Peace lies not in the world... but in the man who walks the path.
The fire crackles and sparks as kindling catches and flames
dance inside the firebox. An early riser, Moonwatcher's
keen for a quick getaway. and, a After raking the dying
embers and cinders, he has relit the stove. The fire
crackles and sparks as kindling catches and flames dance
inside the firebox. Closing the stove door he heads over to
the deep ceramic sink to wash up. The ache in his legs from
yesterday's long haul competes with a dull throb in his
head and he's glad he didn't stay later at the club last
night.
Closing the stove door he heads over to the deep ceramic
sink to wash up. Forgoing a shave in cold water, he dons
his clothes, dry now and still warm from hanging over the
range all night.
Ready for the road, he picks up his gear and, after a last
backward glance at the kitchen, walks quietly past a door
from behind which he can hear the sound of snoring. Pausing
at the tiny office, he picks up from the table the
membership card bearing his name from the table, and checks
it's been stamped before sliding it into a side pocket of
his saddlebag. The rubber stamp depicts a bicycle with the
name Wanlockhead and the height in feet above sea level.
He's particularly pleased with it. Of his own design, he
had it made and donated it to Mrs Young a couple of years
ago. It immediately became the official stamp of the
hostel. He opens the door and narrows his eyes as he steps
out into the bright morning sunlight.
In the cycle shed, he has to move some of the bikes belonging to last night's late arrivals before he can gain access to his own. He wheels it out into the garden and starts to check it over before securing his bag. He gives particular attention to the brakes. The first part of his journey involves the rapid descent of the Mennock Pass, the twisting, hell-for-leather drop out of the village down towards sea level.
He walks the bike down through the deserted village,
enjoying the crisp clear air and early morning birdsong;
the steady clicking of the bike's freewheel, the only
man-made intrusion. Walking helps get the stiffness out of
his legs, and by the time he reaches the Wanlockhead
signpost at the south end of the village, he's ready to
ride. The bike is heavy. He has ridden the Mennock before,
but never with so much baggage: two heavy panniers over the
back wheels, a bulky saddlebag on top, and various other
bits of kit taped or strapped to the frame. He knows she'll
be difficult to handle on the bends.
As he mounts and checks the brake levers, his stomach gives
way to a churning sensation. begins to churn. Nerves, lack
of breakfast, or perhaps both. Slipping his toe into the
pedal clip he pushes off and cycles slowly along the road.
The bicycle picks up speed as gravity pulls it down the steepening incline. Pedalling stops, and the rider adopts a head down position over the dropped handlebars; all attention focussed on controlling the machine as the freewheel whirrs hysterically. The hills close in as rider and machine are drawn faster and faster into the chasm.
The Mennock consists of a series of very steep, sharp bends
linked by equally steep straight stretches, on which a
bicycle can build up tremendous speed. Hurtling down the
straights is exhilarating, but, at the end of each, there
are the bends to contend with and they test the 'bottle' of
the most experienced cyclist.
The first bend comes up fast, and first pressure is applied
to the brake levers. Nothing happens! The combined weight
and speed of the bike prove to be too much. Full pressure,
and the rubber brake blocks squeal like banshees as they
are forced against the steel rims of the wheels, friction
burning off the rubber and causing the whole bike to judder
as the rider leans it into the sharp curve.
For the few seconds available to prepare for the next bend,
the speed is excessive. No time to think now. Pure
instinct, experience, skill and luck. The wind whips
through his hair and rushes past his ears, his heart is
pounding, his knuckles white on brake levers squeezed tight
against the handlebars.The bike takes the bend but runs
wide, crossing over on to the wrong side, spraying up loose
gravel along the road's edge. Moonwatcher feels the tyres
lose traction for a moment; feels a lead weight hit the
base of his stomach. Adrenaline surges through his system
as he gets the bike on an even keel, then hammers it into
the next straight stretch.
As bike and rider streak down the pass at break-neck speed,
stray thoughts enter his mind. Sinister little thoughts.
Thoughts that must immediately be banished from whence they
came, lest they take control and initiate a panic with
possible tragic consequences. Thoughts like 'What if the
front tyre punctures?' or 'What if a brake cable snaps, the
freewheel seizes, a wheel buckles, or ...'
The sheep sitting in the middle of the road, as the bike
sweeps out of a blind curve, shows not the least concern as
it chomps grass and stares defiantly at the oncoming
projectile. Moonwatcher narrowly avoids a head on
collision, which would have made a deep impression on its
mind, to say nothing of his own. The animal remains in
exactly the same position, even after the left pannier bag
brushes a horn. The bike remains intact, all it's its
components working in harmony. As it shoots out of the
final bend a loud 'Yeeehah!' echoes through the pass.
He halts a short distance after the final bend, pats the
handlebars appreciatively, and blows out a long whistling
breath as he sits astride the machine. A few minutes pass
before he dismounts. Long enough for his pulse to settle
down and his right knee to stop trembling.
Wheeling the bike onto the verge, he lays it down gently on
its side, kneels down and examines the brake blocks. The
wear caused by the descent is obvious. Standing up, he
looks back up the pass, and begins to walk towards the bend
from which he has just emerged.
The peace and beauty of the Mennock is awesome on this
lovely summer morning. The recent thrill of danger serving
serves to heighten his senses, and his appreciation of the
scene. After the wind and rain of the previous day, this
one promises to be warm and sunny. The sky is blue, and the
air is warming as the sun climbs higher. High above him, a
large bird of prey circles. Probably a buzzard. Sheep baa
in the distance, and he smiles as he thinks of the one he
met on the way down.
At the foot of the slope he starts to scan the far side
verge. A small burn gurgles between the edge of the road
and his point of interest. Near the bend, he spots what
he's looking for, and steps off the road, over the burn,
and on to the verge.
There on the grass lies the shape of a cross. Though marked
by out in stones, it is overlooked by most travellers. The
stones - none bigger than a large grapefruit - have been
gathered from the surrounding area, and placed in two
intersecting lines on the ground. The cross has been there
for as long as folk can remember.
Stories as to its purpose vary, but the most enduring tells
that it was placed as a memorial to a district nurse, who
came down the Mennock on her bike many years previously. On
a mission of mercy, one would like to think. The story goes
that she failed to take the final bend, was thrown from her
bike, and died at this spot. Whatever the truth, the simple
stone symbol endures.
Moonwatcher retrieves his bike and returns to the spot,
setting sets up his camp stove by the cross, and preparing
prepares a 'drum-up'. A tin mug, filled with water from the
burn, is soon steaming on the wee stove. With the addition
of a spoonful of coffee and some powdered milk, it is
transformed into a welcome brew. A chunk of cheese, crudely
cut with a Swiss army knife and slotted between two slices
of dry white bread, completes the open air breakfast.
As he sits, cross legged, chewing, and sipping from the hot
mug, he admires the scene before him, the valley of the
Mennock, and feels utter contentment.
On such a perfect day the miles quickly disappear beneath
the wheels, as he heads west along the valley of the Nith,
on the road to Ayr. Short sleeved in the warm sun, it's
good to be free of the waterproofs. The oilskin cape is
rolled up and relegated to the top of the saddlebag.
A brief stop at Sanquhar (pronounced Sanker) aquaints him
with some of the history of the village. Boasting the
oldest Post Office in Britain, dating back to 1712,
Sanquhar was also the scene of the 'Declaration of
Sanquhar'. As he stands at the Old Tolbooth, his bike
propped against its weathered stone for a photograph,
Moonwatcher contemplates reflects on the events that
occurred here nearly 300 years earlier.
Here in 1680, schoolteacher Richard Cameron raised a
rebellion against King Charles II. With a small band of
armed men he 'declared war' on the king. Fuelled by the
political and religious fervour of the time, Cameron's men
had close ties with the Covenanters, Presbyterian radicals
who had been fighting their own cause for years. Whatever
the rights or wrongs of the situation, it led to what was
to become became known as 'The Killing Years', with the
rebels persecuted and their supporters hunted down, shot,
hanged, drowned or imprisoned. Ultimately, though he
himself was killed, Cameron's men would become the
'Cameronians', one of Scotland's greatest military
regiments.
The mining Town of New Cumnock provides a lunch stop.
Moonwatcher, bike chained to a drainpipe outside the door,
sits on a barstool in the Castle Hotel tucking into steak
pie and a pint of flat beer. But it's a short halt, rushed,
and indigestion proves troublesome on the remaining miles
to Ayr.
In the 'Auld Toon', Rabbie looks down on him, as he
sweeps around and past the statue in 'Burn's Statue
Square'. He resists the temptation of another pub stop
at the Wallace Tower Bar, to which old friends, the a
husband and wife team, have moved from the now closed Seven
Stars across the road. Instead he follows the flow of
traffic down the busy main street, past the Tam
o'Shanter Museum. The shop he's looking for is on the
corner just ahead. He glances at his watch. It's
4.55pm.
"Where has the time gone?" he mutters to himself, as he
props his bike up against a lamppost.
The bell tinkles above the door of the tobacconist's,
announcing his entry, and bringing a bald, bespectacled
gent to the counter from the back room. The air is heavy
with the pungent aroma of tobacco. Glass cases are
festooned with pipes, lighters and smoking paraphernalia.
Behind the counter, jars filled with various types of weed,
line the shelves.
"Hello, can I help you?" the man behind the counter asks,
snatching an agitated look at his watch, and obviously keen
to close up for the day.
"Eh. I'd like to buy I a pipe." says Moonwatcher.
"A present for my uncle." he lies.
After all, what would a young guy in his early twenties be
doing smoking a pipe? Decidedly uncool.
"Certainly. What have you in mind?"
Moonwatcher follows the man's gaze down to the glass
counter and surveys the rows of pipes. There are a lot to
choose from. Black ones and brown, straight and bent. Some
are carved, others smooth and shiny. A small prices tag is
attached to each one but too small to be read without close
scrutiny. The tobacconist stoops down behind the counter
for a moment and removes a tray from the display.
"If you're looking for a basic, plain pipe, I'd recommend
this one."
He removes a brown, wooden straight specimen and offers it
for examination.
"It's a plain briar."
As Moonwatcher turns it in his fingers, he resists the
impulse to stick it in his mouth and do an Eric Morecambe
impersonation.
"On the other hand, your uncle may prefer something a
little more elaborate."
Straight faced, he hands over a curved meerschaum that
would not have looked out of place between the teeth of
Sherlock himself.
"I don't think so." smiles Moonwatcher, replacing the
meerschaum on the counter. He sees that the tag on the
briar is well within what he's prepared to pay.
"I think this one'll do okay." he adds.
The tobacconist returns the meerschaum to its place, never
having expected a sale in that direction. He closes the
cabinet and begins to wrap Moonwatcher's choice in tissue
paper.
"Tobacco?"
"Sorry?" says Moonwatcher, distracted by a group of lads
outside the window, who are eyeing up his bike.
"Do you wish to buy tobacco?" asks the man,
impatiently.
"Oh yes, of course." The lads move on and Moonwatcher
returns his attention to the counter.
"What type does your uncle smoke?"
"Uncle? Oh yeah, him. Eh... Condor." He is pleased to have
remembered the name of a pipe tobacco.
"Flake, bar or ready rubbed?" asks the tobacconist.
A random choice is called for.
"Oh... Eh, ready rubbed'll do."
Out in the street Moonwatcher stows his purchases into his
saddlebag and begins to wheel the bulky bike along the
pavement, dodging Saturday shoppers eager to catch the
shops before closing time.
As he passes the 'Tam o' Shanter Museum', the faces
of Souter Johnnie and Tam laugh down at him. This old
building, once an eighteenth century brewing house, is
reputed to be the scene of the start of Tam's wild ride,
described in Burn's poem. It's while looking up at the
grinning figureheads, that he realises the sky has become
overcast and heavy looking. He mounts up and heads south
out of the town.
But not for him a ride to the Alloway Kirk, or over the
Auld Brig. No, there'll be no Cutty Sark chasing him or his
mount out of the town. His destination, the family caravan,
lies some 12 miles down the coast road in the direction of
Maybole. Although he has made no firm commitment, he had
led them to expect himself, sometime over the weekend.
Tired legs slow him down as he pedals past Belleisle Park,
and a few spots of rain have turn his thoughts turning to
the waterproof cape again.
The sudden deflation of his back tyre brings him to an abrupt halt. Perhaps Cutty Sark followed him after all!
With the bike leaning against the high stone wall of
Belleisle's gardens, Moonwatcher assesses the damage. The
back tyre is as flat as a pancake. No option but to turn
the bike upside down. To do that all the gear has to be
removed. Panniers and saddlebag are unstrapped, and stacked
against the wall. With the bike upturned, he slowly rotates
the airless wheel, easily finding the source of the problem
- a nail embedded in the thick rubber.
With the droplets of rain becoming more persistent, the
tool kit is hurriedly unrolled on the pavement and tyre
levers quickly used to prise the nailed section of tyre
clear of the rim, exposing the underlying punctured inner
tube. The hole is quickly identified by pumping a little
air into the tube and smearing spittle over the affected
area of rubber, creating tell-tale air bubbles at the point
of entry. Dry off, coat with rubber solution, wait until
tacky, appy apply a patch, a dusting of chalk and bingo!
Puncture repaired.
He's just pulling the bent nail from the tyre when the
drizzle turn turns to proper rain. As he's snapping the
tyre back on to the rim he hears a car horn behind him, but
thinks nothing of it. He'd like to give the patch a little
longer to set before pumping up the tyre but with the
weather deteriorating he decides to take a chance.
Just as he's about to start pumping, he becomes aware of a
vehicle drawing up alongside and a familiar voice.
"You looking for a lift young man?"
He looks round to see a black London cab, and, leaning from
its wound-down window, the welcome face of 'John the Taxi'.
"I sure am." he beams.
Original story and material © 2005 Bob Wilson
Layout, editing and additional material © Dave Sloan
2005, 2012, 2016
'tachras' and 'Winding Yarn' © Dave Sloan 2005, 2012,
2016