Do one thing every day that scares you.
Jimmy Gladstone sits in the garden chair gazing out over
the Firth of Clyde, admiring Ailsa Craig's rocky cone,
which shimmers in the early morning heat haze. Behind it,
along the distant horizon, Arran's 'Sleeping
Warrior', an irregular line of grey mountains,
silhouetted against the blue sky.
In his mid sixties, Jimmy looks, at first glance, like many
other elderly folk holidaying on this caravan park on the
cliffs, high above Croy Bay. Enjoying the view, sun and
tranquillity of this glorious summer morning on the
Ayrshire coast.
Some spects of the man prompt a second glance
however.
The head of thick white hair. The thick muscular arms,
folded over his barrel of a chest, sleeves rolled tightly
above the elbows. The pipe protruding from the side of his
mouth, wisps of blue smoke drifting lazily over him and
dispersing in the hot, still air.
But it's the wooden sticks - a crutch and a simple walking
stick propped against the chair - that ultimately draw
people's attention.
"Jimmy, aht's breakfast ready." A woman's voice, thick with
the Glasgow dialect and accent, calls from inside the
caravan.
He withdraws the pipe from his lips, blowing out a mouthful
of smoke and taps it gently against the side of the chair,
knocking the ash from the bowl.
"'Right! Bae right in lass." he responds in similar
tongue.
He grips the crutch and heaves himself slowly from the
chair, clumsily, without grace; a lifetime of using the
sticks making it second nature. The crutch creaks as it
takes his weight, and he locks it under his armpit on 'the
bad side', before steadying himself with the walking stick
in the other hand. A moment to get his balance.
He's a short stocky man, the weakness of his lower body is
more than compensated by the power of his upper torso. A
cobbler by trade, his arms are strong and solid; his hands
like vices. One leg is perfectly normal, but the other,
shorter by a few inches, hangs limp and useless like that
of a ventriloquist's dummy. Having got himself vertical, he
manoeuvres with crutch and stick, to the doorway.
He hates it when he falls over. Sometimes for no reason
other than gravity scoring points on him; other times after
a few too many drams. He hates soft chairs, sofas and the
like.
"Too damn difficult tae get oot eh." he'll tell
people.
And he hates being helped.
"Thae mean well, bit thae jist get in eh road. An thae kin
get hurt if thir no kerful. Ye see, thae pitt thir hauns
unner mah ermpits an try tae lift meh up. Bit thae don't
realise thit, wance ah get the tap eh the crutch unner mah
oaxtir, ah jam thir haun atween the crutch an mah ermpit.
Ye want tae hear em scream when aht happens!"
With skilful coordination of sticks, arms, good leg,
balance and determination, he gains access to the interior
of the caravan through the tiny kitchen area. He passes his
niece and her husband, busily filling plates from a
sizzling frying pan, and continues along the 22 feet of
caravan floor towards the table set for breakfast. It has
two narrow cushioned seats running either side, transformed
from the single beds of an hour ago.
He sits down on the end of one of the seats, discards the
sticks, propping them carefully to the side, and shuffles
his way along the tight space between seat and table until
he's ensconced in his favourite position against the big
bay window at the end. The view from the window, out over
the Firth, is tremendous. He sighs and continues his
observation of the Craig.
Holding their hot rims in teacloths, Lily brings two
steaming plates to the table, and sets them down.
"Wher's Robert?" she asks curtly.
"Still alang it the showers." Jimmy informs her.
"Ah telt him tae hurry. Thit this wid bae ready soon. It'll
bae caul bae the time eh gets back."
"Ach, ye know whit these young yins urr like lass." Jimmy
says, picking up his knife and fork, ready to tuck into the
bacon, sausage and egg put before him.
"Ah watched thim earlier whin ah wiz up ther. Aw staunin
beautifyin thirsells in eh mirrors lik a bunch a lasses. In
eh time it took me tae hiv a wash an quick scrape wae the
razor, thae wurr still squeezin thir plooks! Eh'll bae back
whin eez hungry."
"Ah'll pitt his unner the grill." calls her husband from
the kitchen.
The three of them settle down around the table and start
eating.
"Wher hiv you bin? Thoat ye'd goat loast!"
Lily aims at Moonwatcher when he steps into the caravan,
towel round his neck and wet soap bag in hand.
"Aw it wiz great tae get a shower an a shave." replies her
son, unconsciously reverting to broad Glaswegian in the
company of family.
"Yer breakfast's unner the grill." informs his dad.
"A shave!" laughs Jimmy. "Whit dae you need a shave furr?
Ye hivnae goat enough oan yer face tae shave. A bit a bum
fluff is aw."
"Aye right! Bliddy cut massell wae rushin."
"Aw poor wee sowel!" says Jimmy with mock sympathy. "A wee
lad like yersell shouldnae bae playin wae a razor."
He erupts at the sight of Moonwatcher dabbing the side of
his chin with a piece of tissue as he approaches the table.
His laughter becoming uncontrollable, Jimmy drops his knife
and fork on the plate wheezing as his broad shoulders
bounce up and down, shaking the whole caravan. It's
infectious and the others follow suit. Moonwatcher can't
help but join in the hilarity as he collects his plate and
sits down beside his great uncle, still dabbing the
bleeding spot on his face.
As they eat in silence, interrupted only by occasional
chuckles from Jimmy, Moonwatcher considers the day before,
and his fortunate encounter with John and his taxi. John
had just dropped Jimmy off at the caravan site, and was
heading back into Ayr.
"I saw the bike upturned at the side of the road, an ah
kent the erse in the air wiz Robert an Lily's lad."
He'd heard him tell Jimmy at the caravan door, as he and
his dad were manhandling the bike out of the taxi.
Jimmy and John had become good friends a couple of years
previously. Jimmy, getting off the Glasgow train at Ayr
station, had made his way laboriously up to the taxi rank.
It was to be his first visit to the caravan and Lily had
told him just to get a taxi out to Croy.
Seeing him approach on sticks, John had got out and
attempted to help him into the cab but, typically Jimmy, he
politely declined the offer. However, as they were pulling
away from the kerb, Jimmy mentioned that, in all the rush,
he hadn't had a chance to 'get a wee dram'.
"Cannae have that." said John, and pulling the taxi up
outside a pub, he got out and opened the door for Jimmy,
who needed no encouragement.
"I'll park over there. Just don't be too long."
When he came out the pub a few minutes later, and a double
Bells heavier, Jimmy stood on the pavement, fully expecting
to have to hail another taxi. Next thing, John drives up
from his lookout point, and opens the door like a chauffeur
picking up a VIP.
Jimmy was all chuffed. But it didn't end there. A few
moments later the taxi was sitting, engine running, meter
off, outside an off-sales while John picked up a
'kerry-oot' for his passenger before heading out to
Croy.
A lasting friendship was born. Christmas cards and presents
would be exchanged between the two and from then on, Jimmy
would contact John whenever he was coming off that Glasgow
train. John's was the only Ayr taxi Jimmy would travel in.
If he arrived early or John was late, Jimmy would sit and
have his dram in the station bar, safe in the knowledge
that John would pick him up and ferry him out to the site.
"So, urr ye jinin us furr the tottie howkin this efternin?"
asks Lily of her son, as she washes the breakfast plates in
the tiny sink.
"Yeah, ah noticed thae wurr harvestin eh field whin ah
arrived yisterday."
"The fermer's invited evrybiddy oan the site tae collect
the left-ower totties an help clear the field, noo thit the
harvesting machines are finished."
She hands him a sudsy plate for drying. He works the
dishcloth and smiles.
"How could ah say naw?"
This has become an annual event on the caravan site and
works to the advantage of both parties. In days past, prior
to the introduction of mechanical harvesting, people would
travel from far and wide, seeking seasonal employment,
manually harvesting the potato crop from the Ayrshire
fields. Back breaking work.
Nowadays, it's just a bit of fun, with the farmer getting
the left-over potatoes removed from the field, so that he
can prepare it for the next season; the caravaners getting
a bag or two of Ayrshire 'new potatoes' in return for a
couple of hours scavenging.
"Ah'll bae there." says Moonwatcher, his mouth watering
already at the thought of the taste.
"Bit furst, ah'm takin a walk doon tae the beach."
His mother smiles, nods... and hands him another plate.
Dark glasses kill the sun's glare as he walks briskly down
the tarmac path towards the cliff edge, a whiff of melting
tar evident in the heat being generated by the midday
sun.
As he draws level with the old wooden BB hut, his attention
is captured by flashes of reflected sunlight over towards
his right. Glinting off glass and chrome, the flashes are
coming from a line of distant cars, high up on the main
road. The vehicles are crawling along at walking pace -
each believing they're rolling backwards uphill. For the
road they're on is Croy Brae or the 'Electric Brae'.
Travelling along this straight section of road from the
north, a vehicle seems to be going downhill. But, if
stopped with the handbrake off and gear in neutral, the
same vehicle will roll backwards up the hill of its own
volition! Explanations range from electromagnetism to magic
but it is, in fact, an optical illusion caused by the
surrounding countryside. The road only appears to be on a
downward gradient.
Moonwatcher recalls how, when they were younger, his
brother and he would whoop with laughter when their dad
stopped their black Wolsley 4/44 on that very hill and it
would defy gravity by moving back up the way it had just
come.
The soft sand of the bay is populated with islands of sun
seekers, equipped to varying degrees with the paraphernalia
of sun worship: deck chairs, sunbeds, airbeds, inflatable
balls and floatables, parasols and the like.
Kids, pails and spades in hand, dig ever collapsing holes
in the hot, dry sand and try to figure out why water being
poured into sandcastle moats disappears so quickly.
Moonwatcher much prefers the beach when it's quiet. Off
season or in poor weather. When the salt breeze stings the
his face and tastes the his lips. When the waves roll
ashore in great white crests and crash against the rocky
cliffs at either ends end of the bay. When the only other
signs of life ares are the screeching gulls or the
occasional solitary beach walker to whom a courteous nod of
the head suffices. He's walked this beach in raging gales,
hood up, head bent against the driving wind and spray, eyes
squinting through blowing sand.
He makes his way out to the compact wet sand whose surface
is rippled with the indentations caused by the waves of the
outgoing tide, and peppered with telltale little coils left
by the worms hiding underneath. He walks along the
waterline towards the rocky Point in the distance, dodging
the odd lazy wave as it tries to lick his ankles.
Gradually, the sunbathers thin out, and, by the time he
reaches the promontory and clambers over the seaweed
covered rocks and crab inhabited pools, he's alone.
From the Point another beach opens out, another bay, and in
the distance, perched precariously on the cliff, is the
dramatic citadel of Culzean Castle. Robert Adam's 18th
Century masterpiece for the Kennedy's, with it's its Oval
Staircase, Round Room and magnificent gardens.
Moonwatcher saunters along this deserted beach. Another
day, he might make his way along to the rocks under the
castle, climb the path that leads to the gardens, and join
the tourists in the grounds, perhaps even step inside and
have a browse around the armoury. But today he contents
himself exploring the caves along the way. He always
experiences a tinge of excitement when he enters them,
feeling the darkness wrap itself around as he steps warily
forward. Some are fairly deep and relatively cavernous.
Without a torch he can't venture too far into their depths
but enough to get the feel for them: their coolness,
dampness, eeriness. The dripping of water echoing in dark
tunnels. His imagination turns to Smugglers, Tolkien's
Moria, and ... Sawney Bean.
Tales are told of a family from around the 16th century,
who preyed on travellers on the road that winds it's its
way down the rugged Ayrshire-Galloway coastline.
Somewhere along the shore, Sawney Bean - originally from
the Lothian region - set up with his family in a deep cave
hidden under cliffs. They lived there for many years,
inbreeding and growing into a sizeable clan. They would
stalk wayfarers in the dead of night, trapping them in the
darkness, robbing and killing them. But then, worst of all,
dragging them off to the cave to dismember the bodies and
feed on them.
As the numbers of missing persons increased, so did the
level of fear in the region. But the the cannibals remained
undetected, their existance existence unknown - some say
for as long as twenty five years! It's reckoned that
hundreds fell victim to the gruesome family.
The exact location of the cave has been the subject of much
debate, but Bennane Cave in Galloway is said to be a
possible location.
Eventually, the Sawney family's luck ran out when a man and
his wife, returning from a fair one night, were set upon.
The husband escaped, his wife was less lucky. But the
secret was out and a large mob tracked down the cannibals
to the hidden cave. In it, they found a sizeable family of
men, women and children, living in abject squalor like
savages. Strewn across the floor of the cave were bones -
human bones. Parts of dismembered bodies, some preserved
with seasalt sea salt, hung from the roof or were stored in
cold recesses. The clothes, belongings and weapons of
hundreds of victims were also discovered.
The story goes that the family was hauled off to Edinburgh
and executed. Before being burned at the stake, the wives
and children were forced to watch as the men had their
hands, feet and private parts amputated. The men were then
left to bleed to death.
These thoughts dull Moonwatcher's enthusiasm for further
cave exploration, so he makes his way, rather more
hurriedly than he'd admit, back to the cave entrance and
out into the welcoming brightness of daylight. He's no
longer alone. A few holidaymakers have followed him over
the point, curious to see where he had gone. Screaming kids
inevitably follow. He looks at his watch and reluctantly
decides to head back.
His uncle is sitting alone at the table, reading glasses
perched on the tip of his nose. 'The Highwayman'
open at the page with the Grey Man's photo.
"Is iss eh rock ye wurr talkin aboot last night?" Jimmy
asks.
"Yep. That's eh wan."
"Ah'm jist lookin it it. It really dis look lik a man's
face disn't it?"
He turns the book around, peering at the picture from
different angles, as though in doing so he would see more
of the rock.
"Man, eez even goat a wart oan eez nose! An ye say eez up
in eh hills sumwherr?"
"Aye. The Galloway Hills." says Moonwatcher.
"Galloway."
Jimmy puts down the book, takes off his glasses, and gazes
out the window.
"I wiz in Galloway wance. Wan eh mah bus runs it wiz. Wae
went tae Girvan furst an en oan tae Newton Stewart ah hink
it wiz. It rained aw the wae. So iz yer rock man near
Newton Stewart?"
"Well, it's doon aht wae uncle. Bit it's a bit further
north, an inland. It's pretty remote country."
"Bit ye like aht soart a hing daent ye son?"
"Aye. Ah love it. It's great tae bae away oan the bike urr
oan fit walkin ower eh hills."
Jimmy takes his glasses off and looks down at the
book.
"It's no sumhin ah've ever bin able tae try massell."
His nephew realises he may have struck a sore point.
"Sorry uncle, ah didnae mean tae..."
"Sorry! Furr christ sake son, don't bae sorry furr
me."
He bursts out laughing again.
"The thoat a aw aht peddlin an traipsin ower hills in eh
rain disnae dae much furr meh ah kin tell ye. Gie me four
wheels any day. Ah'll stick tae mah bus runs and John's
taxi. Aht's merr mah style. Iz loang iz a kin get aboot oan
mah sticks aht's eh main hing. Too minny folk lik me feel
sorry furr thirsells. Hink eh world owes thim sumhin. Well
let meh tell ye son, eh world disnae owe ye hing. Iz loang
iz ah kin keep oot ah wan eh em bliddy wheelchairs ah'll
bae happy."
Jimmy Gladstone kept out of a wheelchair for nearly another thirty years, seeing in the new Millennium in his nineties.
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