Boswell's Bus Pass

by Campbell, Stuart

  Long-resigned to the dullish sport of geriatric trespass we ignored the keep out signs and walked past the portacabins and dumper trucks. We were interrupted by a small woman in a hard hat. After explaining our mission she relaxed her site-manager veneer and introduced herself as Lynn, one of the four trustees of Raasay House. She described how she had been closing the curtains in Johnson’s bedroom when the fire started. The cause had never been discovered. In her more rueful moments she blamed Johnson himself who may have disapproved of the half-completed renovations. She made no secret of how traumatised she had been by the fire and was still bitter that various national bodies had declined to fund the renovation of yet another decayed and ruined home.

  Before its partial relaunch as an outdoor centre the house and its considerable contents had been boarded up. Over time the building was violated by both the elements and a succession of chuckling thieves who carted away boatloads of furniture and most of the library.

  She said the acute sense of distress returned every morning when she arrived on site. She was certainly not in the mood to entertain tourists with hokum tales of hauntings but still outlined her strong suspicion that Johnson had returned after his death to the house where he had been so happy. She had frequently caught sight of a large figure skulking round the edges of her peripheral vision. I tried to repress the thought that this was the lot of most married Scottish women. As if embarrassed she counterbalanced her narrative with references to projection and wish fulfilment.

  We left Lynn to brood and oversee. It was difficult not to glance backwards at Raasay House and see through her eyes the blowsy curtains dancing promiscuously in the night sky and hear the cracking glass, her own screams and the thunk of burning ceiling beams landing on each other, a charred haphazard wigwam. Meanwhile a black manna of scorched confetti pages from the Dictionary of the English Language fluttered onto the foreshore.

  The ancient overgrown churchyard slightly up the hill from the house was another gem in the collection of beautiful and peaceful ruined places that was becoming a motif of this journey. Johnson had been less impressed and sardonically lambasted the slothful guardians who let such places fall into disrepair.

  Boswell and Johnson were shown an Iron Age tunnel used when they visited to store oars. It subsequently saw service as a rubbish tip before being restored as, well, a tunnel. Compelled where possible to place our feet in precisely the same spot as the earlier travellers we entered the darkness. Claustrophobia has become an unwanted companion in recent years. I’m not certain where he came from; perhaps an intimation of entering the final long airless tunnel in a decade or so. On this occasion claustrophobia was less of a challenge than stupidity. I stood up quickly and inflicted several flesh wounds on my bald pate. Streaming blood I emerged only to startle a gaggle of young children gathered outside. They ran away shrieking at the sight of the aging zombie, a refugee from the world of the undead.

  When I had been staunched we hired bikes from the relocated outdoor centre as Raasay is entirely bus-free. We shared something of Boswell’s childlike eagerness to explore the island. ‘I last night obtained my fellow-traveller’s permission to leave him for a day, he being unable to take so hardy a walk.’ We have no reason to believe that Johnson could not have coped with the challenges presented by Raasay. He was not beyond the odd spot of physical recklessness. On occasions throughout his life he would, on a whim, hurl himself into the nearest river or swim in the sea. In his twilight years he looked at a wall which he used to climb, ‘with a degree of rapture … and determined to try my skill and dexterity I laid aside my hat and wig, pulled off my coat, and leapt over it twice.’The truth of the matter was that he had had enough of Boswell’s unctuous and irritating company. He must have relished the thought of a day spent annotating the books in the library with marginalia and huffy corrections.

  I was increasingly reconciled to this cycling business but never found it easy. Pathetically neither David nor I could be the first to dismount and wheel the bikes up the steeper hills. Instead we resorted to using ridiculously low gears that required disproportionate amounts of energy just to stop falling off.

  There were minor distractions: the synchronized breathy cromping of the feeding cattle; the Icarus bird larking skywards; the smaller tinny voice of an unidentified bird and above all else the insistent thump of blood in the ears. David contributed an improvised quiz: ‘How many teats on the following creatures, the cow, the sheep, unicorn and dodo?’ (4, 2, 1 and 0). This note of foolishness was echoed in the behavior of the various sheep that wandered into the road. There was the high noon, transvestite sheep in high heels, holster and handbag half hidden in the fleece. She was followed by several carnival sheep either garlanded with wreaths of ferny sticky fingers or waddling in hula hoops of unwanted wool. Out of sight their peers were either endlessly bidding against each other in a pointless auction or activating methane-powered fog horns.

  Eventually we enjoyed the deliriously long and fast descent to the bay dominated by the remains of Brochel Castle. When Boswell and his entourage visited, the ancient family seat had recently been abandoned for the mod cons of Raasay House. The estate agent’s notice was just legible: Dilapidated bijou castle-ette, excellent sea views, security a strong feature, would suit small clan. The stones still standing on the outcrop of rock suggested a mean bleak home within which the residents huddled together for warmth in the winter, blinded and choked by the emetic smoke backing up in the chimney and constantly taunted by the ogre waves.

  Boswell had visited the sea caves on the West coast of Raasay. Having taken directions at the outdoor centre we dropped the bikes into the heather and trekked towards the sea. The carcass of a dead lamb pointed the way, its fleece flayed and its eyes pecked out. Lying spread out on a small hillock it was hardly an unusual sight but was still oddly poignant; starkly unmourned, an irrelevant, infinitesimal speck of innocence. Next to it was a single ram’s horn.

  At the foot of a gradual incline we found a small bay festooned with the usual flotsam. Which obscure bylaw decreed that every hundred yards of coast round Britain must contain at least one blue plastic glove? This one, sea-bloated, was fingering the air for its stolen Excalibur. There was also a huge roll of still serviceable sellotape. What flotsam would Boswell have tripped over? Timber planks, wooden struts, shards and splinters, pieces of heavy green and brown glass with sea smoothed edges, fishing creels, barrel staves, hempen rope and probably the ubiquitous single leather shoe; the legacy of shipwrecks, misfortune, drunken nights and poorly constructed harbours.

  The bay must have seemed a cornucopia of possibility for whichever boat load of impoverished fishermen landed here. There was a small snatch of arable land and caves for shelter and storage. Good cupboard space, satellite dish and own boat shed.

  As we walked back up the hill we stumbled through several separate stone cairns, each heap a memorial to unknown, long-dead inhabitants who lived the bleakest of short and brutal lives.

  It was a large extended family perhaps. This heap belonged to the seemingly indestructible matriarch who was the scourge of both her married offspring. Over there lived the two brothers who never spoke to each other. That pile set back from the others belonged to the unpopular girning widow who would shake her fist at the high-jinking children. Those stones were home to the man of God who consoled the grieving and named the wicked.

  Neither Johnson nor Boswell mentions the deserted crofts on Raasay. By this stage of their journey they had seen so many they hardly noticed. The reality of Cumberland’s revenge would have strained the credulity of a Hague war tribunal. It is unlikely that the commanding officer would have politely chapped on doors with his prepared speech, ‘Please step outside madam, unfortunately I have no alternative but to douse your humble dwelling with petrol. Please remove any items of sentimental value. I am merely following orders.’

  Women scream. Outer and undergarments are rent. The flames light up the excited mad-eyed faces of the expecta
nt soldiers. Rag carcass heaps proliferate as thin spirals of smoke rise from charred reptile skinned beams. Overhead the carrion birds circle.

  *

  Being basically old and unfit the bike ride and sea trek had taken their toll and yet there were miles to go before we slept, and miles to go before the summit of Dun Caan which Boswell and his party had climbed.

  Deluded by his hard days in the paras David had strangely decreed that our rations for the trip should not exceed one apple each.

  The penultimate straw was the act of pushing the bikes 2.9k up a steep and rocky path, along which good intentions were decreasingly being strewn. We both developed an incipient envy of dead people and rested at ever more frequent intervals until they virtually joined up and I fell asleep sitting upright like an Aztec warrior waiting to be buried.

  The ultimate straw was the realisation that having reached the end of the path with Dun Caan seemingly just yards away we would have to descend steeply to sea level before climbing back up. We were tempted to hurl the bikes to the bottom and sulk, thumbs in mouths waiting either for our mammies or the Mountain Rescue helicopter.

  We eventually forced the bikes down the path as if wrestling with unruly adolescents. At the bottom we looked longingly at the loch. It was the self pitying Lochan of Lethe twinkling seductively, ‘Come on lads, sink into my cold waters and all will be well …’

  A sort of salvation seemed at hand when David pointed out that Dun Caan no longer existed; it had simply disappeared. It can never have been more than a figment of Boswell’s imagination. The mist had indeed rubbed out Raasay’s cap. ‘Totally dangerous’ pronounced David. Twenty minutes later we reached the top.

  ‘… and then we mounted up to the top of Duncaan, where we sat down, ate cold mutton and bread and cheese and drank brandy and punch. Then we had a Highland song from Malcolm; then we danced a reel …’ Boswell’s shell shocked companions may have been the same retainers who were bribed to mime to the tape of Gaelic stomping songs when the visitors first arrived. As tour guides their behaviour was exemplary; if in doubt tout the tartan, flog the plaid, bring out the shortbread and if all else fails, stick an arm in the air, hop on one leg and dance with the client irrespective of gender.

  The Victorian Birkbeck Hill, struggling to justify this unseemly outburst of male dancing, sought refuge in a quote from a contemporary traveller. Edward Topham declared that ‘In most countries the men have a partiality for dancing with a woman: but here I have frequently seen four gentlemen perform one of these reels seemingly with the same pleasure as if they had the most sprightly girl for a partner. They give you the idea that they could with equal glee cast off round a joint-stool or set to a corner cupboard.’

  David and I peered into the mist but failing to locate either a joint-stool or a corner cupboard settled for each other and shared a manly reel. The gulp of brandy on an empty and dehydrated stomach was massively welcome but equally unwise. David led me gently back from the precipitous edge to the safe path we had climbed earlier. I felt the self-righteous disappointment of a failed lemming.

  It was the first time I had used a mountain bike to bike down a mountain. The photographer would have captured two black figures in a sedate, slow motion 45 degree descent silhouetted against the reddening sky. We could have been Home Guard cyclists in a Hovis advertisement. The inner projector screened a different show. Vegetation, hidden trunks, rocks, stones and black bog rushed towards me. There was no consciousness but this. Initially the thin frame interceded as a thousand small bargains were struck with gravity, probability and foolhardiness. A constant compulsive, wheedling monologue; accelerate, take the risk, ride hard into it … I told you so, you didn’t listen. The front wheel stuck fast, concreted into a plinth while the back end rose and threatened to toss me arse over tip. There followed a short reconciliation based on the promise to learn. Trust the bike, trust the bike. The mantra instantly neutralised by the punitive whelp of pain as leg muscle scraped against rock. Go again. Go again. The gouts of adrenalin no longer masking the peaks of fear and cowardice on the tacograph. A final tumble, sitting up, heart thumping with a close up view of a wire fence and a wood beyond. Finally an endorphin-driven sense of total stillness and an enhanced sense of each pale lichened tree.

  God only knew where David had got to. He was probably stuck up to his neck in a bog somewhere. Not to worry.

  Once back on tarmac I freewheeled at ridiculous speed towards the Raasay Hotel pursued not only by Lance Armstrong but also Graeme Obree, Bernard Hinault, Eddie Merckx and that cartoon character from Bellville Rendezvous David was more cautious but only because he had frequently dropped out of the sky on the end of a parachute and had seen some horrible things on oil rigs. Indeed he once had a particularly nasty experience with a second year class in a Fife school that he still won’t talk about.

  On the descent I tried to be mindful of every physical sensation, bottling it so that I could uncork the experience at a future time when unable to sleep. I would scour the insomniac’s library for the video marked Fast Cycle Ride hopeful that it would distract demons and sooth unwanted worry.

  Boswell recorded ‘the plenty and elegance, beauty and gaiety, the song and the dance’ that characterised their four nights on the island. That was nothing compared to the potent ambrosial impact of our first pint in the hotel. As we eat our fish and chips the barman kept offering additional unsolicited dishes: another bucket of chips, a blue cheese salad, a cow pie, savoury dips, curry. The kitchen was closing and the chef saw us as an acceptable alternative to the waste bin. Happy to oblige we stuffed ourselves: Gargantua and Pantagruel, Falstaff and Billy Bunter, before offering the leftovers to our fellow drinkers all of whom made odd feinting movements when they picked at the dishes to avoid being disemboweled by the snooker cues lancing all available space.

  We endured a final unsteady uphill ride to the youth hostel where we were welcomed by a delightful couple in their seventies who worked as summer volunteers for the SYHA. They ministered to our modest needs while helping a party of French students cope with the complexity of Monopoly. I felt I had parents again. We shared the bunkhouse with the couple’s 16 year old grandson who had apparently decided to emerge from his chrysalis bed in the top right hand corner only when his adolescence had passed. In two years time he will burst through the wooden roof and soar – arms outstretched and now a properly formed well-mannered young man – towards the mainland.

  When they sailed back to Skye Boswell mentions passing by ‘a cave where Martin says fowls were catched by lighting fire in the mouth of it … We spoke of death.’

  Our sail over to Sconser was so short as to preclude talk of any importance let alone death, although we did regret not catching sight of the fast-food outlet with the cave branding.

  A smattering of school kids joined us on the CalMac ferry and then into the bus-shelter where we waited for the 916 to Portree. The father of one of the lads was on the bridge of the ferry still hovering in the harbour. His paranoid son was convinced that dad’s binoculars were trained on the shelter looking for tell-tale signs of smoke. He begged his peers to form a human barrier so that he could light up hidden from view. ‘Beat it!’ they replied with one beautifully accented voice.

  There were similar signs of non-conformity on the bus. Each double seat was occupied by a sprawling adolescent, every square inch of upholstery monopolised by the talisman possessions that defined and protected them: mobile phone, schoolbag, handbag, magazines. The bubbles of solitude were burst in Portree where they route-marched towards the school in a shared community of silent gloom.

  After travelling on the same bus Johnson wrote to the Skye and Lochalsh Area Education Office complaining that ‘the children are taught to read; but by the rule of their institution, they teach only English, so that the natives read a language which they may never use or understand.’

  Portree – Kingsburgh

  The early travellers dined at the Royal Hotel in Portree where they had
a good dinner of porter, port and punch (a special offer on all drinks beginning with the letter P). We did the same and had a pie and a pint.

  A queue was forming outsidef the hospice shop. Either a large number of the locals were on the point of death and the relatives wished to show a lugubrious solidarity or else rumours had spread of an imminent delivery of second hand tea cosies, cracked willow pattern plates and a three year run of Model Railway Magazine. It could equally have been a case of simple expectation and pleasure thresholds not hyper-inflated by urban greed.

  The pub in the square from which the bus left for Kingsburgh was challenging in its own way. The fact that one of the punters had established a complex relationship with the juke box should have been a clue; he alternately caressed it, fingered its buttons, whispered endearments and then gave it a good kicking. I hoped he wasn’t married. The effort of not staring at any of the drunken denizens meant that our cone of vision was restricted to beer mat and pint.

  The 186 to Kingsburgh was driven by a petite, feisty cow girl with Alamo hat, sequined jeans and high heeled boots, one of which frequently rested in the dashboard tapping out the rhythm of a country and western number that only she could hear. She was more than a match for the miasma of kids who caterwauled aboard at the high school. The early morning moody self absorption had been replaced by a rampant rowdiness. The lad who had ruined every lesson of the day with cheeky non sequiteurs, irritating animal noises, loud farts and general belligerence was unable to switch off and continued to fight with phantoms and spout nonsense at no one in particular. ‘The bus is nice and clean!’ roared the cow girl. A quiet boy who had been teased and taunted at lunchtime walked slowly, his crest fallen, towards the back of the bus where two fat boys grabbed hold of him and tried hard to squeeze out any remaining life. A golden-tinged liquid flowed underfoot. It was probably Irn-Bru but there was just sufficient doubt for David to regret wearing sandals.