by Jess Smith
Now, just as that last breath of life was rushing forth from his crushed lungs, something happened which made him think that he had already passed over into death’s realms.
He found himself standing in a passageway; he could feel slimy, mossy walls and there was hardly any room to stand upright. He felt a sharp tug on his sodden jacket sleeve. He ran shaking fingers down to feel a tiny hand.
‘Come on, Harry, the wedding feast can’t begin until you’ve played alongside our piper.’
‘I don’t understand—am I dead or not? Is this the place where the passed over go?’
‘Na, na, laddie, this is the world of Elfin; can’t you tell by the size of me?’
‘I am blind and can’t see you. But one minute the bog had hold of me, the next I’m here in this slimy tunnel.’
‘You are our guest. Listen now, Harry, the King’s daughter had been planning her marriage for ages, and decided to have it today, but did the rich Annabelle not decide to have her wedding too!’
‘What has that got to do with me?’ asked Harry, still unsure if he was dead or not.
‘She had to have a fiddler—not just any fiddler, she had chosen you, man. So we all thought it best to wait until that other wedding was finished, then to bring you down here into our underworld.’
‘So it was one of you who tripped me up—but how did you manage to get me through the bog?’
‘Never mind asking an elf his secrets, because we keeps them to ourselves. Now come, the food is served, the party awaits and our piper has been eager to play with you since he first heard you as a boy. I’ll give you a clean-up first, though, because the moss sticks and hardens.’ There was the swish and whoosh of a soft brush, and all the dirt was gone. Harry felt quite fresh, even although his fiddle arm had been played sore.
Harry was whisked along by the elf at such a speed he thought at first his feet weren’t touching solid ground, and in no time he could hear loud laughter.
A door creaked open. ‘Watch now, and don’t hit your head off the ceiling beams,’ said a sweet-sounding female, who held his hands and guided him in. A great wave of applause vibrated throughout the place. ‘This is our King,’ he heard the young woman say, ‘and he wants you to begin playing.’
Harry felt a hand grab his; a stout little hand with podgy fingers. ‘Hello, lad, it’s so kind of you to join us; and on behalf of my family and subjects I invite you to take your place alongside our beloved piper.’
Harry was then led onto a stage where another elf spoke. ‘I’m old Dougal, and I love to hear that fiddle of yours. Sometimes it gets lonely down here, being the only musician, so with His Majesty’s permission I sometimes sneak onto the bog surface to listen. We all hear your playing and love you, man, so play for us now at the wedding.’
Harry put out his hand at the gentle request of the female elf, and she laid in it his instrument; it had been cleaned, for like him it had been swallowed by the moss and was filthy. Without knowing or reasoning why, his heart felt overjoyed here in this elfin world, and he slipped the fiddle into its usual comfortable position between his chin and neck, drew back the bow and played his instrument like it had never been played before. The piper filled his airbag and he too began playing. The harmony was brilliant; not a single foot wasn’t tapping and beating upon the floor. Tiny elves were shrieking and whirling; Harry felt the breeze they created as they reeled and danced, it was wonderful.
When he rested, it was apparent that his female companion was by his side. She asked if he needed any drink, but they didn’t have human alcoholic drinks only fruit juice. He accepted that, and as she poured it for him he became aware of her perfume. He touched her face, and felt the most soft skin he’d ever felt. ‘What do you look like, little lady?’ he enquired.
‘I have curly black hair, we all do, my eyes are green and I am wearing a silken gown made with flower petals. Now my father, the piper, is summoning me to let you play; please go on.’
‘She sounds so pretty,’ he said to himself, ‘I wish I could see her.’ Then as if the female elf had read his thoughts, she stroked his forehead and ran her hand over his eyes, and the veil of blindness lifted in the most magical way. His head filled with lights of every colour, and then he saw her. Mira was a picture of loveliness. She gazed into his newly-sighted eyes, and as their eyes met it was love between them at once. The tiny elfin girl was in love with old Harry, the human fiddler.
‘I cannot let you keep your sight, because it is not allowed,’ she said sadly.
Harry stared at her, and then she faded, leaving him once again in his world of darkness.
He had been able to see for a single moment, and what a vision of beauty he had before him. But alas, it was over, so on and on he played with Dougal by his side, until, exhausted, he could play no more. The King, his daughter, her new husband and all the guests thanked him from their hearts as they set off to wherever they lived, leaving Harry with old Dougal and Mira.
‘You can go back home now, man, and if my time is right your sun will be rising. Come on, we can’t be seen, or your kind will start emptying our bog land searching for us.’ Old Dougal had already opened the door for him. Mira slipped her tiny hand into his. It was warm: he closed his fingers upon it and felt a love he had never felt before in his lifetime. Then in a flash his little new found world was gone, and he found himself lying half in and half out of the bog, with his neighbour’s dog licking his face.
‘Look at the state of you, I warned about that rich wine at the Laird’s house—shame on you!’ His neighbour helped him to his feet, declaiming about the evils of drink as she guided him home.
If she only knew, he’d not touched a drop that night; and if he seemed intoxicated, then it was because of a moment’s miracle when the little elfin girl gave him sight!
He never divulged that he’d been in the company of the elves, even although he so wished to share with his friends the beauty of Mira and the stirring tunes played on the smallest bagpipes in the entire world; instead he said nothing. Anyway, who would believe him?
From that day Harry refused all requests to play his fiddle at weddings. He became more and more reclusive, opting instead to sit by the edge of the bog, hoping for one sign of his tiny beloved presence. Sometimes a dragonfly would whirl around him, and he’d be heard asking the insect how were Mira and Dougal. This behaviour convinced his friends that, after being blind and living alone for so long, the old man had lost his mind.
Even the kind elderly lady hardly gave him a thought, and came to see him less and less. One day, however, her conscience bothered her about him, so she put some scones in a basket and tottered along to the low-roofed cottage on the edge of the bog. Finding the place empty, however, she began to think perhaps poor sad Harry had given up his lonely life, opting for a an early death within the bog. It made no difference how much she searched and called his name, her friend had simply disappeared.
She was old and tired, so for a moment sat down on a stool Harry kept on his porch, when something caught her eye—footprints: two sets that came all the way from the bog and up to the door of the cottage. She investigated at once, because they were the footprints of children; very small children. She followed them and found at the rear of the house that there were some more, but these were of normal size, presumably Harry’s. As she went around the side of the house she could clearly see that those tiny footprints were joined by the large ones, then as if transformed by magic the bigger ones disappeared, and all the way back to the bog were three tiny sets of footprints. This was a complete mystery, and no matter how often she went over it in her head, she could find no explanation. All she knew was that Harry and his fiddle had gone, and they were never seen again!
The First Famous Labour Colony
So there you have the legend. Now I shall give you some facts relating to the mystery marshlands, that because of a lord’s dream are to this day what we know as the central pastures of Scotland.
In the latter half o
f the eighteenth century a remarkable experiment was begun by a remarkable man on his land in the Vale of Menteith, the name given to the upper part of the Forth Valley. Seven years after the Carron Ironworks were established, Henry Home, Lord Kames, dreamt about turning part of his land which was a barren moor into a fertile plain. He planned to populate land which was once an uninhabitable quaking bog with scores of happy families.
In 1766 Lord Kames, who had been improving his land in another district, succeeded through his wife to the estate of Blair Drummond, near Doune in Perthshire, part of which included the Carse land above the point where the Forth and Teith rivers joined. At that time most of the Carse land between Stirling and the Menteith Hills was covered by a dreary expanse of peat, moss and heather which stretched for twelve miles up the valley, and formed with its deep and treacherous pools an almost impassable morass from one to two miles broad. Known at different places as the Flanders, Cardross, Kincardine in Menteith or Blairdrummond Moss, it lay to a depth of from 6 to 12 feet over a plain of good fertile land, the surface of which was about 30 feet above the level of high tides. The underlying ground consisted of fine grey clay with beds of shells, but no stones of any size. He considered it a highly desirable matter to remove the peat and lay bare the good land below, but how to sweep off the barren covering and reclaim much of the ground in an economically viable way had not yet been discovered.
Lord Kames, although in his seventieth year, had a young heart and a strong mind, and at once set himself the task of tackling the problem. His plan required many years to complete, but he courageously set to work, and although he did not live to see the end of it, he laid a good foundation, and worked at it for the remaining sixteen years of his life. He died in 1782 at the advanced age of eighty-six, and his son and successor, George Home Drummond, carried on the work with even greater skill and energy, and introduced several improvements, which eventually brought about the final and complete success of the old man’s great project.
When in the beginning Lord Kames had the idea of doing it, he approached the ruling fathers in Stirling who laughed at such a ridiculous project. To begin with, where were the skilled hands? Who knew anything about peat bogs?
Lord Kames had his answers ready: ‘It’s twenty years since the Jacobite uprising. The clan system has been broken up. Many of the poor clansmen have seen their homes burned and been chased from Scotland to make way for sheep. But you all know there are hundreds of them outlawed and hiding in the hills. They have the skills of working with peat. If pardons are given, I know we will see them looking for work.’
One councillor said that the Highland clansmen could only communicate in Gaelic, and anyway, there was not enough money to pay them even if the work was completed.
Lord Kames said if they gave the clansmen the pardons he was asking for, he would see to their wellbeing. So that was settled, permission was given and the destitute highlanders began the reclamation of Blair Drummond Moss. At long last they had work, a useful occupation for the strong and hardy men of the Highlands. It would prove a difficult task, and one for which they received no wage, but Lord Kames fed them and allowed many to lease the land. This proved a sound plan, because each section of the land being leased had to be cleared by its holder. There was no payment in money, but they were allowed to build small houses made of dried peat, and for a hard and successful year’s work, they earned a pig or a cow or some fowl.
A channel was cut from north to south through the moss and down to the clay below. At the north end a stream of water that had been used to drive a mill was diverted into it, and was thus led for a distance of about a mile to the Forth. The men would throw the peat into the stream, and the water had a powerful enough current to carry it down to the river. The underlying clay of the canal bed was as slippery as soap, so the thick stream of water and peat was well lubricated as it moved slowly down to the river.
This act of clearing the central belt of her peat bogs began with the clearing of Blairdrummond Moss. The Highlanders called this the First Famous Old Labour Colony.
When they and their families began to populate the cleared moss grounds, they built schools and chapels and set priests and teachers to work teaching their children and keeping their Sabbaths holy. If one takes a stroll throughout the Carse of Stirling, it is interesting to note how many places have Gaelic names.
As mile upon mile of moss were cleared, secrets held within its boggy depths were revealed. Whalebones along with other aquatic skeletons proved that indeed the ocean had covered that area many thousands of years ago. Something else was discovered—hundreds of Roman artefacts, including swords, knives, shields and helmets, pots of clay and some remnants of jewellery, proving that the Romans had been there during their occupation.
Another thing that may be of interest to you was that up until the beginning of the twentieth century, tinker women used sphagnum moss for nappies; this antiseptic plant had so many antibiotic properties that babies never suffered sore bottoms. The using of cloth brought with it that plague of babies, nappy rash, but this was never Mother Nature’s gift.
I hope you liked those wee snippets of moss stories. I think we’ll head back to Crieff now, and see how this scaldie fared in our flat at the bottom of Gallowhill.
31
FAMILY LIFE
Travelling people hate to part with their weans, even for a visit to relatives, and I was no exception. If for one day my wee boys were not under my wing I was unable to get on with everyday routine for worrying about my children. Johnnie had reached the age I dreaded; he was going to school. When I think back to those years I can still see his wee face all lit up with excitement. He wore grey trousers, shirt and jersey, black shiny shoes, satchel over his shoulder, ready to face a bigger world than the tiny storytelling one I’d cocooned him in.
Stephen whinged that first Monday morning because he wanted to go with his brother, but when I promised him a lollipop he sat quiet and watched his big brother, all five years of him, leave to take his place on the first rung of society’s ladder.
We left early to visit Davie’s parents first, because Margaret needed to see the new schoolboy in his uniform. I remember the way she fussed over him before slipping a folded handkerchief into the breast pocket of his blazer. That made me blush red, because I should have remembered a hanky, but she smiled, obviously aware of my embarrassment, and said, ‘that was his father’s first hanky, I’ve kept it for his wee boy.’
I felt unwell that morning, and put it down to leaving my child in the hands of complete strangers, but when I saw those other mums, some crying their eyes out, I thought mothers are the same the world over, be they scaldies or travellers. Stephen got his lolly, and for a while we walked about Crieff chatting to folk. Crieff folks love to blether, and even today when you wander through the town you’ll see them just standing about the place chatting away, forgetting the time, just enjoying a crack. Stephen and I had a coffee in Rugi’s Café, which was a favourite spot for women taking a break from shopping before either heading downhill to collect school kids, or in the case of older women, going home. Crieff’s High Street splits the town, with half uphill and the other down. So the folks going down needed a break before returning, and the ones climbing uphill needed refreshment when arriving.
When it was time to collect Johnnie, it couldn’t come fast enough. My God, how I missed my wean, and him only out of my sight for three hours. Lining up with all the other mums at the school railings, I watched as one by one the little primary children filed out like soldiers. He saw us first and came running towards me, eyes filled with tears. ‘Mammy, I done school and dinna like it, so I winna be going back!’
Well, as it happened he’d been in the middle of a lesson when the teacher gave a child a row. Her loud voice and stern face frightened him, so with half a tinker in his blood, he told the teacher she was a ‘Banshee’. That resulted in him getting a row and being made to sit at the back of the classroom. I tell you it took some powerful a
mount of persuading to see my laddie don that uniform the next day and walk back to face the ‘Banshee’.
My feeling unwell soon resolved itself in another pregnancy. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, because after having Stephen the doctor warned my health might suffer if I became pregnant again, and he tried to convince me to have a sterilisation. However I wanted a girl, and if one didn’t come, only then would I get the operation; one way or the other, I needed to try.
I kept on working as long as I could, and what with seeing to my husband and ever-growing laddies, plus a baby on the way, all thoughts of my past and the ancient history of my people was, like a family heirloom, folded and put away in a cold linen drawer. No more did I cling to the memory of my dear old bus, or those wild remote places I so cleaved to in the olden days. Gone were the berry fields o’ Blair, and bracken-cutting in Inverary. Filed away in the further reaches of my mind were the bowed tents filled with dirty-faced weans laughing and dashing from yellow broom to knotty oak. The clan system maintaining ancient feuds, which had me loving some tribes and terrified of others, was just a lost memory. I was now the property of mainstream society. My life was insured through a red-faced collector for the Co-operative, who came every Friday at tea time. I was registered with the local health practice; even the mole on my back and the scar above my forehead was noted on a record held along with thousands of others in a doctor’s surgery. Even my teeth were counted, and unwillingly filled each time I visited the dentist—and if I failed to go he warned me that rotting teeth would poison my blood. Well, if I had bettered myself then it certainly didn’t feel like it; yet how easily one slips into the way of life that is dependent on others. I’d never wanted to be a link in that chain of settled, controlled members of society. I remember seeing a film about Dracula, and in a strange way I envied him because he changed at night into a bat and flew over cities and people. Lucky sod, was all I thought when I left the cinema.
