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The Heart of the Travellers

OCTOBER, 2016 REGISTERED CHARITY NO: SCO045416 VOLUME 2, NUMBER 4

Pages Contents:

Editorial 2

Sandy Stewart: Memories of a Gentleman of the Road – David Cowan 3

News from Article 12 in Scotland 7

Edinburgh International Book Festival – Jess Smith 9

Times Past 11

King of the Road: John MacGregor – Alistair Ferrie 13

Update on the Tinkers’ Heart 22

Wanted! 24

The Haunted Hotel – Bob Knight 25

Poetry – Mary Thomson & Karen Ramsay 31

More News from Article 12 42

Scottish Heritage Angel Awards 2016

We were absolutely delighted to learn that Jess Smith was nominated for a

Scottish Heritage Angel Award for her years of dedication to protecting the

Tinkers' Heart.

These awards are new in Scotland - they were established in 2014. The

awards are a joint venture between Historic Environment Scotland, Scottish

Government, Archaeology Scotland and Scottish Civic Trust, supported by

the Andrew Lloyd Webber Foundation. There are five categories of Award

and Jess was nominated for:

Nominated for Category B: Caring and Protecting - Volunteer-led

involvement in saving/restoring heritage sites and buildings.

Although Jess did not win this year, her nomination is all very exciting and

very well-deserved. Read more about Jess's nomination / the 2016 Awards

here: Scottish Heritage Angel Awards

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Editorial

Welcome to the latest edition of HOTT. We have a wide range of news and

articles for your enjoyment in this issue.

Firstly though, it is always sad when someone moves on to pastures new.

HOTT has been in existence for a few years now and, like all organisations,

the people who make it up change over time. We’ve said farewell to Gavin

McGregor as our chairman since our last issue. Gavin was an excellent chair

and carried out this job with enthusiasm. However, he felt he had come to

the end of his work with HOTT and resigned as Chair in September. We wish

Gavin well in his new ventures.

Jess continues to be the public ‘face’ of HOTT and there is some exciting

news about what she has been up to later in the magazine.

We’d like to thank Jane Fifield and the editorial team from Strathard News

(www.strathardnews.com) for their kind permission to reprint Alistair

Ferrie’s 2007 articles about The Blind Fiddler, John MacGregor. Mr Ferrie

has since passed on but we hope he would be delighted his words in this

story are still very much appreciated and his writing is of great interest to

our readers.

Finally, thank you to all those who have contributed to this edition, either

directly or being happy for me to trawl their Facebook pages and pinch bits

and pieces. I hope you enjoy the two stories about Men of the Road as

much as I did.

As always, your feedback would be welcome. Our contact details are at the

end of the magazine.

Fiona McAllister – Editor

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He’d been a Black Watch soldier once.

Sandy Stewart: Memories of a Gentleman of the Road

Photograph: Jess Smith

Sandy Stewart was a gentleman of the road, one whose life was full of

interest and hardships. He’d been a Black Watch soldier once. How he came

to be tramping the byways of Scotland is a sad and interesting story.

Judging by all the Facebook comments in reaction to the photo on the cover

though, he certainly had his fair share of fish suppers courtesy of those he

met on his travels. The Sunday Post used to follow his travels around the

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then more cursing - she broke into a canter - more cursing - she galloped along to Broich Road

country once upon a time.

Sandy Stewart Photograph: David Cowan

David Cowan knew Sandy well. One of his memories is of an amusing

encounter between Sandy and a young woman: ‘ “ I was lying in my bed in

28 Commissioner Street on a hot summer's night when I heard old Sandy

walking along the street - very slowly - and singing.”

“Then I heard the clip clop of a young girl walking along the road in her high

heels, probably returning from the dance in the Masonic Hall. Old Sandy

gave out a lot of cursing when he saw her which prompted her to break into

a trot - then more cursing - she broke into a canter - more cursing - she

galloped along to Broich Road.”

Then I heard a policeman about to arrest him: "You are breaking the - my

God, you are wearing police issue boots - and trousers, and coat. I give up!”

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He was married in Ealing in 1916 and had four children, born in Aberdeen , Lucknow, Landour and Quetta.

I got hold of my old camera and flashlight and asked him if I could take his

picture for a silver sixpence. "Is that you, colonel?" he asked. Seizing the

opportunity I replied in the affirmative. He stood to attention and gave me a

smart salute. Picture is for posterity now.” ‘

Heaven knows why the sound of high heels on a pavement should cause

such a fuss, but David’s photograph, taken shortly afterwards, shows a real

glint of mischief in his eye! That poor lassie must have got the fright of her

life with all his cursing.

David’s curiosity about Sandy led him to contact the Black Watch, asking for

information. This is part of Sandy’s story, as told to David by Major Ronnie

Proctor:

Alexander Rennie STEWART was a native of INVERNESS and enlisted in THE

BLACK WATCH in 1906 as a clerk to trade. He saw service in France from

1914 to 1917 then posted to 3rd Bn as a CQMS in 1919. In 1919 he saw

service in India with the 1st Bn until April 1926.

He was discharged the with the rank of COLOUR SERGEANT (although he

claimed to have been Company Sergeant Major !) having the Great War

medal, 1914 star, and Rosette , the War and Victory Medal , long service

and Good Conduct medal.

He was married in Ealing in 1916 and had four children, born in Aberdeen ,

Lucknow, Landour and Quetta.

David adds, “I believe that when his wife left him, Sandy was distraught and

took to the road, travelling the length and breadth of the Country.

I remember when travelling to work in Perth, passing him singing and

walking very slowly into Crieff at Gorthy Toll. When I returned, he was still

walking, having not quite reached Gillmerton - a distance of less than three

miles in nine hours.

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At this time of year, when we remember the dead and fallen from both world wars, spare a thought too for the survivors, like Sandy Stewart, whose lives were forever touched by the horrors they witnessed.

He slept for some time in a hay loft near Dunkeld, where he was beaten up

by some young lads and hospitalised. In hospital he was most indignant

when he had a bath as he didn't like water!

Some time later he was found dead near Dunkeld and given a Military

Funeral."

Sandy Stewart was a character. He was also a survivor of the carnage of

WW1. Heaven knows what demons he had to fight or how they impinged

on his domestic life. His story is poignant and one of many.

At this time of year, when we remember the dead and fallen from both

world wars, spare a thought too for the survivors, like Sandy Stewart, whose

lives were forever touched by the horrors they witnessed.

And mind who you annoy with the clumping of your high heels, ladies!

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Article 12 has been working hard to ensure that Gypsy/Traveller rights remain on the international agenda.

News from Article 12 in Scotland

Doomsday in the Afternoon Educational Resources

As reported several issues ago, Article 12 have produced a fabulous

resource for Teachers about Gypsy / Traveller culture. Education Scotland

wanted a few tweaks made, but it looks like the resource will be ready by

Christmas.

(Now THIS I want in my Christmas Stocking!)

Human Rights

Article 12 has been working hard to ensure that Gypsy/Traveller rights

remain on the international agenda. Besides our joint report with the

Traveller Movement we also contributed to the British Institute of Human

Rights' Joint Civil Society Report to the Universal Periodic Review of the UK.

Click on the link to read the report: Human Rights Check Report

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Please show your backing for ending hate crimes against Gypsies, Travellers and Roma and support #OperationReportHate.

#OPERATIONREPORTHATE IS LIVE!

Article 12 in Scotland is part of the nationwide campaign to raise awareness

of the unacceptable levels of hate crime against the Gypsy/Roma/Traveller

communities. Visit the site for resources that you can use to promote

#OPERATIONREPORTHATE. We are especially keen for people to take their

photo holding this image then tweet it or post it to their Facebook page. We

suggest the following text for your tweet [although you can tweet what you

like!]:

Please show your backing for ending hate crimes against Gypsies, Travellers

and Roma and support #OperationReportHate. Click here for further

details: Operation Report Hate

Bernadette Williamson, Chairperson of

Article 12 in Scotland, showing her support for #OperationReportHate .

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folk have enough worry in their lives without you giving them more

Jess Smith at the Edinburgh International Book Festival

The Way of the Wanderers: The book I spoke about at the Edinburgh

International Book Festival on Monday, August 15th.

I never thought this book would ever be published. My previous books were

light and happy, packed with early years on the road, in a bus, our home of

10 years, my love of travelling and the countryside was all down to pure

unadulterated ‘Freedom that came from that home on wheels.’ My culture

dominated those years, berry picking, tattie lifting, tramps of the road with

tales to tell and summers full of laughter.

I had made a promise to my mother that my writing would entertain

people. Mammy said, “folk have enough worry in their lives without you

giving them more. You love to laugh Jess, that’s how you should write.”

With this in mind I did just that.

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It wasn’t all gloomy, there was a lot of laughter and to present the facts I hypothetically had to go back on the road, which I found a joy to do.

However I had made a previous promise, this time to my father and this was

to find the reasons behind discrimination towards Travellers and write a

book of facts.

Separated schools, industrial schools, orphanages, sending kids away to

Australia and Canada, and all the other terrible things done to Travellers.

This can of worms was beyond my reach, I had nothing to verify or back up

evidence that any of it took place. Yet it did and Scotland opened her

archives and allowed me access. It wasn’t all gloomy, there was a lot of

laughter and to present the facts I hypothetically had to go back on the

road, which I found a joy to do.

Thanks to my publisher Birlinn, to my editor Tom Johnstone, and to my

country for allowing me this platform to share Traveller history from times

gone by. Thank you all for coming along to listen.

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That’s a fine-looking cuddy. And the mannie’s nae bad either!

Times Past

A miscellany of notices, photos and comments to match the weel-kent faces

and bring to mind all those glorious people, times and places.

Don’t think too many kids would be

chuffed at working for 10p a day now!

Can’t make up my mind if the man or the horse is the more handsome!

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A Tinker’s Funeral

Clan Gathering

Old News Cutting: Source unknown.

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Late of the Parishes of his Country

King Of The Road:

John MacGregor, late of the parishes of his

country.

Abridged by Alistair Ferrie.

I last saw him near a glen-foot that lies on the wise man’s side of

Schiehallion, but I was taigled at the time with respectable company and

could not therefore approach him for a bit blether. I noted his direction

however, and the extraordinary slowness of his progress, so I was able the

next day to overhaul him within a mile or so of Auchinleck’s Farm. In all my

stravaigins, never had I met such a worthy soul.

What was he like?

A lost Lairdie or a King of men gone astray? In his youth he might have been

six feet six or seven. But now, he was eighty years old and had travelled a

weary way since he put love above the lass that turned her back on him. A

big burly man still, he wore a guid blue Kilmarnock bonnet cocked jauntily

on a head of, once red, autumn hued silvery hair. His face was handsome

but ordinary, weather-beaten to a dull peat-brown with an eagle nose and a

white moustache that covered a mouth that had a weariness to it, a

middling chin with steel blue eyes with a faraway look in them that gave the

appearance of a man who has inner visions: visions and imaginings were his

only sight, this gentleman of the road being fully blind.

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Slung across his shoulders on a leathered strap were two pokes, which doubtless contained the treasures of the humble, with a fiddle-case dangling from his chest.

His apparel comprised a red tartan kilt of the clan that needs no apology in

Lochaber, black and red marled hose and great boots like shoes of fortune

with a heavenward tilt about the toes. Overall, he wore an aged highland

cloak that retained the hint of a fine gentleman about the cut. Slung across

his shoulders on a leathered strap were two pokes, which doubtless

contained the treasures of the humble, with a fiddle-case dangling from his

chest.

In spite of his blind eyes he carried his head high. In his left hand he carried

the leash of a dour, ill-tempered collie dog that led him. In his right, a stout

stick with which he kept tap-tapping the ground before him. A second collie

dog trotted by his side or ranged ahead like a nervous scout - defiant.

Here was indeed a gentleman gan-aboot boddie of the olden times. Was he

a vagrant or mendicant? No. Plainly an honest, decent man of the road.

A growl from the scout collie dog made my first advance dangerous - but

soon we together got into step and the traveller’s blethers began. My own

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“No Sir, I never enter a hoose.”

apparel was a little better than his although the long tiring day ascending

the high crags had seen the wear of them. Yet, blind as he was, he jaloused

by my voice what I was.

“Dominie or Meenister ye are?” he inquired.

“I am Sir, the first, but how did you guess?” quoth I.

“Because ye speak like ane wha explains.”

In admiration I commented favourably on his wayfarer’s wisdom. He knew

Scotland from southern border to northern extremity and shared much of

his knowledge with me. He had something to say, I remember, of the old

Kirk at Linlithgow where James IV saw the freit of a blue-cowled bogle that

warned him not to take the field of Flodden. With that, we came upon the

Auld Smiddy.

“Come in and eat,” I cordially invited.

“No Sir, I never enter a hoose.”

So we sat outside, side by side, a pair of Dusty-Dan’s and the wisest of us

(he) brewed the tea. It was an odd meal. He produced a wooden coggie

from some secret place beneath his great cloak and drank his tea from it,

taking sip-about with the collie dogs. When he partook of the bread the

collies ate from it at the same time, so that the three mouths nibbled at it

together. The slightest attempt by me to pat or touch the dogs or any of

their mester’s belongings brought a snarl and a snap.

“Dinna meddle wi’ the Doggies or they’ll let fly at ye.”

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He told me of times past, honourable deeds done, great battles fought and the fall of kings while seated there among the great hills about us and the River Tay whispering by to her tryst with the sea.

They were his only friends, and his jealous keepers. He lived with them, ate

with them, slept with them - inseparable.

There came more blethers of the hills, the mist, the silence and self-inflicted

loneliness. He was a dab-hand at the ancient prophecies in the great book

and talked like one weel-kent in the mysteries. He put the truth in this

never-to-be-forgotten word –

“Ye can never be close to God till ye climb high up into the mists, alone,

where there is never another by your side.”

He told me of times past, honourable deeds done, great battles fought and

the fall of kings while seated there among the great hills about us and the

River Tay whispering by to her tryst with the sea. Even this wise one

conceded his uncanny knowledge passed down by word of mouth from

generations of MacGregors before him - I was sweir to let him away, but

before he took to the road again I ettled after his domicile - and his parting

words to me were:

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“When ye think o’ me for’by, think o’ me as the man wha wore the MacGregor wi’ pride.”

“When ye think o’ me for’by, think o’ me as the man wha wore the

MacGregor wi’ pride.”

With that we parted at the keystane of Caputh Bridge where it spans the

Tay - and to this day I can hear the tap-tapping of the blind man’s stick on

the camber of the hollow arch as he moved slowly away with the collie dogs

trotting by his side.

If only we could learn each another’s story there would be little need for

novels. But the patient one will always unravel the tangled skein. I never

saw the blind fiddler again; but years anon, when he was in final repose, I

learned of his whole story on a stormy winter’s night in a highland bothy

nearby Glenshee.

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said estates and all goods there accounted for - has fallen to His Majesty Treasury, ultimus hoeres.

It began with a heartless public notice in the Perthshire Advertiser:

“Notice is hereby given that the estate of John Macgregor, known as

the blind fiddler, a vagrant of the shires of Perth and Forfar, who died

in Kirriemuir Poorhouse on 27th day of December 1916, said estates

and all goods there accounted for - has fallen to His Majesty

Treasury, ultimus hoeres.”

John Shaw

Town Clerk

Forfar

Gleaned now from the bothy nicht: there was nothing of the usual tramp

about John MacGregor, who for fifty years had travelled the highways and

byways of his beloved Scotland. Rather was he the last of the old wandering

minstrels. Born somewhere nearby Cairnwell, he was a kenspeckle man

about the Parishes of Bal’whidder and West Perthshire and of Royal Deeside

and Braemar, a teller of many tales of his proud but downtrodden

MacGregor Clan. He knew the good book from end to end. His inward

eye saw all the more because his blindness threw him back on the secrets of

the soul.

What took a guidman such as he to the life of a wandering shenachie and

fiddler?

The story goes that when he was an upstanding lad of great strength and

handsome looks with a sweetheart all of his own, he was working in a great

granite quarry in Aberdeenshire when a blast went off and blinded the

young giant for life. To a sweetheart true, her blind man is a man held

doubly dear - but to his Aberdeenshire quine her man, now blinded, was a

spoiled man.

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He fiddled for gentry and common folk alike - he thrice fiddled before HRH the Queen Victoria by her royal command at the annual Ghillie’s Ball at Balmoral Castle.

So she turned her back on his sorrow and consoled herself in the arms of an

orraman from Inverbervie way. But the blinded man in MacGregor pride

suffered in silence, and said nothing. Then, when his wounds healed, slipped

away and took the old road to nowhere.

After that he fiddled his way through life, as many other tainted folk have

done. Often in a barn he made the rafters dirl with the clamour of the Reel,

when the country lads and lasses kept the Hairst Kirn going to the skreich of

the new day. Yet, his tunes were not all happy: oft times his fiddle would

wail out some low broken-hearted melody that came from the depths of his

own soul – the slow, sad memories crowding on each another like tears

from a lover’s eyes. When he played to himself it was as if he was

eternally seeking some comfort which he could never find. None could get

John MacGregor’s story by simply plucking his sleeve.

He fiddled for gentry and common folk alike - he thrice fiddled before HRH

the Queen Victoria by her royal command at the annual Ghillie’s Ball at

Balmoral Castle. His public tunes were agreeable to all, particularly the royal

ear - but his best tunes were his lonely tunes: they were always sad with

remembering his troubled life and that of his beloved MacGregors.

He slept under the stars for choice: a fine bed for summer-time when in the

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It was all he would have wished it to be – on the open road.

warm nights of August, the purple heather drugs the sleep of a weary man

with hone-scented dreams, and the grousecock awakens him at dawn for a

sun-splashed bathe in a tumbling torrented burn; but a hard bed in

wintertime when the wind drives the rain in pitiless sheets down the Glens,

or the silent falling snow makes sleep near a thing to death itself.

“But for the collies,” he once said, “I wadna be here this day. Often when

I’m far frae shelter I dig a hole in the snaw and lie down in my cloak, and the

dogs snuggle in aroon’ my neck - the cauld snaw covers us aboot, but we

dinna mind, for the three o’ us are cosy an’ warm thegither.”

But it came to the last slumber of John MacGregor at the hinder end. One

bitterly frosted night in December this old king of the road lay down to

sleep at the roadside nearby Greenmyre Fermtoun in the Parish of

Kingoldrum. His fiddle was broken and had lang syne played his last tune.

His collie dogs were dead, no warm paws about his neck or the creature

comfort they gave.

He was all alone under his beloved stars.

Next day, a kindly orraman found him unconscious and by the mercy of

Heaven, the blind fiddler never fully regained his senses to realise - his

stravaigins, his companionship and his music ... and his life’s ebb.

It was all he would have wished it to be – on the open road.

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They found £50 in gold about his person, so his strip of earth was his to the last.

John MacGregor was removed to the Parish House at Kirriemuir to spend his

last hours. They found £50 in gold about his person, so his strip of earth was

his to the last. The rest of his simple belongings went to the king, aye, the

monarch whose Grandmother had commanded him to play for her.

Every man’s story is his own by right. When it comes to the end of all things,

none can tell with surety the dreams that trouble a man’s last sleep. But

were I to favour John MacGregor - late of the Parish of Scotland and

ambassador supreme to the MacGregor - and speak of his wandering life

and honourable times, I would in respect, humility and in admiration say

thus:

John MacGregor was mired in his own history and every new day - a

blessing - brought its own adventure and new friendships. Less articulate

folk than John would keep to their own class, and live in tedious misery

without much knowledge of those who move in the other classes of society.

But the sagacious John MacGregor – the blind fiddler - in his lifetime of

wandering knew no class, and the world is the worst for his passing.

Royal was his race, rest in peace old friend of the Earth.

From the personal papers and Diaries of Alexander (Sandy) Ferrie, 1884 - 1964.

Alistair Ferrie.

First published in 2007; editions 37 & 38 of Strathard News. Re-printed here

by kind permission of their editorial team. With many thanks to them for

allowing this piece a new audience.

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We are lucky to have the support of Mike Russell MSP and his expertise has helped us negotiate a number of twists in this road.

Update on the Tinkers’ Heart

HOTT is still in discussion with Argyll & Bute Council, the Landowner and

other interested parties to find a way forward to make the Heart stand out

as the important spot it is. We are lucky to have the support of Mike Russell

MSP and his expertise has helped us negotiate a number of twists in this

road.

Argyll & Bute Council are – understandably – reluctant to improve the

signage to the Heart at this present time due to the lack of safe parking and

the speed of traffic on the road. It would seem that the simplest solution is

to improve the parking, but this will take time to sort out. Then the signage

can be put in place and hopefully, people will visit the Heart to remember

the past and look to the future.

Anything like this always takes time and, although it can get a wee bit

frustrating at times, it will work out in the end.

However, one thing that is irritating is what seems to be the almost

deliberate blocking of access to what is now a National Monument by

shenanigans such as in the sign below:

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These kinds of tactics are not exactly unfamiliar to Travellers

Somehow or other, the farmer renting the adjacent field appeared to think

it was a good idea to put calving cows on the land where the Heart lies and

to set up a notice warning people to stay out, thus blocking access to this

scheduled monument.

These kinds of tactics are not exactly unfamiliar to Travellers and this

particular one has been treated as it deserves. This matter has also been

reported; as have all similar seemingly obstructive manoeuvres.

The Heart belongs to many people, not one; and it is now in the care of

Historic Scotland as a national monument. Perhaps the length of time it is

taking to come to arrangements over both the signage and the parking is

partly the problem here. The sooner safe access is available, the better.

We’ll keep talking!

Fiona McAllister

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HOTT’s not looking for a webmaster, just a willing volunteer who knows how to build websites from the templates provided by the host company and how to display HOTT’s work off to the best advantage.

Wanted – One Clever Geek!

(Or at least a website- savvy one.)

HOTT’s website (www.heartofthetravellers.scot) is in desperate need of a

volunteer to love it, hug it, take it out on dates… well, keep it updated

anyway… and generally pay it more attention that I have the time / ability to

at the moment.

HOTT’s not looking for a webmaster, just a willing volunteer who knows

how to build websites from the templates provided by the host company

and how to display HOTT’s work off to the best advantage.

If this sounds like you and you’d be up for sparing one or two hours a week

just making the website work better for us than it does at the moment –

please get in touch.

You’ve no idea how welcome your contribution to HOTT’s work will be!

Fiona

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When it comes to ghosts or paranormal events I’ve always had an open mind, neither believing nor disbelieving.

The Haunted Hotel

Bob Knight

This story is true and actually happened to my brother, and myself. When it

comes to ghosts or paranormal events I’ve always had an open mind,

neither believing nor disbelieving. I remain to be convinced, although the

following events seemed real enough at the time. I heard “something” but

never saw what, or who it was. I’ll leave it to you to make up your own

mind.

In the summer of 1976, or it may have been 1977, I’m not quite sure of the

actual date all these years later, I was “on tour” with a band. One of our

dates was in Nairn, a small northern coastal town not far from Inverness.

We’d played there before, but always on the return leg of a tour, which

meant we had never stayed overnight in the town, always preferring to

drive home the eighty or so miles after the performance. However, on this

occasion we had taken a booking on the outward leg of the tour and

consequently booked into a local hotel.

Having arrived in the town in the early afternoon, we set up our amplifiers,

drums and P.A. system in the hall of the venue. We ran through a few songs

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It was a substantial old granite building; a proper hotel

just to check that everything was working properly, and even rehearsed a

few bits and pieces as bands often do when on the road. Satisfied that

everything was in fine working order, we made our way to the hotel, which

had been booked for us by the organisers of the venue. It was a lovely

summer afternoon and we soon found the hotel, which was just off the

main street on a road leading to the harbour and beach. It was a substantial

old granite building; a proper hotel, not a bed and breakfast, and we were

shown to our room on the first floor.

As it turned out, all the accommodation was in one very large room, what in

a more modern hotel would be given the fancy title of a family room. There

were two single beds and a double, so my brother and I took the double,

giving the other two band members the singles.

The band played well that night, and it was a great crowd. We always got a

good reception at that particular club, and having played there before, we

knew a lot of people who came up after the show and spoke to us. It was

getting quite late, but amongst the audience were a few musicians we knew

well, and who invited us back to their house for a small party. Not wanting

to appear unsociable, or offend anyone, we agreed to go back with them for

an hour or so. It’s easy to get a reputation for being “big-headed” or worse

when you’re a musician with a professional touring band, so sometimes it’s

just easier to “go with the flow” be sociable and leave as soon as you

reasonably can. On the other hand, it can be really lovely when people like

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They “walked” down the road, hanging on to each other, singing an old Jacobite song, “Bonnie Charlie’s No Awa,” which was rather strange, since it wasn’t in our repertoire.

you enough to want to be in your company and offer you their hospitality,

and it’s not always a case of leaving as soon as possible.

By the time we’d done socialising; singing a few songs, and generally having

a good time, it was getting very late indeed, so being a small town, the hotel

wasn’t too far away and we walked back the short distance to it. It was a

beautiful summer night, late June, or early July, and the weather was very

mild. My brother and I don’t drink, no particular reason why, we’re

definitely not religious or anything, we just don’t drink alcohol, but the

other two band members were a bit the worse for wear. They “walked”

down the road, hanging on to each other, singing an old Jacobite song,

“Bonnie Charlie’s No Awa,” which was rather strange, since it wasn’t in our

repertoire.

As we got closer to the hotel we managed to quieten them down a bit,

because we didn’t want their singing to waken any of the other residents.

Finally, we got them somewhat noisily upstairs and into the room, where

they threw themselves down on top of their beds, fully dressed, and

immediately fell asleep.

My brother left the room to go to the toilet, there being no such thing as

en-suite facilities in those days, and I sat on the edge of the bed waiting for

him to come back as I wanted to go too. He came back pretty quickly, and I

asked him where the toilet was, and he told me it was down at the end of

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“There’s something at the end o’ the corridor right enough,” said my brother, “I’ve just seen it.”

the corridor.

I went out, closing the door behind me, but it was really dark at this end of

the corridor and I groped along the walls searching for a light switch, but

with no success. I stopped for a moment to let my eyes adjust to the lack of

light, but as I stood there, I heard the floorboards creaking at the far end of

the corridor, although I couldn’t see anything. Thinking it may have been

the hotelier disturbed by our less than discreet entry, I decided that

discretion was the better part of valour, and retreated back into the room.

“You’re back affa quick” was my brother’s comment as I came back in and

closed the door.

“Aye it was too dark, I couldnae find the light switch, and there’s somebody

moving aboot doon at the far end o’ the corridor. I’m nay that desperate, I’ll

haud it in,” I joked.

“There’s something at the end o’ the corridor right enough,” said my

brother, “I’ve just seen it.”

There was a moment of silence as I digested this information.

“How d’ye mean, it?” I enquired.

“Jist what I said, ‘it,’ it’s nae a person, or onything I’ve ever seen before,” he

said, and this is what he told me.

“I went oot ontae the steps. (There were two steps leading down from our

room to the corridor) I looked for the light switch jist like you, but couldnae

find it, so I edged my wye along the corridor in the dark. It’s nae sae dark

doon at the far end because there’s a great big windae in the ceiling,

stained glass kind o’ affair. The moonlight was shining through and it wis

quite clear. I heard somebody walking back and fore and thought maybe the

manager or somebody wis up and aboot, disturbed because o’ the noise the

29

“Is it my imagination, or is that creaking getting closer?” I asked, seeking confirmation of my fears, and for once hoping I was wrong.

two boys made coming in. I was a’ ready wi my excuses and apologies, but

then I saw something, jist beyond the moonlight, at the far side, in the

darkness. It was jist moving back and fore, side tae side. It had nae human

or animal shape. The nearest I can describe it was that it was aboot the size

o’ your Marshall speaker cabinet, (Approx 36”x36”) nae very tall, broad and

squat, jist moving back and fore. The hairs on the back o’ my neck and airms

stood on end, I couldnae stop watching it, kinda mesmerised by it. I

managed tae tak my eyes aff it, maybe somebody in one o’ the ither rooms

coughed, or made some sort o’ noise and broke the spell, and I backed doon

the corridor and back intae the room,” he finished.

We sat there for a minute or two, saying nothing, but by now it was about

three in the morning, and we were exhausted. He was already in bed, so I

undressed and got into bed too. As we lay there we could hear the creaking

from the far end of the corridor.

“Is it my imagination, or is that creaking getting closer?” I asked, seeking

confirmation of my fears, and for once hoping I was wrong.

“Aye, it sounds closer to me, it’s louder onywye,” said my brother.

In the next half hour, the creaking got louder and louder until it seemed to

be right outside our door, and there it stayed for the rest of the night.

Backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards it went, the creaking

floorboards announcing its unwelcome presence. The sound would stop

from time to time, and just when we were beginning to hope it had gone, it

started again. I had visions of the “thing” bursting open the unlocked door

and some unspeakable horror coming into the room. The thought was

almost as bad as the actuality, but no such thing happened. The evil,

whatever it was, stayed outside the door.

I remember saying to my brother at one point that we would know if it was

something evil, because evil doesn’t like the light and being close to

30

“Well, they won’t be the first to say they heard something strange up there,” was all he said.

midsummer, the dawn would soon be with us. My words were quite

prophetic, for as it got lighter, the sounds outside the door lessened until

with daylight they stopped entirely. We finally managed to fall asleep about

5am.

Hotels don’t make any allowances in the morning for sleepless nights, no

matter what time you manage to fall sleep, and when someone knocked at

our door about 8am announcing that breakfast was being served we duly

got up, washed, and trooped down to the dining room. Sitting at the table

one of the now sober band members said he’d had a great sleep and asked

if we had slept well.

When we told him what kind of night we’d had he thought we were joking

and laughed. We finally convinced him we were telling the truth and it

wasn’t a joke, but he still laughed. He thought it all highly amusing, and

when the hotel proprietor came into the dining room, he could hardly wait

to tell him of our disturbed night, thinking the hotel owner would deny it

and say it was all nonsense. Instead the hotel owner confirmed our story.

“Well, they won’t be the first to say they heard something strange up

there,” was all he said. Our friend wasn’t quite so cocky now after hearing

that, and packed first thing after breakfast. He couldn’t wait to get out of

the place.

There was no other confirmation of the story, no follow up to tie it all up

nicely in a neat package. We never went back there and we heard nothing

more about it. Of course, if we had been really brave, or insatiably curious,

we could always have opened the door to confront whoever or whatever

was out there, and get to the bottom of it, to find out the truth. Just ask

yourself – would you have opened that door?

Copyright: R. Knight 16/11/09

31

Edna had wandered off the track completely and was now tracing mine and Jess’s rellies instead of her own.

Poetry

Mary Thomson

Doing the Family Tree: I was inspired to write this little ditty after ploughing

through a mass of McAllisters and McArthurs to find that, just like the

McKays, O’Neills and McManuses, their inter-marrying was like walking

through glue with wellies, trying to track them down. An email from Jess

told me she felt her head was going to implode with it all and Edna had

wandered off the track completely and was now tracing mine and Jess’s

rellies instead of her own. Then there’s wee Franny up in Huntly jinin in.

Anyway here’s my thochts on paper:

Daein the Faimly Tree

If you come fae traivilin’ stock, dinna dae yir tree

Or if you dae, yir shair tae landUp jist as moich as me!

Jist tak yir mammy’s word for it Yir granny is her ma

Cos if ye dig, ye’ll probly fine She’s daddy’s ma ‘n a’

There’s weemin wi umpteen han’les Like Betsy, Bid and Bridget

Fanny could be Frances Or hae a bye name, Such as Midget

They canna mak their mind up

They hae surnames by the dozen

Is it Docherty or Riley …

Och I’ll hae that ain o’ mi cousin.

32

The scatterin’ o’ the faimliesCan fairly bring ye grief.

And as fir joabs,

They kid be onythin’

Frae piper through tae hawker Umbrella feek or herbalist

Can be a Summer Walker

Thir’s tinsmiths, dealers, chimney sweeps

Bell hangers there are many

Horsie men and drokkerers

Fae Ayr intae Kilmany.

Some come fae Fife and some fae Cork

Yi kin find them anywhaur

Lundin Links or Penicuik

Fae Wick doon tae Stranraer

Blairgowrie, Perth and Murthly,Intae Comrie and Crieff

The scatterin’ o’ the faimliesCan fairly bring ye grief.

Hard tae find ye mon be

Like needles in a haystack

But ye’re a’ mine I bear yir blood,

Yir quirky wies o’ dain things,

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And maks us what ye see

Yir guid points and yir bad yins,

Aye and ither ains beside.

So I’ll jist go on digging ootFowk wha I’m related

And no matter wha or what you be

We’re a’ what God created

So here’s tae you, Oor ain dear folk

Be you, Dan or Auntie Fee

The same blood flows

through a’ oor veins

And maks us what ye see.

Molly McKay 2009

34

For me was never meant

A LIFE LONG GONE

I’ve never walked the lang lang road

Nor cooried in a tent

My back sair bent wi heavy load

For me was never meant

Not for me the berry fields

The lee lang simmer day

When corncrakes crawed their bonny song

Amangst golden parks of hay.

The heather hills were not my home

Nor the midnight sky my ceiling

Voices roon an open fire

Bairnies listening laughing squealing.

The wandering life was not my own

No basket weaver I

No hawker, peddlar, chimney sweep

35

And pride swells bravely in my breast

I cannot tell a lie

I’ll never mend a fairmer’s riddle

Nor mak a milkin churn

Nor thin the neeps nor sow the corn

Mak tea ahint the burn.

Nor have I felt the hornie’s boot

As heshouted to move on

Dirty tink, get oot, get oot And dinna be here the morn

That time has gone this lang time syne

When their ancient crafts were needed

Progress, machinery and hate

Have alas the tink preceded.

But in my veins rins thick rich blood

Of these much maligned God’s craturs

And pride swells bravely in my breast

With love for my fore-faithers

I’ll wave your banners proudly high

36

But we’ll win through somehow

Shout your praises to the skies

With gusty voice I’ll make them hear

Renting Heaven with my cries .

You’ve had your day I’ll not deny

Your need long over now

But the fight goes on and will not die

But we’ll win through somehow

Mary McKay 2009

37

In her soft spoken

voice and with her

couthie ways

She’s telling me

the stories of all

her yesterdays.

BY GRANNY’S FEET

The coal fired crackled softly given out a gentle heat,

As a wee girl I sat at the side of it, down by my granny’s feet.

I am rubbing the sore looking bunion on her toe to sooth it

But in truth, it is her that is soothing me.

In her soft spoken voice and with her couthie ways

She’s telling me the stories of all her yesterdays.

This travelling lady has been to so many places,

Done so many things, and kent so many faces.

A story she could find to tell about whomever she had met.

Kindly and cautiously every person she would vet!

“You have to have your wits about you out on the road lassie”, she’d say.

“Being born and bred for survival helps to keep you from harm’s way.

Now hen did I ever tell you the story o ‘yon’ Mrs. Mackinnon

A real lady she was, always bought my finest sheets the very best o linen

Lived in the big farm hoose at the Grange O Lindores,

House clean as a new pin you could eat off her floors.

Oh, that woman couldnae half bake ataw!

Her delicious sponge cakes would fair drop yer jaw.

Always gave me tea in a wee china cup,

And a piece o home baking to go wae ma sup,

She’s deid noo that fine woman, god rest her soul now, me o my

It was good kind respectable folk like herself that aye got me by.”

38

each tale from the past

Granny then talked about the different camping grounds, the lethans, happy

lands, and the gothens.

Of the stooshies and troubles they got from toffee nosed boffins.

From folks who thought we were an inferior race,

And the dreaded roused up hornies, moving them on from place to place.

Between each tale from the past she would lie back in a slouch

In order to reach her baccy that she kept in her apron pouch.

With her thumb she would push it and press it deep into her pipe

Then smiling, thinking and nodding, she would strike up a match and set it

alight.

I’d watch the lips that enthralled me pucker round that pipe of clay

Eagerly but contently listening for what she next had to say,

Drawing on her pipe and on her memories she would puff away for a while

Then she would look down at me looking up and both of us would smile.

39

Came through her voice as precious gifts to me, by the fire at my granny’s feet.

Then, sitting back and getting comfy in her seat,

Off she would go with another story and for me another treat.

I loved to listen to all she was saying

Occasionally she would start to sing her body gently swaying.

How she would capture my imagination with insights that were so vivid

The prejudice she encountered from judgmental fools fairly made me livid.

Some of the hard times she related must have been no less than hellish,

But the laughs and near hysterics from her tales are the ones I’ll truly

cherish.

Like all her people she was strong, hardy, bold and brave.

Her world was travelling and hawking, no other life did she crave.

The love for the road radiated from deep within her being as she spoke,

As I journeyed with her, learning about her people, and my own kinfolk.

When I raised myself up from that fireside its embers now orange and

cooling,

No better education could I have had from any formal schooling.

My roots, my heritage, and all that passed both sad and sweet,

Came through her voice as precious gifts to me, by the fire at my granny’s

feet.

Feet that had walked more miles than some folk have barely driven,

God rest YOUR soul Granny as you travel the roads in heaven.

Karen Ramsay

40

Crystal Butterfly

If Wishes were Horses

Brennan Artography

Some more beautiful photographs from Dolly Miller-Brennan for you to

enjoy!

41

Kentucky Hay Man

For more information about Dolly and her work, visit:

http://www.gypsyartshow.com/2014/07/artography-by-dolly-miller-

brennan.html

http://www.brennanartography.com/

http://www.artebelladaily.org/?s=Dolly+Miller-Brennan

https://twitter.com/Dolly_World

42

This lovely sign was spotted by Elizabeth Donaldson as she was on her way to Prestwick Airport.

More News From Article 12 In Scotland

On October 11th, Deidre Brock MP and the Scottish National Party (SNP)

hosted The Traveller Movement and Article 12 in Scotland at the Houses of

Parliament, London. They discussed #OperationReportHate, criminal justice,

health, education and other issues affecting Gypsies, Travellers and Roma in

the UK. Sabrina McDonagh passionately shared first-hand her experience of

discrimination as a Scottish Traveller.

The MPS are in no doubt about the problems still facing Travellers and said

they looked forward to working with the groups to challenge discrimination.

By coincidence, the photograph below was posted within a few hours of

Article 12’s report about their London visit. This lovely sign was spotted by

Elizabeth Donaldson as she was on her way to Prestwick Airport. Elizabeth

said: “I took my kids to the airport in August and saw this sign being proudly

displayed on several positions on this holiday site.”

43

It seems that news of the obligations on businesses under the Equalities Act

2010 (Scotland) is slow in reaching Ayrshire and arguably, any Traveller

turned away from this holiday park site and not allowed to rent a unit for a

wee break may well have a case under the Protected Characteristics of the

Equalities Act.

Just to help the park out a bit, in case they might want to re-think their

business strategy – or at least - their signage:

Race also covers ethnic and racial groups. This means a group of people who all share the same protected characteristic of ethnicity or race.

A racial group can be made up of two or more distinct racial groups, for example black Britons, British Asians, British Sikhs, British Jews, Romany Gypsies and Irish Travellers.

https://www.equalityhumanrights.com/en/advice-and-guidance/race-discrimination

Good luck to Article 12 and #OperationReportHate. This wee snippet above

from Ayrshire shows exactly why the work they do is vital.

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And Finally…

Thank you once again to all contributors for submitting your fabulous

articles and photographs – this magazine wouldn’t exist without you. If

you’d like to contribute to the next edition, please send your submission by

January 23rd, 2017.

How to Contact Heart of the Travellers:

Submissions and letters are welcome for the next edition. Please email

them in word document / Jpeg form to:

Email: hostmagazine1@gmail.com

Why not visit our website too?

Website: www.heartofthetravellers.scot

Graphic by J. Lavelle