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| The Fiddle
Middle 'C' Davy Black Mopoon Terrace The Secret Pudding Factory |
The Carra Broonie
The Spring And The Cooin Calf Knockruan Fruit! London Kate |
About this time my grandfather became friendly with George Stewart, who lived in a small terraced house on the Low Road. George was a man of many talents who had once been a linesman on the construction of the telephone link across Australia, and had returned to Campbeltown to retire. He was really a beachcomber and constantly scoured the seashore for wood and other articles. The house where he lived was on the loch side and was ideal for access to the beach.
Though George was really very shy, when he formed a friendship with my grandfather he had found a mate who knew no boundaries! Jock's brain worked overtime, with schemes for selling firewood, bicycle repairs, growing potatoes and sweeping chimneys.
The Navy sometimes moored targets, in the form of buoys, for use as target practice. One stormy day a buoy was swept away and came ashore near George's house. George and my grandfather quickly drew the object round the back and chopped it up for firewood. The Navy Police searched high and low, but the buoy was never traced.
One dark winter's day Jock dragged me over to George's house for some tea. I was thrust into the dark room lit only by a stuttering gas jet, and warmed by a small fire on which simmered a black pot
Jock went into a huddle with George and the latter would at intervals spit into the flames which caused the fire to hiss. After some time Jock looked up at me smiling.
"George haus ae rare fiddle to show ye boy, and he wants ye tae play a tune!"
"But I don't know how to play!" I protested, "I have never played a fiddle before!"
Jock's eyes darkened.
"Dinae ken is it ye dunce av told George ye haus a talent."
Without more ado the battered fiddle was produced and thrust into my hands.
"Here ye are boy play us 'Ony five meenute mair'!"
Bewildered, I took up the instrument and drew the bow across the strings making an awful howl, whilst George and Jock sang between gulps of whisky. The hours flew by and Jock became more enraged by my attempts to play, so much so that George suggested that I take the fiddle home to practice. The concert came to an abrupt end when a thunderous knock shook the window and I saw my uncle's face at the glass.
"You have to come hame at once. It is two in the morn, an mither is rang in the mind wondering where ye hav been, weve had people oot lookin fur ye." He cried.
"Dinae fuss," retorted my grandfather, "He could hae stopped the nicht in George's bed."
"Ye daft gowk!" shouted my uncle, "The house is riddled wae damp, it would hae been the death o him, so get back tae Woodland Place."
This was not the end of the fiddle episode. For weeks I was forced to make a screeching noise until one of the strings snapped and my grandfather replaced it with a piece of wire, oblivious to my uncle's warnings that special strings were needed. After that my musical career came to an end.
On the theme of music, it was at the Grammar School that I came upon the musical 'maestro' Mr Macallum, a man who demanded excellence, even though one had no talent or, as the popular saying went, did not know B from a bull's foot!
He was a small man with a red bristling mustache, red hair, and a mottled face that changed colour depending on what mood he was in. His eyes were piercing, and his ears twitched as if detecting some cadence that was not in order.
The first lesson we had was learning the Sol-Fah musical scale, which seemed to be some foreign language to us mortals of the 'Technical Stream'.
I remember him standing at the wall and pointing to the scale with a ruler.
"Doh! Rah! Me! Fah! So! Lah! Te! Doh!" he shouted, his mouth contorting in strange shapes.
"What is the significance of 'me'?"
He pointed the ruler at boy called Sharp.
"Well, Sharp, what does 'me' mean?"
Sharp gaped at him. Even Bertrand Russell would be struggling to answer that one.
"Me is me... I mean... I am me..."
Macallum's eyes bulged.
"You idiot! This is not a class in philosophy. 'Me' is the third note from the bottom of the Sol-Fah scale!"
As he spoke he struck poor Sharp a resounding blow with the ruler, at the same time stamping his foot with rage.
Later in the year we were struggling to remember where various notes were on the piano and I had discovered that middle 'C' was near the keyhole that locked the piano lid. One day Macallum fixed his beady eyes on me.
"Keith, where is middle 'C'?"
"Next to the lock on the piano lid," I confidently replied.
The next thing I knew was that Macallum had dragged me to the front.
"You blithering fool! I will lock you in the piano. You are useless! Do you hear? Useless! What use will you be to the world if you do not know where middle 'C' is?"
With that outburst he thrust me back into my seat and from then on I was ignored and lost to the world of music.
About 1950 I was asked if I would like to work with Davy Black who owned the local milk round. The job meant rising at 5 am, then walking over to the depot in Kirk Street. Here the milk was dispensed into large cans and loaded onto the cart, whence a doughty horse called Dobbin, then proceeded on the journey round the streets, encouraged by Davy with some unmentionable oaths.
As milk bottles had not been developed sufficiently to be leak proof at the cap end, it required a large number of cans to be filled by hand from great brass containers. The cans had to be washed by hand in a large basin, then left to dry on racks. The premises at Kirk Street where this operation was carried out was ancient in origin, having once been a coal yard and a pig sty. The floor was covered with ancient sets, well worn and covered with grime.
When I reported for duty one summers day, Davy grabbed me by the arm and hustled me into the dark confines of the yard. He reminded me of a pirate: bloodshot eyes, dark teeth stained with food and a large protruding lip. When he spoke his whole face contorted as if in mortal anguish.
"So ye hae cam tae wurk frae me ye yung snapper, but let me tell ye it isnae a job for loafers, ony slacking an all gie ye a right loonering, dae ye ken whit am saying?"
Terrified I replied, "Yes Mr Black."
"Richt thats gran boy, ye can start wae Gulla an fill yon cans, here Gulla cam an meet yer helpmate."
The person called Gulla shuffled forward.
"Aye Muster Black, a ken Donal fine we hae been at school the gither, an we can fill a the cans right quick."
As he spoke Davy gave him a wallop on the head.
"Thats fur drapping milk on the road yesterday."
The can filling went smoothly and by 6.30 am the cart was loaded, the horse in the traces, and Gulla and I climbed aboard. Davy was already on the driving seat and with a great shout urged Dobbin forward out into Kirk Street.
The work was very hard as the cans were very heavy and by 8 am I was very tired and was thankful when we swung back into Kirk Street for our breakfast. I had brought a couple of rolls but poor Gulla had nothing, so I gave him one of the rolls which he ate with relish. We talked about the latest picture at the Rex called Apache Drums. The highlight being a stagecoach chased by Indians, then a dramatic rescue by the cavalry.
"Do you think that Dobbin could get up enough speed to outpace the Indians, Gulla?" I asked, as we munched on our rolls.
"Aye Donal I hae seen him on the Esplanade wee Davy in full cry gettin up a fair turn o speed, but dont let Davy hear ye speak o such fur he likes tae keep within the law."
Our break came to an abrupt end as Davy appeared his face red with anger.
"Get back tae fillin the cans a dont pey ye tae blether a day ye loafers!" he roared, prodding my behind with his hobnailed boot and slapping Gulla with such force that he nearly fell over.
Feverishly, we started filling the cans but in our haste I dropped the filling jug, the result being a large pool on the floor.
A steely hand gripped my shoulder the nails digging in.
"Donal that wull be half a croon af yer wages!"
Later that day, as we swung round the Royal Hotel onto the Esplanade Barber, the rival milkman from Southend overtook us on his smart cart.
"A wee bit slow Davy. Gettin tired in your old age?" He taunted, as he drew ahead, his fine horse tossing its mane in arrogance.
"Whits that ye said?" snapped Davy, his grip on the reins tightening.
"Let me remind ye that I sell quality mulk, an no chak an water."
As he spoke he yelled to Dobbin and the cart surged forward towards Princess Street.
What followed was a race of epic proportions, with the lead changing till the carts entered Princess Street, when Davy edged ahead and Barber was left cursing as he had to pull up to avoid irate pedestrians.
Without looking back we turned up into High Street and down Broom Brae.
"Man," chuckled Davy, "We gave yon Barber a run fur his money. A heard ye takin aboot yon picture, a must admit that a went tae see it masel last nicht."
"Ye did great muster Black," crowed Gulla, "Ye ar a great horseman."
"Aye I am that I weel ken, but dinae be sookin up tae me, fur work is work an a dont bide loafers!"
As he spoke he delivered Gulla a severe blow to the head.
"Jist tae remind ye that a am still yer boss," he laughed, tossing a quid of tobacco into his mouth.
From then on we looked on Davy with awe until my employment came to an end at the start of the Autumn term.
Sometime in the early fifties my mother told me that Michelchere's the grocers in Main Street needed an errand boy for Saturday work, at the princely wage of two pounds and that I should go over and see the boss.
Michelchere peered at me over the counter of his well stocked shop. His assistants, two of them being my cousins, beavered away at various tasks.
"Well Donald," he said, "So you wish to enter my employ. I know your family and your mother is a regular church attender, which bodes well. The fact that your relations work for me is also in your favour so I will take you on at two pounds per Saturday, starting next week. A bicycle will also be provided."
Elated, I returned home to inform my mother of my good news that I was now Saturday errand boy at the top grocers in the town.
The following Saturday my elation was somewhat dampened when I saw the fearsome monster that was called the message boy's bike. It had large heavy wheels, an enormous frame, at the front of which was a basket holder the size of a large hamper. The drive was by means of a single ratio, and when I tried it out it felt I was propelling a tank.
By ten o'clock that morning the first order was ready, a heavily laden basket of groceries with a ticket reading 'Mopoon Terrace, am'. I looked at the ticket with a certain dread and swallowed hard. My first run to the dreaded place on the Low Road, a name that was spoken off in muted whispers. However, I must show willing and as the shop assistants loaded the basket onto the bike I set of in the direction of the Low Road.
Wobbling round the Royal Hotel, I negotiated the Esplanade, then down onto the Low Road which was flat and I made good progress towards my destination. As I pedalled along my mind whirled with images of what lay ahead at Mopoon Terrace.
The latter lay half way between Dalintober and the Trench Point and was a white terraced building set back from the road, access was by a steep path to the front door through a large front garden. Many speculated on the name Mopoon with its apparent Indian origin. It was a very old place dating back to the last century, but it was the present incumbent of the building that made me tremble: Major Pongo, ex Indian Army, a man of small stature, dressed in black, a homburg on his head, only seen speeding into the town bolt upright on an ancient bike.
My friends used to regale me with tales of the terrace, of dark winters evenings, strange lights, faces peering from black windows, noises. One pal told me of a dark night when he saw a black shape slither from the loch and enter the garden of the terrace.
Others told me that the Major lived all alone, yet from the groceries delivered there must have been an army in the place!
Suddenly I had reached the gateway. I dismounted, unloaded the basket, then ascended the path towards the front door. A brooding silence hung in the air, the windows seemed like malign eyes watching my approach. Was that a face I saw peering through the curtains? I reached the door, unloaded the groceries, then pulled the bell handle. Deep in the bowels of the place rang a dolorous note, something shuffled towards the door, a grating of locks, then the door swung slowly open. My courage failed me. Turning, I fled back down the path. Somebody shouted something but by that time I was speeding back to the town.
Later that Saturday Michelchere handed me a sixpenny piece.
"That is from the major for delivering his groceries. He tried to call you back but you had already left."
Michelchere had another shop at the junction of Lochend Street and the Longrow. It had an overhead storage loft for keeping flour in bags and the latter could be hoisted up from the street by means of a pulley and block.
One summer's day I was up in the loft when Michelchere shouted up that I was to open the access door in preparation for the hoisting of some flour sacks that had been delivered outside the shop.
Dutifully I opened the door and let down the rope, to which Michelchere attached a sack.
"Now!" he commanded, "Pull hard on the rope and the sack will come up."
I heaved on the rope and the sack started to rise slowly (there was a differential system in the pulley block which gave a mechanical advantage to the person pulling). However, as the sack neared the loft door I was distracted by someone in the shop shouting my name, which caused me to let go of the rope and the flour sack hurtled to the pavement, where it burst, flinging up a dense cloud of flour.
Fearfully I descended to the shop to be met by Michelchere, his assistant and a customer all covered in flour.
"You blithering idiot!" bellowed Michelchere, "I am docking ten shillings of your wages for loss of flour. Look what you have done to Mr White -- a valued customer!"
That was the last time I was asked to handle flour and thankfully I gave up the job a few weeks later.
At the start of the 1939 war the Government, worried about the possible collapse of food supplies in the event of a German blockade, started looking at ways of making substitute food. The boffins came up with an idea of using seaweed to produce puddings, the ideal weed being at Belauchantouy (about ten miles north of Campbeltown on the A38).
The project was top secret and was the topic of conversation in the 'toon', so any German spies in Kintyre would quickly learn of the project and pass on the information to Berlin.
A factory was assembled at the bottom of the road that led to Putchecan Farm and, next to Keith's Cottage, the factory was called 'Seafoil'.
All the family found employment in the place. My mother was cook and my father worked in the plant. My grandfather (Jock) did something as well and helped in the seaweed collection. The place was looked upon with awe and anyone known to be employed there was stared at in the street as if he was a god. Where my mother worked was called the canteen, a long hut built on concrete slab nestling in the valley and drawing water from a spring on the hillside.
When the war ended the factory became derelict and somehow the canteen became our holiday home. Many happy summer holidays were spent, wandering among the hills or scrambling about on the fearsome rocks on the shore that acted as a buttress to the mighty Atlantic Ocean that swept unchecked from America.
I can remember, even during the war, the debris from ships being washed up on the shore, sometimes even bodies came to rest on the sand.
The shore line in front of the factory site was a breeding ground for whelks, the latter fetched good prices at Billingsgate Market in London. Jock immediately became involved in collecting the whelks which were bagged, tagged and taken to the road at eleven o'clock in the evening where Huies, the haulage contractor, picked them up en route for London.
Harvesting the whelks involved going out at low tide quite a way, Jock dressed in waders, me with bare feet carrying sacks. The whelks were on very slippery rocks and combined with the constant booming of the ocean the task of harvesting them could be very terrifying to the young mind. We had to work at quite a speed to fill the sacks as the going rate was one pound a bag, and the gathering was done irrespective of the weather. My muscles were aching every night as we trudged back to the canteen to a well earned rest.
Amongst the rocks on the shoreline, were a group that towered for almost one hundred feet and gave an air of hidden menace. Amongst the rocks lay a series of pools: deep, dark, and clustered with thick fronds of seaweed. Lurking within the pools were a variety of fish, trapped as the tide receded, and mingling with the fish was a giant conger eel.
I first saw him one summer's day as I played amongst the rocks. He peered up at me as I dipped my feet into the pool, my hands gripping the rocks to make sure I did not fall in. His eyes were deep and luminous and seemed to say 'This is my lair. Enter at your peril.' My response was to throw a large stone into the depths causing him to vanish into the deep.
When I told my grandfather of the eel I received a sharp slap and was told not to venture into the rocks again on my own as he did not want to fish my body out with grappling hooks. Later I realised that a lot of the people who live in coastal areas are afraid of water and that a great majority cannot swim.
Though Seafoil closed at the end of the war , I can remember staying there in the mid forties for I was sent to Bellochantuy school, the latter being about a mile along the road from Seafoil.
The school lay just to the south of the village on a spit of land that thrust out into Bellochantuy Bay. As schools go it was very small, more like a church. There could only have been a few pupils in the tiny classroom, seated at the hard desks. The room had some small windows that allowed a minimal light to filter in and in winter time lighting was by oil lamps.
As the events I am now recording happened when I was only about six years old, accuracy cannot be a yardstick, but to the best of my ability I can recall some incidents. I remember being taken to the school and ushered into the classroom, where a female teacher pointed to a desk and thrust a slate into my hands.
"What is that on the board?" she asked, pointing to some printed lettering.
Unfortunately there was also some flies prancing about so, as her finger seemed to be near one of them, I concluded that she required an answer.
"Bluebottles, Miss." I blurted out.
One of the other pupils glared at me as if I was an idiot.
"It's not flies, it's writing. I know that," he smugly replied.
The teacher rapped me on the knuckle with a ruler, her face tight with rage, even her glasses seemed to dull over.
"First day here Donald and you are showing no common sense. For that you will copy out the printing on the board whilst the others will get out the box of building bricks and build some walls."
Thus commenced my first day at the school, toiling over some lettering, my slate pencil screeching on the slate, whilst the others played with wooden bricks giving me sidelong glances and sniggering at times. Eventually I became more proficient and in a few weeks was allowed to use the building bricks.
The beauty of being at Bellochantuy School was that as the school bordered on miles of golden sands playtime meant that you could wander to the shoreline, paddle or build sand castles, all within the eye of the teacher. The beach seemed to stretch for ever and out to sea the paps of Jura looked down on us.
In such an idyllic setting there were many strange tales that had their origins in the depths of antiquity. One day the teacher, annoyed at one pupil who kept gazing out of the window, pointed to the door:
"John if you do not pay attention I will send for the Carra Broonie to take you away to his class," she snapped, rapping her ruler on the desk.
John paled slightly but for the rest of the day his eyes did not wander. I puzzled on who the teacher called the Carra Broonie was: was it a woman or a man? Where was the class that he or she taught in?
That night I asked my grandfather about the mysterious person that the teacher had spoken about.
"So ye hanae heard aboot the Carra Broonie lad? Well, he isnae a person as ye ken, he is a broonie, a small elf that bided in the island o Carra oot in the westeren sea. He started af as a kind o feremer plooin his soil an growin tatties, tumchies, an a kind o things. He had a guid wife an a few bairns an leeved in a auld hoose on the hill."
"It cam aboot that he had tae gow oor tae the mainland to Oban tae register some document tae dae wi his land, an whilst he was awa, some pirates cam an tak his wife an bairns awa, an burnt his hoose an a his things. Noo ye micht wunner why there was pirates in the westeren sea, well this was in the time o the first King Jamie, an there wis great lawless bands roamin aboot plaguin poor folk an causing terrible trouble."
"The poor feremer returned an fan a his place burnt doon an he was heartbroken. He searched the other isles wi his freens but he could not find them ony where. His wife an bairns were gone."
"Wan day mony years later the poor feremer wis gan back tae his hoose where he lived a alone an in great sorrow, when a strange man cam along an spake tae him. He said he wis a captain o a cargo boat an had seen the feremers wife an bairns sold as slaves in the orient mony a year ago. The poor feremer wis fair saddened wi the strangers talk, but the man telt him tae be very brave an gave him a small brass lamp tae licht his hoose, instead o candles."
"The feremer went bak tae his hoose an seein that the lamp was kind o dull gae it a rub an lo an behold a figure appeared afor him. Terrified the fermer asked the thing whit he wanted an it said that it was the Carra Broonie lain sleepin fur near five hunner years an cam awake tae gie help tae all who asked."
"The feremer telt the Broonie whit had heppened tae a his bairns a his wife an the Broonie gan awa an soon the pirates wur caught an punished an the feremers wife wis rescued wi the bairns, but the catch wis that one bairn each year fur ever more had tae go away wi the Broonie, an he cam in the nicht an tak them awa, an it still gaes on."
I was spellbound by my grandfather's tale and quite terrified; at night I would listen for the dreaded footfall, until my mother told me that my grandfather was just an old blether trying to put the wind up me.
My time at Bellochauntay School eventually came to an end, but the holidays at the old canteen continued for many a year.
A relation of my father called Keith lived at the roadside cottage with his mother, an old bent woman. The cottage nestled in a little hollow, almost idyllic. Water came from a well at the back and free range hens roamed about in the hills above. One day my grandfather decided to improve the water supply to the canteen which was piped from a spring up close to the road that led to Putchecan farm. With this in mind he summoned me to follow him to the source of the water supply.
I had to carry his tool box, which was very heavy and by the time we reached the road to the farm I was very tired.
"See yon spring boy," he said, "Well am goin tae open the crack where the watter cams oot sae that ther will be a bigger heid tae increase the pressure doon at the canteen, sae gie me the hammer."
He struck the rock a tremendous blow and a great piece came away, releasing a torrent of water which soon filled up the supply tank.
"That al dae fine," he beamed, as we descended to the canteen where my mother met him. She was in a very angry mood.
"What have you done to the water? It has all turned brown!" she said, wiping her hands on a towel.
My grandfather went in to the canteen, then returned sheepishly.
"Am fair sorrie Masie," he muttered, "A must hae disturbed the soil, but it will clear in an hour or twa."
"Well see that it does," she said, "or there will be nae supper the nicht for you."
About an hour later my father's cousin came stomping up the road from the cottage.
"Whits heppened tae the watter, the well his turned a broon, an a saw Jock an the boy up at the spring this morn."
"Look whit you have done!" snapped my mother, "Mr Keith's well will be ruined. It's their only water supply. You better go down an see what you can do."
I followed my grandfather to the cottage where old mother Keith was in her rocking chair, lurching back and forward, and wringing her hands.
"Lord be aboot us!" she cried when she saw Jock, "Smith al have us al in oor graves, deid amangst oor claes!"
"Me mither is fair worried we whit has happened tae oor water, an a hivnae shaved yit," groaned her son.
"Dinae fash," assured my grandfather after he had inspected the well. "The watter is clearing an tho there is a few bogles in it, if ye bile a kettle ye will be fine."
Jock's reassurance seemed to calm Mrs Keith and her son and she offered him a dram. The atmosphere seemed to have completely changed from one of hostility to one of friendship and as my grandfather swigged back a measure of malt the conversation swung back to some farming topic.
"Ah hear that Mary's calf up at Lossit farm is cooin soon," commented mother Keith, poking the fire as she spoke.
"Oh whit a spoke mither," said her son, "Its the wrang way o sayin it, ye should hae said 'Is Mary's coo calfin yit'."
Mother Keith stared at her son.
"Ah said calfin an no cooin, hoo could a calf have hae a coo when a coo is a calf's mither ye dolt!"
"Weel Jock can ye remember away back when poor folk used tae hae tae fee theresels tae a fermer fur a half year fur only ten shillings. A remember a freen o mine who went tae work up near Smerby, it wis afa hard work but ye got plenty o plain fair. Ay, as the sayin went, plenty braxy
below the bed an potatoes hingin up."
Mother Keith's remark drew a roar of laughter from her son.
"Weel mither ye hae got it back tae front agin, ye meant tae say potatoes below the bed an braxy hingin up."
"Ah never said onythin wrang, so keep quiet while I speak tae Jock."
The conversation moved on amidst muddled talk and laughter, all thought of the well incident forgotten.
To the north of Campbeltown lay Knockscalbert, a large worn hill more like a 'Law' and beyond this impressive hill there were two lochs: Auchylochy and Knockruan.
Now I know you could say that it was just my imagination, but the valley where the lochs nestled seemed devoid of birds, and gave an air of brooding menace plus a feeling of chilling cold. Even on a warm summer's day approaching the lochs gave one a feeling of cold and fear.
The incident I relate to happened in the late forties when I went with my pals on a walk up towards the lochs. The route was via the 'Walk' in high street, up past the standing stone, across some fields in the lee of Knockscalbert, over a ridge, then down towards Auchylochy.
It was a warm summer's day as we approached the still water, the sun cast strange shadows across the surface, Knockscalbert loomed behind us, a silent guardian. The area near the loch was very dangerous, as what appeared to be firm green grass was in fact only a skin of moss covering water underneath. If you were not careful you could sink suddenly up to your waist. Some parts were bottomless, but they were further out. As the loch was used for the town water supply there were a few notices warning of the dangers that lay near the edges.
Skirting Auchylochy, we headed for Knockruan which lay about a mile to the east and was on one side shielded by Knockscalbert, on the other there was a steep cliff. The cliff seemed to plunge into the dark mysterious depths and when we reached this part the awful stillness frightened us. We lingered at the spot for about half an hour, then one of my pals decided that there was a path at the foot of the cliff which we could reach and with care walk round the loch to the eastern exit.
Well, we all plucked up courage and made our way to the place where the cliff was only about ten feet high. Scrambling down we found ourselves on a thin spit of dark sand about one foot wide, at the edge of which the water of the loch lapped. I flung a stone and watched it plummet down into the darkness. Edging along the sand, our backs touching the cliff as it grew in height, we were horrified when we came to a spot where there was no sand and if we continued meant scrambling in the water. Was the latter at the spot very deep? Did it plunge down and down? What would happen if we fell in? Shaking, we pressed on after taking our shoes and socks off. The water felt icy, almost oily. We thought of the stories of past Campbeltonians who had vanished in the depths, their bodies never found.
Eventually we came onto firm sand and, barefooted, reached the eastern exit of the loch where the water poured over an overspill down into a dark glen, roaring and boiling as it headed for the Kilbrannan Sound.
At home that night I related my adventure to my father who gave me a smack for going near the loch.
"Don't you know that Knockruan is very deep," he said, "if you fell in you would not be able to get out as there are dangerous underwater currents that would suck you down."
Near the end of the war, Michelchere's in Main Street had some oranges delivered. It was only one box but news of the fruit spread like wild fire and soon a great crowd gathered to gape at the box in the window. You may wonder why such a mundane thing as an orange should have roused such interest amongst the citizens of the town. Well, as the Scots never had the means to be great fruit eaters, such a thing was hailed as a wonder... a whole box of oranges from darkest Africa!
The crowd grew in size and, when of the local gentry came to purchase the oranges, there were gasps of awe. Imagine buying an orange and biting into the thing, the sweet juices trickling down one's face. Sadly, the oranges went but one of my pals found some orange peel which he treasured for many a month, showing it only to a select few, until it was confiscated by one of the teachers who consigned it to the dustbin.
Campbeltonians are curious people and their curiosity knew no bounds when my grandfather told me the story of 'London Kate', which must have happened in the early part of the century.
At that time Campbeltown was connected to the outside world by a stagecoach, which travelled from Glasgow as far as Tarbert Loch Fyne, then proceeded south the last thirty-eight miles to the town. When the coach drew into Main Street there was an office where all the parcels were stored ready for dispatch, the person who ran this office was called London Kate. This is the story of how she acquired that name.
Being an isolated place Campbeltonians never travelled far, except those who to find work went to Glasgow or emigrated. The name London conjured up images of some far place at the end of the world where all sort of riches were to be had and to reach this place was beyond the comprehension of all.
Kate defied the norm by in her early days setting off to London, and was seen on her way by a large crowd. She must have spent a while in the city, for when she returned she was the talk of the place. My grandfather said that crowds followed her, pointing and whispering, and asking her what she did in London. Even as the years went past, people would point her out and say "See that woman there, that is London Kate, she has seen many sights."
I know that it is hard to imagine that such a mundane thing as travelling to London could cause such a stir, but isolation can cause people to behave in odd ways.
Copyright © 1998 Donald Keith.