae sped aboot the back o a dark nicht, an a dina mean Mary Broon: thon auld ruin doon in the yerd, man I hae seen o a moonlicht nicht dark shapes creepin aboot in the rooms."
He stopped for a few moments to relight his pipe and spit in the bowl beside his bed.
"Weel a ken an auld man who went loony in a hoose in the Langra, he wis in his room when a coat cam aff the the peg an marched towards hum, he wus fan the next day a gibberin fool unner a great coat!"
The tale was too much for my mind an I let out a wail of fear that brought my grandmother hurrying to the room in her night attire.
"Whits wrang wie wee Donal, Jock?" she cried, turning up the gas jet again, "He let oot sich a cry that wid wakin auld nick humsel!"
"Och!", snapped my grandfather, sitting up in bed, "He's a fearty, a wis jist tellin hum aboot auld Sammy in the Langra that seen a coat wakin, when he yelled oot like a banshee."
"Look Jock!" snapped my grandmother, "The wee boy wis fair feart wie thinkin rats wur on the flair, an noo ye ur tellin hum aboot coats thet wak in the nicht; as fur auld Sammy in the Langra, it wis the drink that sent hum loony, sae both o ye awa tae sleep afore we a end up in Lochgilphead in the padded cells!"
When morning dawned I was glad to see the sun, and in retrospect it was the dark atmosphere of Woodland Place that generated the feeling of past events good and evil. Personally I believe that past events leave traces of energy that can reoccur at intervals and manifest themselves in 'happenings', such as 'shapes' or 'noises'. Perhaps the Highland mind has lingering traces of the 'second sight' attributed to old people in remote regions. Aside of this Campbeltown, to my young mind, seethed with feelings of past events especially in the dark nights of Autumn and Winter.
I drew out the key and went up to the box and inserted it. Of course it jammed. A wave of terror swept over me, I could not get the key out! What now? Run away or ask someone for help? But how would I explain about the key being in the lock in the first place? In this case discretion became the better part of valour, and I fled down the High Street shaking with fear.
As the hours elapsed I periodically peered in the direction of the post box, expecting the police to descend on Woodland Place at any minute. The street was deserted when I had inserted the key, but there was always the hidden eyes behind curtains, the 'stool birds' as we called them. However no one came near the box, until about five p.m. when the postman returned. I strolled up on the other side of the street as the postman struggled to remove the key, cursing at the idiot who had inserted the thing in lock.
"Its fair criminal," he cursed, "some scallywag hus been tryin tae burst intae the box an steal the King's Mail, thus is very serious."
As he spoke a crowd started to gather, giving advice as to how to pull the key out. Eventually PC MacPhee came plodding along, in a westerly direction, his face red with the exertion.
Seeing the crowd, he gave the ancient police greeting:
"Allo allo, whits wrang here, duv ye no ken that it is an offence tae block the King's highway and tae stap a postman in the act o takin mail frae a post box, accordin tae the Polis Act 1937 sub section twenty, paragraph six, sub clause twa, the penalty could be foor years in jail wie hard labour!"
"Na MacPhee," said the postman, "these foulk are tryin tae help me tae get a key oot o the door that some rascal or thief pit in, if a git man hans oan hum al gut hum!"
As he spoke MacPhee pushed through the crowd and peerd at the key.
"My this is richt bad, nae foulk touch it till it is finger printed, tell somewan tae awa tae Castlehill tae fetch the inspector, an th rest o ye keep oan the pavement."
As the crowd grew bigger, drawn by the shouting and talking, a man sped off on his bike to fetch the inspector.
"Ye wull a hae tae keep calm," roared MacPhee, his face reddening, "or ye wull hae tae gang awa hame tae yer hooses; me an the postie wull git the key oot efter proper procedures hae been carried oot; oanway did any o you foulk see any buddy near the box acting in a suspicious manner?"
"Weel," said a small man with a torn cap on his head, "a saw a wee boy rinnin doon the street awa frae the box last nicht."
A gleam came to MacPhee's red eyes, his stubby fingers drew a battered notebook from his pocket and a pencil stub from behind his ear. "Can ye describe hum?"
His question drew a hush from the crowd, craning forward to hear the description, many toes were trampled on.
"Weel he wus a boy, wee an he could rin."
His answer caused a laugh to ripple from the crowd.
"Och," cursed MacPhee, "ur ye stupid mon, we a ken he wis a boy, whoot ken o claes wis he weerin?"
Again the small man scratched his head, spat on the pavement.
"A think he wis weerin troosers an a jecket."
MacPhee's face turned a deep purple.
"Thus is nae guid man, whit kind o troosers?"
There was a silence. Looking at the pavement, the man muttered,
"Boys troosers."
MacPhail peered at the man.
"In the name o guid whur wur ye when ye sae the boy?"
Silence prevailed.
"A wis in Saddel Street."
MacPhee's eyes bulged.
"Wha could ye see sum boy rinnin awa frae the post box in High Street if ye wur stannin in Saddel Street, unless ye could see roon corners?"
The small man coughed nervously.
"A saw a reflection in Donal Broon's windae," he replied, sweat trickling down his brow as the crowd laughed.
"Richt!" snapped MacPhee, "Wastin polis time, name an address."
As the small man was about to reply, the inspector arrived on his trusty roadster accompanied by another constable.
"MacPhee!" he barked, "move this crowd away, while I deal with the problem."
He strode up to the post box door and yanked the key out of the lock.
"There you are," he said, "problem solved, now all of you disperse to your homes."
As the crowd filtered away, he turned to MacPhee.
"Any clue as to who put the key in the lock?"
MacPhee shuffled nervously.
"Thur wis a wee man saw a wee boy rinnin awa last nicht."
The inspector pursed his lips.
"Where is the witness? Name? Address?"
MacPhee stared helplessly at the empty street.
"He went hame afore a could git his abode or a desceeption o the boy."
The inspector tightened his lips.
"Bad work MacPhee, always name and address first, anyway no harm has been done, some prankster inserted the key; now the the offending object has been removed the case is closed; now let us return to the station."
I watched as the inspector and the other constable free wheeled down Saddel Street followed on foot by MacPhee. I then headed back to Woodland Place glad that it was all over, what I had done was wrong, so I kept quiet.
A few days later my uncle looked across at my grandmother at the dinner table.
"Mother," he said, "there wis a richt hoo-ha at the post box in High Street, some boy had stuck a key in the lock, thur wis polis there till they got the key oot. Must hae been some o they Douglas boys or some passing tinkers."
"Michty me," retorted my grandmother, "thur is awfy foulk fleein aboot noo, in the auld days if they wur caught they wid be transported fur a their days tae Van Diemen's land; onyway changin the subject, hae ony o te twa seen the coal hoose key, its no on its nail?"
Far back in my memory I realised that the key in my pocket when I approached the post box was the coal house key! There was no reply to my grandmother's question.
When I reached the Grammar School in at the start of the fifties, the girls were much older as were the boys, physical training was strictly segregated, and mention of the girls changing rooms by any boy within earshot of a teacher, resulted in a strapping.
None of the lessons mentioned sex, it was as if the word had been removed from the language, any Biology was devoid of talk of reproduction and how species developed. One boy had the timidity to mention that he had seen a picture of a nude woman. This was overhead by big MacPhail and resulted in the unfortunate getting a severe beating. One soul happened to ask in the history class if it was true that the first Labour Prime Minister, Ramsey McDonald had been born illegitimate and hence was the first leader to be so. This question during Lamont's history class brought a stunned silence followed by the boy being dragged to the front and given six of the best.
"Never mention such a thing again in my class!" thundered Lamont, his Hitler-like moustache twitching, "Such filthy talk is beyond reason!"
Yet for all the hard line taken against matters sexual, there was still a secret bond between the boys and the girls; no wonder people who came to maturity were stunted in their sexual development, and any contact with girls usually meant shyness of a horrible nature gaining hold.
In 1953 the head assembled us in the hall and announced that there would be a school dance on the last Friday of the month. His statement filled us with trepidation, this meant we would have to dance with girls, but alas no one could dance, what would happen?
"Have no fear," bellowed 'Dracula', his eyes gleaming, "dancing lessons under the care of Miss McMurty will commence after school hours, next week on Monday. There will be special lessons for the professional stream, whilst the technical people will be given the rudiments of basic footwork."
He paused, drawing his gown closer, "Any fooling around will mean the culprits being banned from the dance and all subsequent dances."
Monday came and we were herded into the gymnasium, boys and girls. Boys stood on one side, with girls on the other. Miss McMurty strode in, her eyes glinting. She went to an old wind up gramophone and gave the handle a few vigorous turns.
"We will commence by learning the basic steps of the waltz. The timing is: one, two, three, one, two, three. We will be dancing to the Victor Sylvester tune You Are Dancing On My Heart."
Who were we going to dance with? The question burned in our minds -- surely not with members of the opposite sex? A feeling of despair permeated through our beings as we were herded to face a girl. My partner was just as shy as I was. The music droned out in typical Sylvester style, a grinding dirge.
"Take your partner by the hand," shouted Miss McMurty, "and now -- one, two, three, one, two, three..."
There was a great scuffling of feet,
followed by groans as feet were trod on. Some of the boys' footwear was
not really suitable for dancing lessons, being of the heavy boot type and
soon the floor was marked leading Miss McMurty to order the footwear to
be removed, resulting in skelfs entering feet.
The lesson ended in an hour, with very little progress being made -- only a batch of sore feet to show for our efforts. One of my pals groaned,
"A thus dancin aboot lak fairies am nae guan tae oany mair lessons, thon McMurty pits ye aff glarin oor hur specs when ye are tryin tae git roon the flair; a saw yon Fred Astair oan the pictures dancin roon richt quick, a hope she disna think we are gaun tae be as guid as that!"
His remark brought a great roar of laughter as we walked home from school.
The night of the dance came. Great excitement gripped the school. The gymnasium was decked out with balloons and other decorations and a radiogram was installed to supply the music, being operated by Mathers, a professed expert with records.
The floor was polished and chairs were set of round the hall. At one end of the latter a 'bar' was set up, selling only soft drinks. The bar was presided over by Lees, the metalwork teacher.
We approached the gymnasium and entered the bright lights. The girls sat on one side and the boys on the other, staring towards each other like cattle. Mathers put on a record and bellowed "Take your partners for a waltz!" The radiogram ground out a Victor Sylvester number and a few boys shuffled towards the girls like lemmings approaching a cliff.
For myself the journey across the floor was made in extreme nervousness. I saw a girl whom I would like to dance with. I approached her
"Would you like to dance?" I asked, sweat pouring down my brow, aware of a thousand eyes watching me.
"Yes" she replied, and we stumbled onto the floor. Round and round we went, openly counting the timing: "One, two, three, one, two, three..."
Then the music stopped and we all trudged to our respective sides of the floor.
The boys mooted over the partners they had danced with. It was the beginning of the mating ritual, though at the time we were not aware of it. As we waited for the next dance Lees lumbered over to us.
"Weel boys this is yer first dance, I can remember the time when I wis a young lad in my prime at the school dances, we used tae burl roon a nicht, aye I wis a gran dancer in ma time."
As he walked away we stared at his boots.
"Not Fred Astaire footwear!" I giggled, as a great roar of laughter went up.
The night drove on with waltzes, quicksteps, foxtrots and finally came the announcement "Take your partners for the last waltz!" There was a rush towards the girls and I found myself without a partner. Mathers, red faced with the evenings exertions, roared,
"Keith, seeing you have not got a partner you will help to sweep the floor."
In the din of music and excited chatter I thought he said, 'you will creep to the door'. What could he mean by such an order? Perplexed, I stooped over and made for the door, straight through the dancers. A figure appeared in the doorway. I heard Dracula's voice grating.
"Mister Mathers, what is that boy doing, creeping towards the door?"
Mather's face turned beetroot red. Above the music he yelled.
"I said floor Keith, not door!"
Confused, I dropped to my knees and somehow tried to reach the door. A great hand dealt me a wallop across the ear. The music suddenly stopped. Dracula dragged me to my feet.
"Keith, is it?" he snarled, "Your first school dance and you are behaving like a drunk. Mister Mathers this boy will stay behind and help sweep up and on Monday give him six of the best!"
There I was after everyone had gone home helping to sweep. As I left the building Lees shook his head as he passed
"Weel Keith thur is nae hope fur ye, ye are nae guid at drawin or makin ony thing, ye wull end up in the gutter."
The following Monday Mathers meted out six of the best.
"There, let that be a warning to you to listen to what I say."
I went to few school dances before I left school in June 1954, but I made sure I kept in the shadows!
Now, as previously mentioned, though Campbeltown was a seaside place the majority of the populace could not swim, even many fishermen who went out into the deep were never taught the rudiments of keeping afloat. This lack of swimming skills plus an inbred fear of the water was passed on to the younger population, and parents warned their children to keep away from Dalintober pier or the sinister skeegs.
When the summertime came and the weather was suitable, those of the 'swimming fraternity' proceeded to the skeegs. There they plunged into the depths in competition with dubious objects that had surged from the sewage outfall on the Esplanade. I used to watch from the pier head with envy as young men plunged into the sea and marvelled at their prowess as they did the breast stroke and crawl with a skill that matched Johnny Weissmuller's exploits as Tarzan. How I wished that I could swim! I used to return home to Woodland Place feeling very inadequate.
One day as I sat moping at the table my grandfather came in from his morning walk.
"Whits wrang wie ye wee Donal?" he rasped, as he poked the fire and put the kettle on, "ye look fair wabit and scunnered, a thocht ye wid hae enjoyed yer summer holidays."
"I wish I could swim grandad," I sighed, "Many of my pals can swim, some even go to the skeegs."
At the mention of the skeegs his face darkened.
"The skeegs ye say Donal, many a fine man haes foundered in the depths aye gran swimmers tae, swept awa wie the tide tae the deeps at the Trench Point, their drooned faces gapin up frae the deep; na ye keep awa frae the skeegs, swimmin is nae fur ye, yer dad can swim but that wis when he wis in the merchant navy. Nane o the Smiths could swim an the Keiths wur to droll tae learn, bein country foulk; far better tae keep awa frae the water it is a dangerous place."
Having finished his pep talk he started making some tea as the kettle was on the boil.
"But grandad, uncle Archie said it would be a good thing to learn, he thinks that we should be taught at school and it would make us fit."
Silence followed my remark, he sipped slowly from his cup, flicked a hot drop on the dog's nose making it yelp, then he drew out his pipe and tobacco pouch. Filling the pipe, he lit up and drew a lungful of smoke.
"Dinna ye hear whit a said wee Donal, thur wull be nae swummin fur ye, a dina want tae tae drag ye frae the loch drooned, wie me grapplin hook an tae tell yer muther ye are nae langer o this world; as fur Erchie takin aboot learnin tae swum thats fur toffs at posh schools nae fur poor humble wurkin foulk, na forget aboot it."
With that he put down his pipe and fell fast asleep.
Well, a few days later some of my pals came up to me and said, "we are gaun up tae Kirkcousland Bay tae have a swim. The waters nae very deep there and it is a sandy bottom. We could lend ye some trunks and a towel so ye would na hae tae smuggle them past yer grandfather."
The offer was too good to resist and that afternoon I set off with my pals, along past the Trench Point and to Kirkcousland Bay about three miles further along the coast. The bay was very popular in summer for picnics and jaunts, and on Sundays people in their best clothes used to walk along to the bay to sit and relax on the grass. It so happened that it was a Sunday and we reached the bay to find a few people lounging about on the grass.
"Dont worry," said Duncan McPhee, "thur is naebudy here that kens us sae we can splash awa tae oor hearts content."
With that he pulled down his trousers and whipped off his shirt.
"Last intae the water is a big Jessie!" he roared as he raced to towards the sea. We all followed suit, yelling and laughing, then we hit the water. As the bottom was sandy the water was pleasantly warm and soon we were up to our waists splashing about. I became very adventurous and moved out so that the water came up to my chest, suddenly I plunged under having walked into a hollow in the sand. A wave of terror swept over me, then I felt a hand pull me to the surface -- my pals had come to the rescue ! Spluttering and coughing I made for the shore where, on regaining my breath, I moved out again. By the end of the day I could swim about three strokes, and I felt quite proud. When we made our way back to the town I felt like a hero.
On the following Tuesday I was sitting at the table when my grandmother came in, having been to the shops. She placed the shopping bag on the floor and sat down.
"A hear ye hae been swmmin at Kirkcousland, some o ma freeens were there fur a picnic an seen ye and some lads splashin aboot in the water, they say ye went unner wance and had tae be pulled oot o the sea; a dinna mind ye gaun there but ye should hav telt me, if Jock hears aboot this he wull be livid, since he telt ye tae stay awa frae the water."
Her remark made me feel sick. If grandad found out where I had been I might as well emigrate!
"I meant to tell you but grandad was about and he would have stopped me going."
My grandmother smiled, "I wull not say a word, so the matter is closed".
Alas the matter was not closed, for the following evening my grandfather appeared in the kitchen, his face was grim to behold. I received a wallop on the ear that made my eyes water, followed by a smack to my bottom.
"Ye wee rascal, sae ye went tae Kirkcousland agin my wishes, ye could hae been drooned in the deep, aye ye could hae been in Davy Jones' Locker. Whit took ye tae gang awa tae the water when I telt ye tae steer clear o the sea?"
"I want to learn to swim grandad, most of my pals can swim, they learned at the skeegs."
My remark drew a silence in the room, the ticking of the clock seemed heavy and dolorous; the breath hissed through my grandfather's teeth.
"Ye wull nae go near yon place, like a telt ye afore, sae thats the end o it."
With that he continued to read his paper, muttering at intervals about boys not listening to their betters.
A few days later I met one of my pals, called Duncan McIssac in the Main Street.
"Dea ye fancy a dauner doon tae the
skeegs, the tides oan the ebb an we can walk alang the timbers?"
I blanched at the thought. Visions of my grandfather's wrath leapt to mind. However my pal persisted and I followed him down to the New Quay and down the steps at the end.
The tide had receded somewhat revealing seaweed-coated timbers above the water level. Out we walked along the slippery wood. I could feel my feet shifting on the surface. I looked at the oily water lapping below -- what if I slipped into the depths? I would be no more! On we pushed to the outer edge of the pier. Duncan started dancing about and laughing. Suddenly a wave snaked up over the timbers, drenching our feet. Duncan looked alarmed.
"Help!" he croaked, "the tide isna gan oot, it is cummin in, we better gang back tae the steps."
Fearfully we retraced our steps, clinging to oil covered uprights. Soon our trousers and shirts were smeared with oil, the smell was awful. Eventually we reached the steps and staggered up to the pier walkway. A fisherman mending his nets, looked up and smiled.
"Been doon oan the skeegs boys a see ye hae the mark o the oil oan ye, it wilna cam awf yer claes sae ye beter sneak hame an change."
Fearfully I bid Duncan farewell and crept along the sea wall on the Esplanade. I crouched down so no one would see me, thus I managed to make my way to Princess Street thence into High Street. I remembered that my grandfather had some turpentine in the back yard and I made a beeline for the place, with the purpose of cleaning my clothes.
Luckily the shed door was not locked, so I crept inside and found the can marked 'turps'. Selecting a rag, I tipped the contents on to it. I removed my trousers and jacket and proceeded to rub vigorously, but the oil stains seemed to get worse. In desperation I soaked the whole jacket and my trousers but to no avail. What could I do now? Then I decided to stuff the ruined jacket and trousers into a sack and hide them in a corner, then slip up into the house. As I approached the close I hesitated, then rushed forward, clad only in my underpants and vest. As I flashed past Mary Broon's door she was standing there, leaning on her stick.
"Michty me!" she roared, "ye wee pervert fleein aboot naked in front o an auld wumman, och whit dae ye expect frae the Keiths an yon Jock Smith; wait till a see hum, an yer mither a faithful attender o the Highland Kirk, she wull batter ye frae Dalintober tae New Orleans Glen!"
I swept from the close, up the stairs and into my grandmother's house, then to the bedroom where I found a spare pair of trousers and a shirt. Shaking with fear I entered the kitchen where my grandmother was stirring a pot of broth.
"Yons an awfa stink commin frae ye wee Donal," she snapped, "hae ye no washed yersel, the smell reminds me o oil; here get tae the sink an al git the carbolic on ye afore Jock cams in fur his tea."
She took off my shirt and vest and proceeded to rub me down, then towelled me rapidly. Eventually she was satisfied.
"There ye are, sit doon at the table an al pour ye a bowl o soup."
She did this, then went to the window.
"Och here cams Jock wie a load o fire wid he cut frae the Maidens Plantation at the Trench Point, he looks in a guid mood." As she spoke she returned to the table. "A thocht ye had gan oot wie a jecket an broon troosers wee Donal, naw this shirt ye hae got on the noo?"
I hesitated to reply, then blushingly muttered, "That was yesterday grandmother," trembling, lest my nervousness was detected.
She shrugged her shoulders and glanced towards the door.
"Jock is takin a lang time tae cum up, och he is probably awa doon tae the shed."
The sound of shouting percolated up from the close, voices raised in anger
"Yon sounds lak Mary Broon's voice, she is in a richt dauner."
Then came the echo of grandfather's boots on the stair. He stormed in, his face purple with anger. Snorting, he glanced at me, then at grandmother.
"Dae ye ken wife whit yon auld bisom in the close accused wee Donal o?"
My grandmother sat down heavily on her chair.
"Well whit is it this time Jock?"
He drew himself up.
"She said wee Donal wis prancin aboot in his underpants an vest in the back yerd lak a pervert, an she said the Keith's wur droll; weel a gied her a piece o my mind, if she hadna been a wumman a wid hae gien hur a richt lunnerin!"
As he finished his tirade he turned to me.
"Ye wurna daen whit she said wur ye wee Donal?"
Shaking, I replied,
"No grandfather, I had my shirt off because it was hot."
"Mm," he mused, "Aye it was a hot efternoon al gie ye that, sae furget whit the auld witch said an eat up yer soop."
He then lit up his pipe and sat in his chair and opened his newspaper.
The mystery of the jacket and trousers lay unsolved in the sack in the shed and as to my adventure at the skeegs, that remained a closely guarded secret in my mind, for had it leaked to my grandfather's ears then I am sure that he would have swung for me. Sadly I never learned to swim until I was about twenty-two and hundreds of miles away inland. Perhaps for those who live near the sea, there is a menace that the sea projects, something so inviting on a hot day, but also with hidden dangers. As to me running up the close in my vest and underpants -- had my grandfather known what had actually happened that day, then I would have been locked up, for the repressed Presbyterian outlook could not encompass such innocent 'indecencies'.
My uncle prided himself in the preparation of the wine. Only the finest essence was used, and the best sugar. It was one year's end when he prepared the mixture, ending up with a jelly pan of cooling ginger wine.
"Al lea that the nicht tae cool."
he said, placing the basin under the kitchen table, unaware that the cat
was peering from the dark recess of the hole-in-the-wall, its staring eyes
fixed on the hot liquid.
"That wull be a rare drap o ginger wine," mused my grandfather, "a remember when a wis a wee laddie sweeging a cupfa wan Hogmanay, it nearl blew ma heid aff, aye wee Donal as lang as ye keep tae the ginger ye wull be a richt, its when ye git a taste o John Barley Corn that the deevil gits had o ye, aye whusky is the ruin o Glesca foulk,us heilanders ur mair refined in our drink."
He made the pronouncement with the air of some grandee looking out on a field of peasants toiling in the vineyards. My grandmother put down her knitting.
"Och Jock, ye ur aways oan aboot Glesca foulk drinking, thur is mair pook an whusky dooned in thus toon, than in a o Glesca, sae keep a guid word fur foulk frae the city, remember Donals faither wis born in Govan!"
My grandfather yawned.
"Aye al gie ye that, but a dinna trust drunk Glaswegians they dinna know how tae behave when they are drunk!" He looked at the clock, "Ony way its time we wur awa tae bed an that mans wee Donal an Erchie as weel."
Safely tucked up in bed, I drifted off to sleep to the snores of my grandfather and my uncle. The morning came and I arose to find my grandmother busy making the breakfast. Eggs sizzled on the pan, with sliced sausage and bacon. My grandfather was shaving at the sink. Uncle Archie strode in and peered under the table.
"Al jist check on the ginger wine it wull..."
He stopped mid sentence.
"Michty me!" he cried "The jeely pan in nearly empty, some buddy haes drank it in the nicht, wha wis it?"
My grandfather brushed him aside.
"Jings yer richt its nearly a drunk, whit glutton haes done this?"
He turned to me.
"It wisna ye wee Donal, wis it, dinna be feart tae own up?"
"No," I replied, "I could not drink all that wine."
There was a silence followed by my grandmother inspecting the pan.
"Maybe you drank it Jock, being ye telt us that ye wance swigged a cup o wine when ye wur young," she laughed, "here look at the paw marks oan the flair, whoots that unner the settee?"
My uncle and grandfather pulled the settee away from the wall and there lay the cat, its belly grossly swollen. The cat snored fiercely!
"There yer drinker!" she exclaimed, "it wis the cat, the sweet essence must have attracted it an it drank the loat with oot stoppin."
My grandfather seethed.
"Whit a waste o wine, the greedy cat, av a guid mind tae sling it aff Dalintober Pier, whur it can drink the loch dry!"
My grandmother smiled.
"Weel Erchie that wull teach ye tae mak wine withoot coverin the pan ower sae nae animal can creep up in the nicht an sweeg the loat!"
Every New Year after that, when ginger wine was mentioned, the tale of the 'cat glutton' was retold giving great pleasure to all who heard it -- as to the feline who swallowed all the essence, there was no lasting ill effects!
Very near Woodland Place there lay the bonded warehouse of Glen Scotia Distillery. Now bonded warehouses were used to allow the whisky to mature in oak casks over a certain number of years and also to keep the liquid secure from thieves and pilferers. Access to the warehouse was from a secure double door at the front, locked with two stout tumbler locks and padlocks. Keys were held by the distillery manager and the government exciseman. Only when the two were present could the door be opened.
Periodically the casks had to be checked for leaks and for evaporation levels, also the specific gravity of the liquid had to be checked, this being done by the exciseman. The latter also stationed himself at the door to observe the coopers who were tapping the casks for loose joints and also to catch 'dookers'.
The practice of dooking was rife, it involved carrying in a small lemonade bottle, tied to the inside leg with a string. When the exciseman was not looking and when the casks were at the back of the warehouse the dooker quickly removed the bung of the cask, had a dook, replaced the bung, then placed the bottle at the back of the cask. The dooker then went to the door and was searched by the exciseman. He would then return to the rear in the pretence that he had left his hammer. The bottle would then be picked up, pushed down the leg, and the man would walk out with a gill of almost pure alcohol. When all the barrels were checked the manager and the exciseman signed a book, checked the keys, then locked the warehouse door.
One day in the summer of 1946 I was playing with John McKechnie in the High Street, we were good friends and he lived up near Gayfield Place on the other side of the street.
"Do you know that my father is the excise officer for the town and that he will be inspecting the bonded warehouse this afternoon. He asked if you would like to see inside."
My mind raced. Inside the warehouse — what treasures lurked there? We had often speculated as to what lay in the depths. On winter nights we used to gather in the doorway and listen for sounds from within.
"Gosh," I replied breathlessly, "I would like to come."
"Okay," he replied, "see you a two o' clock at the warehouse door."
As I ate my lunch, my grandfather leaned across to me.
"Weel wee Donal, whit ur ye daen thus efternoon?"
I paused.
"John McKechnie's father has invited me to see inside the bonded warehouse in High Street at two o' clock!"
My grandfather's eyes fairly gleamed, you would have thought that I had said Fort Knox. Gripping my hand , he rasped,
"Ye wull tak a bottle an get a dook o whusky fur me!"
"Dont listen tae hum wee Donal," laughed my grandmother, "Ye wull be daen nae dookin, Jock micht hae done it as a young man, but these are ceevelised times, if ye wur caught ye wid be sent tae Barlinnie prison, sae ye hav a guid time this efternoon, it wull dae yer education guid, big McKechnie is a cleever man bein in the excise, sae mind yer p's an q's."
My grandfather grunted.
"Ye dinna need tae be cleever tae be an excise man wumman, ye jist need tae loonge aboot in a uniform an look great; the first sign o a smuggler an McKechnie wid flee awa hame tae hus hoose. I could hae done that job if a had stuck in at my sums."
My grandmother smiled.
"Stuck to yur sums ye say, it wid be nae guid ye haen an excise job fur ye wid drink yersel oot o work; jist imagine ye in a bonded warehoose, ye wid be dookin a day!"
The conversation filtered on during the lunch, then near two o' clock I rose from the table.
"I will be away to met my pal now."
My grandfather looked up.
"Dinna start dookin noo, an watch big McKechnie disna see ye wie yer bottle!"
My grandmother peered at him.
"Lea wee Donal alone Jock, awa ye go boy an hae a guid time."
My pal was waiting at the warehouse door with his father, the latter attired in his uniform complete with gold braid
"We wull hae tae wait fur the manager an the team o men wie their hammers," he said importantly, "only hum an me can open the door at the same time."
As he spoke, the distillery manager, with a retinue of men with hammers, came trooping along.
"Hae ye brocht the key Angus?" asked McKechnie.
"Aye," replied the manager and promptly inserted a large key in the lock.
McKechnie put his key into the other lock. The process was repeated with the padlocks and the great heavy doors swung open. In stepped McKechnie and put on the light, followed by the manager, workmen and us two.
The warehouse seemed large. Hundreds of oak casks stared at us like sleeping soldiers, all in neat rows. There was a layer of dust on the lids. McKechnie strode to a little side office where the measuring equipment was kept and selected a hydrometer from a case. The manager ordered the workmen to fan out into the depths of the warehouse and start tapping for signs of seams opening. He then opened the bung of two casks and McKechnie handed him the hydrometer, which was dipped into the barrel.
"Twelve," said the manager, and McKechnie wrote the figure down in a battered notebook, he then flicked back a page an compared a figure.
"Half a point below last month's figure. Allowable."
The manager then dipped a small rule into the barrel.
"Two inches below."
McKechnie compared the figure with one in the notebook.
"One eighth on an inch shrinkage from last time."
The manager took of his glasses an rubbed them.
"Mm, evaporation within allowable limits."
The ritual was repeated over about ten casks and the figures noted. McKechnie stared at the men tapping the casks.
"All awa up tae the back o the warehoose tae keep an eye oan the men, sae as there is nae dookers lurking in the shadows, ye twa boys can cum wie me an see how efficient I am. Angus wull keep an eye oan the door In case Fesak cams creepin in, he can sniff whusky at a mile."
We followed McKechnie to the back of the warehouse, then he crept forward inspecting the cask bungs for signs of tampering. The men looked up as he passed and nodded, one even tipped his cap in respect.
"Ye ken boys," purred McKechnie, "thur is naethin like a uniform fur gettin respect frae the workin class."
On he progressed, darting at times at right angles to the sides on the chance that he would catch a dooker red handed. Eventually he reached the front of the warehouse and sat down on a stool, the manager poured some tea from a flask into a chipped cup.
"Here Mac hae a wee cup o tea an a
sniffter."
McKechnie gulped down a mouthful.
"Man that was great," he purred, wiping his lips.
He then drew out a capstan and lit up. As he blew a smoke ring up to the dark ceiling he looked towards me.
"Sae e ur wee Donal frae Woodland Place, where Jock Smith bides; in hus yung daes Jock wis aye gettin buckets o' pook lowered oot o the distillery windes, hum an Fesak; naebudy could catch them, they must hae drunk barrels o spirit wie thur cronies in yon wash hoose doon the back."
He paused for a few seconds, a weel its a in the past noo, a hope ye dinna tak tae the pook wee Donal, or ye alsa son."
He looked across at his offspring sharply.
I glanced towards the side of the warehouse where a small man with a cap suddenly whipped out a bung and as quick as the eye could blink dooked a small lemonade bottle into the cask. The whole operation was over in seconds. Nobody had noticed his action and the lemonade bottle had vanished. I was too frightened to say anything and just stared at the ground.
After about half an hour, Angus drew a gold hunter from his pocket.
"Weel time tae shut shop men," he shouted, his voice booming in the depths of the warehouse.
"Aye," yawned McKechnie, "a line up tae be searched men , then sign the register gan oot."
The men formed a line, and McKechnie frisked them. The small man with the cap, winked at me as McKechnie finished searching him and he signed the book. Where had the lemonade bottle with the illicit whisky vanished to, that was the mystery!
All the men had returned to the distillery and Angus and McKechnie signed some document. The hydrometer was replaced in its case, then we all trooped outside and the great heavy doors were locked. I went off with my friend, whilst Angus and McKechnie returned to the distillery.
When I returned home later in the day and told my grandfather about the man I had seen dooking he drew me aside and whispered,
"Wee Donal never speak tae ony wan aboot whit ye hae seen, tae speak on a dooker is like handin yer ane faither oor tae the polis; na I remember a clipe wha telt oan a dooker, he ended up in the loch, gapin up frae the deep, his eyes deid."
His words filled me with terror -- visions of faceless men following me haunted me for days and for years afterwards the word 'dooking' brought back memories of that summer's day in 1946.
My father told me the story of the 'Loch Poet', a budding Burns, or was it a Shelley or Byron?. The Loch Poet used to scribble down words then recite them to passers by, and one day he caught my father as he walked near the pier steps. I will try to reconstruct the conversation my father had with the Loch Poet. (The events may have happened about 1919):
"Here Donal Keith," he said, "huv ye heard ma latest rhyme, it us called Island Davaar.
My father stared at the man.
"Wull it tak lang tae read?"
The poet hesitated.
"Na only aboot twa meenits ye ken."
He spread out a crumpled sheet on the coping stones.
"Al begin," he said.
Whan I look oot intae the Loch,
I can see awfa awfa far awa,
Richt oot tae yon island past the point,
Aye, Island Davaar is very far
But Ailsa Craig is fardar ar.
O! Loch wie deep an dark watters.
Whur in yer bosom sits mony wrecks
Och really it disna metter
That when yer drooned the watter cums above yer kneck!
Many a dark deed is covered wie yer cloak
Many a soul swallowed in yer deeps
Deeds sae hideous tae mak ye bok,
Stories tae gie ye al the creeps.
Though my father was not well
up In the construction of verse, stanzas and metres he sniggered inwardly
at the crudeness of the poem.
"Thats a droll poem," he said, "hoo can Ailsa Craig be fardar ar, thur isna ony wurd as fardar ar!"
The Loch Poet looked hard at him.
"Al gie ye a slap Donal!" he snapped, "hie ye noo heard o poets lice?"
At this my father laughed and made off towards Dalintober. When he got home he told his mother about the poem.
"Weel," she said, "he meant poet's licence, they can twist wurds any way they want even though it isna guid Kings English!"
A few weeks later my father met the Loch Poet as he was walking along the beach near Dalintober Pier. The Poet hailed him, waving a piece of paper.
"Donal!" he cried, "Ive written a poem aboot the Stanin Stane."
My father sighed.
"Lets hear it then."
The Poet drew himself up as if he was treading the boards at Stratford.
"It is called Ode Tae The Stanin
Stane."
O stane stickin oot of the earth,
At the tap o the Wak
Whit is the meanin o yer savage finger?,
Lak a dull kale stak
Pointin tae the north lak a messanger,
Whur ye a stane tae stan oan,
Whur men could signal wie lichts?
Or jist the grave o some lang deid man?
Buried efter some helish fecht
Did ye watch as Leslie cam wie murderous crew,
Doon the lang land in a hurry
Tae wild Dunaverty, the McDonalds tae slew
An the dark sea their graves tae swallow?
O Stanin Stane ye last fur ever,
Till the sun has ganged oot in the sky.
An even then ye wull still nae weather,
When the earth is black an dry.
My father nodded, the words meant
something. Unfortunately the Loch Poet passed away and only remained a
memory, or a comic joke as the witer of 'droll things'.
Yet in my time as a young boy I could hear old fishermen reciting poems or telling tales to youngsters of epic deeds at the fishing, or on the ocean swell. I suppose all sea ports are blessed with such storytellers and poets. Men who stirred in Stevenson's mind the seeds of Treasure Island, or led Coleridge to The Ancient Mariner. I never discovered who the Loch Poet was. Perhaps he never really existed and was just something created by gossip.
There are a few standing stones dotted about south Kintyre, the nearest in line to the one at the 'Walk', being at the foot of Skeroblin Cruach, a high hill east of Tangy Loch (the O.S. map reference for this stone is approx. 709201). As to the origins of the stones there is a variety of opinions, some authorities say they were meeting points, but many think that they were signalling platforms used to warn of approaching dangers or enemies. The stone at the top of the Walk had a lean of about thirty degrees to the north east.
How such a huge stone was transported to the site and elevated to the angle mentioned, must have required a great deal of skill and expertise. We used to play around the stone, but I cannot remember anyone ever making it to the top of the massive boulder.
People treated the stone with respect, there was something mystical about the site, something that harked back to some long ago age, far before the Scots came to the area and maybe before the southern Celts. As boys we wondered about the people who erected the stone, speculating that they must have been giants. Perhaps some Irish giant, such as Finn McCool, had hurled the stone from the Giants Causeway in North Antrim, a distance of about thirty miles! Such stories abounded, some embellished for effect, some with a part truth hidden in them. One of my pals thought that the stone was part of a chain once close together, so that tribesmen could hop from one to the other and so cover great distances at a level where they could see their enemies lurking and also avoid peat bogs and other obstacles! However, as no records are inscribed as to the purpose of the stones, there will always be an element of mystery surrounding their true purpose.
One Sunday I went for a walk with my grandfather up to the standing stone. It was a mild spring day in the year 1946. My grandfather found the climb tiring and was thankful to rest in the shadow of the stone. He drew out his pipe and lit up.
"Ye ken wee Donal," he mused, surveying the flank of Knockscalbert, a high hill to the east, and then the gloomy valley that led to Aucha Lochy and its sister Loch Knockruan, "did ye ever wunner whit this stane wus pit here for?"
I looked at him puzzled.
"No grandad, but some of my pals think a tribesmen placed it here."
He smiled at my reply, like the professor would to an errant student.
"Aye ye are pairtly richt wee Donal, but did ye here the story aboot the one eyed giant that lived roon the back o Knockscalbert?"
Again I paused as he spoke, was this to be another story about trolls?
"No," I replied, "I thought a giant had flung the stone from Ireland."
He drew on his pipe, and tipped his cap forward.
"Weel that us wan story telt by fowk,
but my faither telt me the wan aboot the wan eyed giant, sae noo al tell
ye!"
Awa back in time afore thur wis a Sotland as we ken it, thur wus a tribe o fierce men an wummen that had cam oor the sea frae the German Forests; the wur awfa strong, an when they cam they chased a the fowk that bided near the loch an tooka thur hooses and cattle. The poor fowk that wur chased awa had tae leeve in hovels in the hills up near Tangy Loch; it wis awfa hard tae fan meat tae eat as the German tribe hud taken a the cattle. Weel the souls that had lost their hooses had tae eat grass an berries an a lot died in the lang winters that; in the spring they could catch fish but this didna last lang, fur the German tribe soon got wind o whit they wur daen and cam efter the souls wie big dugs an whips. Soon the fowk wur pressed intae a wee bit o land awa up near Clachan, an they ended up haen tae eat sea weed an spoot fish aff the shore.They becam desperate, sae they sent wan o their young men called Rab tae look fur help. Rab set aff an wanered a oor the land but nae other tribes wid help as they wur feart that the Germans wid tak oor their hooses tae. Sae Rab made his way doon the east coast past Saddel tae near wha Kirkcousland is the noo, he wus richt weary wie hus journey an wurried aboot whit wid heppen tae hus freens at Clachan. As he sat doon near a big tree he heard an awfa roar frae a glen, sicht a roar he had never heard the licht o in a hus born days; he waked oor tae the edge o the place an their sae a giant o man wie wan eye trapped amangst blackberry bushes an greetin lak a wee bairn.
"Whits wrang?" shouted Rab above the hissin o the giants breathin. The giant swiveled hus wan eye at hum.
"Am trapped in the bushes wee man, a wus oot lookin fur a sheep tae eat whana fell doon intae thus hole, am richt sair wie the thorns."
Rab felt sorry for the giant, he pulled oot hus cleaver an started tae slash at the bushes till the giant wus free.
"Thur ye are big man," he said, "ye can gang awa ta yer hoose, or gang an catch a sheep."
The giant bent doon an picked Rab up in hus hands.
"Its the furst time a we man hus helped me, ma name is Fergus o' the black rock last o the giants o' Loch Lommond, whit can I dae tae pey ye back fur yer kindness?"
Rab looked doon at the grin far below.
"Ma names Rab, o the puir souls hidin up at Clachan, we wur robbed o oor hames by fierce Germans, they took a oor meat an cattle, a had been sent oot tae fan help but nae body wud help us sae we ur doomed tae die o hunger."
The giant looked at Rab.
"Dinna wurry wee Rab al soon clear the Germans oot, weel creep doon towards the loch an then al rush them."
As guid as hus word Fergus with Rab nestled in hus erm strode doon towards the loch, he kept behind Knockscalbert tae view the land.
"Richt Rab,"he muttered, picking up a giant rock in one hand, "let us rush the Germans!"
Forward strode Fergus, picking up large stones an hurling them at the startled tribesmen. His voice thunnered oot:
"Awa hame tae yer ain land ye rascals!"
The Germans fled in terror, maist went awa oot in rafts tae sea and the rest fled tae Southend, bombarded wie rocks. The giant tak Rab back tae Clachan whur he becam a hero an merried the chief's dochter an sae the tribe cam back tae the loch an bided thur in peace. When the giant died he wus buried unner wan o the rocks he had thrown, thus very Stanin Stane Donal, sae thur ye are noo ye ken the troo meanin o why the stane is here!
My grandfather finished his tale as I pondered over its truth, it sounded like a folk story from the brothers Grimm, but who was I to question the oracle, for when the oracle speaks all must listen! The story he told me is another example of the Celtic love of giants, tales told round campfires on dark winter nights.
At night it was a dangerous place to cross as there was hidden pools that could trap the unwary, or if the tide was on the turn a traveller could be quickly swamped by the sea. Mussels abounded on the ebb and, before pollutants became rife, were excellent to eat. However raw sewage used to be piped direct into the loch causing strong smells and my father said it was an ordeal to cross when the tide was out. Many a drunk person fell into the slime, to re-emerge at Dalintober stinking to high heaven. One such person was a character called 'Sneevlin Doogie' who, having wet his whistle in the town pubs, would stagger home to Dalintober via the Mussel Ebb. This is a story my father told me about what happened to Sneevlin Doogie one night as he headed for Dalintober via the Mussel Ebb...
Sneevlin Doogie had been drinking in some den in Shore Street. The night was dark and windy and about eleven o'clock he set out towards the Mussel Ebb. The tide was on the turn as he reached the start of the shingle and started to lurch out towards Dalintober. Singing some song about the Bonnie Wells o Weary he found himself soon knee deep in the oncoming sea and suddenly he had fallen into a pool.
The shock of the water somewhat revived him and, cursing, he stumbled on. The lamps of Dalintober twinkled in the distance but seemed to be getting no nearer. Doogie's drink-fuddled brain tried to focus on the task ahead, but he kept falling into the water until he was thoroughly soaked. Suddenly he heard a voice.
"Help git me oot o this hole am up tae ma kneck."
Doogie was stunned, who could be in a hole in the middle of the Mussel Ebb?
"Whas there?" he cried, his voice beating against the rising wind, "Whas oot oan a nicht lak this?"
There was a silence, then a small voice piped up.
"I am a water sprite, caught by the tide and trapped in a hole. I was slipping along to the Trench Point when I was carried alang wie the tide intae the loch an trapped on the ebb. If I dont git aff the shingle I will be be eaten wie the Mussels; they ur fair partial tae a sprite ye ken."
Doogie's brain reeled -- watter sprite, mussels, whit nonsense wis this? It must be some fellow drunk that was too far gone to make it to Dalintober.
"Whoot hole ur ye trapped in?" Doogie asked, peering into the gloomy darkness.
The wind sighed as if in answer.
"The hole tae yer richt!" replied the small voice.
Doogie peered to his right, and through the drink haze he saw a shape sitting in a pool of water -- a small man with a pointed nose, shivering with cold. Doogie reached out and caught the man, the little body felt like ice to the touch, like putting your hand in an refrigerator. The small face looked up with eyes that seemed to burn like live coals.
"Can ye help me tae the shore at Dalintober?" he asked, clutching at Doogie with a grip fiercer than a Scotsman keeps on his purse.
Doogie heaved the small man up.
"Keep close tae me," he commanded, "Al mak it tae Dalintober wee sprite as ye cal yersel, onywey whits yer name?"
There was a pause.
"I am the sprite o the loch, pairt o the clan that rules a the water frae the Island tae the Kilbrannan Soond, we gerd a the men that sail in these waters frae the storms, if the mussels git us then the puir souls are headin fur Davy Jones' locker."
Doogie shook his head -- curse the drink whit wis a this aboot sprites? Yet the wee man wis there clinging to his han like a limpe. Suddenly he was in a deeper pool up to his waist. The wee man spluttered with anger.
"Keep awa frae the pools, fur the mussels are lurking there..."
He gave a cry of pain -- a mussel was attached to his hand.
"Help ma boab! They ur efter me, keep gan oan tae the Dalintober shore man, quick, wan hus grabbed my leg an another has got me by the tae."
Alarmed, Doogie floundered on tripping into slime and slithering through pools where strange tentacles seemed to be reaching out to curl round his legs. Then at last he found firm sand and came to rest at the sea wall at Dalintober near the foot of George Street. The wee man released his grasp and sped off into the darkness.
"Ta," he said as he slipped into a deep channel and swam out round the pier, "al remember yer kindness tae the clan."
Doogie pulled himself up over the sea wall and fell asleep near the pier. When he awoke he found he was clutching a marker buoy. A policeman found him half way up George Street blubbering about water sprites and he was taken to Castle Hill station and detained for disturbing the peace.
When came before the Sheriff the Sheriff, commenting on the case said,
"Repeated drunkeness leads to the mind becoming addled and stupid. no wonder you are nicknamed 'Sneevilin Doogie', you are a disgrace to Scotland and the town. As to the nonsense of water sprites, well had you been a reader and not an illiterate, I would have said that you suffered from over reading Charles Kingsley, but it is drink that has caused this. In future if you are found on the Ebb you will be sent to prison. For this offence you are fined five shillings or seven days."
Doogie stared at the Sherif, then smiled.
"I wull tak the five shullins yer lordship!"
My father said that there were other strange tales about the Mussel Ebb. Some people did believe that sprites prowled about it in the dark, some say they heard them splashing near the pier. However, when the Mussel Ebb was backfilled in the twenties to form Kinloch Green the stories vanished, even though the waters of the loch still seeped up under the green. I remembered that story he told me for many a year and used to watch at the Trench Point to see if the 'sprite clan' would hove into view.
"Wee Donal, whit did ye learn aboot the day in school?"
I chewed on a sandwich for a moment.
"The teacher was telling us about Sanda Island of Southend ."
Seconds elapsed disturbed only by the ticking of the pendulum clock in the hall.
"Sanda Island ye say, a barren sheep place, but whit aboot Patterson's Rock tae the east, a fearsome reef that hus seen the end o mony a fine ship, aye sucked waw tae the depths. Fearsome tides rip roon the rock, pullin the unsuspectin seamen tae their doom in stormy weather even though there is a licht oan the reef an the Skart Rocks tae the north".
There was a pause as he filled his pipe with bogie roll and struck a match.
"Aye the soond roon the Mull is a dangerous place even in calm weather, ave seen puffers strugglin roon tae the North Channel an stanin still against the Atlantic tide, the place is a richt trap; onyway many is the tale aboot Pattersons Rock,wha it got that name a dinna ken, but here us a tale aboot whit heppens when the sea oorcoms poor souls in boats..."
At this point his pipe went out and he had to re light, sending clouds of tobacco smoke gushing up to the yellow ceiling.
"Weel aboot twa hunner years ago aboot the time when Cherlie had fleed awa tae France efter hus lunnerin at Culloden, a brig cam roon the Antrim Coast up frae the English port o Bristol, she kerried a cargo o rum bound fur Glesca, them bein richt fond o spirits ye ken; the weather started tae git richt bad, wie high seas runnin an the wind gettin up, the captain tried tae keep tae a lee shore but wis forced tae run alang the Mull wan an south o Sanda Island. He thocht if he could pick up the weather gauge he could run up past Sanda an roon intae Campbeltown Loch wie its calm waters. Alas he bore doon oan Patterson's Rock an the brig hit the cruel fangs an sank in minutes, al the crew were drooned, but the rum casks floated ashore at Southend an intae the presses o the villagers."
"Nane o the crew were fan but wan man an hus son went oot tae the rock oan a calm day tae see if thur wur oany casks trapped near the wreckage; weel the watter wis quite clear an they could see awa below a piece o the wreckage intact, sae the son said he wid dive doon as the tides wur in balance an ther wis a calm. Sae wa doon he dived tae the wreck an he saw some casks inside the remains o a cabin. In he swam an beheld a scene hellish in the extreme; thur wis the captain in his finery wie maist o his crew sittin roon a table, casks o brandy swung aboot their heids, lak there wis nae gravity. Thur bodies moved as if they wur alive, aye taking a final repast, but it wis the gaping look oan the faces, white deid skin, an frae wan mooth a big eel cam oot huvin made his hoose in there. The poor son got a right fright an swam up tae his faither whur he blabbered like a lunatic."
"They both went hame, but the son ended up in the Bedlam Hoose; mony foulk went back tae the wreck but couldna see onythin lak whit the man's son had seen that day. Aye many mer ships cam tae grief oan Patterson's Rock, but some auld fishermen that had fished near the rock oan a calm day, swore they could here voices frae the depths cryin fur help."
As he ended the tale my grandfather flicked his ash into the fire. He seemed to stare into the fire for a few minutes.
"Ye ken wee Donal, if a the watter wis drained awa oot o the sea, whit strange things wid be fan in the flair o the ocean as weel o plenty o fish tae be picked up!"
Copyright © 1999 Donald Keith.