And then we caught sight of the Cullen Wild Girl; she was an old girl admittedly but undeniably wild. She was careering down the High Street in a fabulously unstable invalid car, a supercharged capsule, a blue motorised scarab hurtling under the viaduct that held back the sea. Soon, after a slow-motion arc she would land on water, capsize and float serenely towards Norway.
Several of the aforementioned adolescents were on the bus to Elgin and none too pleased to see their rector. One lad visibly sunk into the back seat, his baseball cap pulled down to his chin. Parents too were represented and chose to treat John with total deference despite their surprise on seeing a pillar of their community dressed like a midden.
The bus driver on the route through Morayshire’s fishing villages was a frustrated aircraft mechanic from RAF Lossiemouth. Only by moonlighting could he practice the skills that will one day enable him to claim his rightful place both in the sunset and in the cockpit of a Red Arrow. While whistling The Dam Busters theme tune through the bus intercom he thrust his vehicle up roller-coaster braes, guided it into rapid descents and as a memorable climax to the display negotiated at speed a full hair-pin bend. As his passengers buried their faces in the brown paper bags, thoughtfully positioned, he eased back on the throttle to glide through Portknockie, Findochty, Portessie and Buckpool.
The official sign welcoming visitors into the proud conurb of Portknockie declared with a hint of triumphalism and parochial pride KNOCKERS AYE AFLOAT. The image conjured distant memories of childhood swimming lessons at the local pool.
As we passed through Buckpool John pointed out the beach which was the centre of claim and counterclaim in The Northern Scot. A gypsy traveller had allegedly relieved himself in full public view thereby scandalising most of the inhabitants who enjoyed having their prejudices confirmed.
The destination board on the bus should have read THE FIFTIES. The only goods for sale in the shops were innocence and nostalgia.
John reminded me that in the 1770s there would have been nothing but clusters of dreich hovels above the shingle up which the boats were dragged. Abject poverty and brutal short lives were the order of Johnson’s day. He brought to mind John Bellany’s stark paintings of fishermen who stare dislocated and consumed with dread at an unseen horizon.
As we crawled through Buckie a sullen youth pushed an empty shopping trolley down the street. In a burst of drunken benevolence he had presumably offered his mate not only accommodation for the night but also a lift home. His mother had been less than pleased to find her new lodger snoring in a trolley parked in the hallway.
His mates were sitting in a perfect line in the window of a cafe leering and making faces at every passing woman under the age of fifty. Two very young girls pushing prams crossed the road to avoid the sneering gauntlet.
The bus accelerated through the sound barrier on the approach to Fochabers. I assumed initially that the woman was merely rubbing her eyes, I then realised she had already surrendered one eyeball to the g-force and was keen to preserve its neighbour.
Boswell noted, ‘Fochabers is a poorlike village, many of the houses ruinous. But it is remarkable they have in general orchards well stored with apple-trees.’ Dr Johnson for his part made no mention of the orchards; he just shuddered lest some wizened person rushed out and offered him a poisoned fruit.
The fifty yards or so separating the Gordon Estate from the High Street was fenced off on account of the construction of the mighty Fochabers bypass. There were no eco-warriors in evidence, no neo-Swampies living in ditches. I did though listen to a woman at the bus stop who was clearly distressed that the construction work and the subsequent new road meant that she could no longer easily visit the lake where her grandparent’s ashes were scattered. To her the gulf was insurmountable; it was as if her acceptance of their death had been delayed so long as she could walk round the lake and talk to them. The by-pass had finally severed her thin link with her past.
More mundanely, the Folk Museum was closed for at least an eternity while the library proudly announced that free dog bags could in fact be uplifted from every library in the county. Forget pushing back the knowledge frontiers with banks of computer terminals; this was the sort of innovative diversification guaranteed to ensure the survival of the library as an institution well into the twenty second century. The helpful picture of a dog on the leaflet failed to make clear if they were dispensing body bags for dead dogs or receptacles for the droppings of those still living.
The Elgin bus was full and we were told to step off the running board. I glanced at the roof to see if there were any emaciated local people each with a precious goat squashed against the hand rails in a pastiche tribute to the Indian sub-continent but no. There was though the strong likelihood that the driver recognised John as the teacher from his past who had made his life a total misery by suggesting that extortion, bullying, and arson were sadly not on the new Curriculum for Excellence.
By the time the next bus arrived the grieving granddaughter had erected her own small cairn of fag ends.
Johnson would have been incredulous had he seen the extent of Forestry Commission activity. Clumps of mechanically wrenched roots and the mangled limbs of the fallen followed the road. The sense of devastation was magnified by the unexplained presence of single trees that had survived the cull. Paul Nash the war artist had set up his easel in a clearing and could be heard muttering ‘Wait until the Ministry sees this.’ In the forests that were still waiting to be cut down to size the bellicose theme found its reprise in the white samurai headbands tied round the waists of selected trees for an unfathomable reason.
ELGIN TWINNED WITH … I missed the list of fortunate but obscure European towns. Hades? Berchtesgaden?
‘About noon (we) came to Elgin, where in the inn, that we supposed the best, a dinner was set before us, which we could not eat. This was the first time, and except one, the last, that I found any reason to complain of a Scottish table; and such disappointments, I suppose, must be expected in every country, where there is no great frequency of travellers.’
Johnson was unimpressed with The Red Lion at 44 High Street. Unsurprisingly the premises are now residential. How could any self respecting inn keeper survive the vicious scrutiny of the fat restaurant critic from The Rambler?
Birkbeck Hill claimed to have solved the mystery of the foul meal served to the travellers. The landlord, Bailie Leslie, mistook Johnson for another large pompous guest, Thomas Paufer, a commercial traveller, who had taken to abusing the ‘Buy a meal and drink all you can’ offer and would only order the tiniest snack that would enable him to become paralytic. Forewarned, the inn staff conspired to serve Johnson with the most revolting meal they could conjure by way of deterrent. Like disgruntled bar staff down the ages they probably spat, or worse, in his beef collops and mutton chops.
The licensed premises nearest to 44 High Street was the ubiquitous Wetherspoons where I left John in charge of a pint while watching Hearts v Hibs on Sky.
Johnson and Boswell spent most of their time in Elgin inspecting the ruins of the cathedral in the rain. Presumably they didn’t have to wait until the custodian returned from lunch. As Boswell seemed delighted to have discovered the monument to a nun I asked if it could still be seen. Blank incomprehension is the most positive interpretation I can put on the reaction. A subsequent question about references to the visit in any of the guide books elicited the comment that tourists only wanted to look at pictures. I tried hard to convince myself that this reaction was evidence of the unrelenting anti-Johnson feeling provoked by the publication of his Journey in 1775.
One of the reasons why the nun’s stone was no longer there was attributable to the enlightened church authorities who in 1825 indulged a local labourer who made it his life’s work to clean up the cathedral and cart away all ancient pieces of masonry. John Shanks emptied 2866 barrow loads of rubbish into the Order Pot, an offshoot of the River Lossie, once considered bottomless and hence the ideal place in which to dunk t
he local witches.
Despite the scale of the destruction Johnson was less moved than he had been by the ruins at St. Andrews for the simple reason that, on this occasion, John Knox was not to blame. The culprit was a simple Highland hooligan and serial pillager, the Wolf of Badenoch who fell out with the local bishop in the 1380s for taking sides with his estranged wife. It is not too difficult to see why the church failed to support the son of King Robert II whose main recreational activity was siring upwards of forty illegitimate children. The Wolf threw his toys out of one of his many prams and went on an arson, rapine and plundering spree that made the raid on Dresden seem like a mild rebuke. In the best Catholic tradition the threat of excommunication was sufficient to induce a sincere contrition and serene repentance in the Wolf who was finally honoured by burial in Dunkeld Cathedral.
Determined to demonstrate that every cloud has a lead lining the local authorities then proceeded to strip the roof and ship the cladding to Holland. Johnson noted gleefully that the boats with their leaden cargo both floundered in the North Sea and all hands were lost.
A sign next to the cathedral announced the proximity of the Biblical Garden. Ever eager to shake the tree of knowledge and sample the odd forbidden fruit I was disappointed to discover that I would have to wait until at least the discovery of the Ark or the second coming, depending on which happened first, before the gardens opened for the season. I did though climb the wall hoping to catch a glimpse of the Gethsemane theme ride under its tarpaulins.
Johnson considered Elgin ‘A place of little trade and thinly inhabited.’ The writer of the First Statistical Account of Scotland noted the same trend some twenty years later and attributed the cause to the locals choosing to marry ‘when they are advanced in years, and then a puny helpless race of children is produced. Hence, how many men of every description remain single, and how many women of every rank are never married, who in the beginning of this century, and even so late as 1745, would have been the parents of a numerous and healthy progeny?’
A further cause was to be found in the fact ‘that everything cold is in disuse. Clothing is warmer. Warm liquors, as punch, tea, etc are the fashion, even among the lower classes. On the whole we have come more effeminate … The women lead sedentary lives in spinning, from which arise obstructions etc that often terminate fatally.’
A glance at the punters in Wetherspoons did suggest that even now few were burdened with the responsibilities of either child rearing or spouse pleasing. Having said that, there was not much of the effeminate about the exiled Hearts supporters applauding their victory; punch was not on sale and few of the women were spinning.
That evening at his steading John and I spoke long into the night about families, work, retirement, the past, dead friends, football, and whisky. This last topic assumed a less than theoretical aspect as John had amassed an astonishing collection of malts from long defunct distilleries. I thanked him for his drink, his company and general nonsense only regretting that he was unable to accompany me on my next leg.
Nairn – Forres – Cawdor – Fort George – Inverness
With time to spare at the bus station I wandered into the associated shopping complex. The store called Whispers paraded lines of huge lurid fantasy bras and florid plastic suitcases emblazoned with Just married, and by implication subtle promises of perfect sex, 2.4 children, a mortgage and happiness without end. The years flew past in the twinkling of an eye. Next door was Shopmobility, its wheelchairs lined up for a Brands Hatch start, mobility scooters straining at the leash, paraplegic ramps ramping and a sexy line in Classic Canes. With your arthritic wrist clamped over the carved skull of a small bird or an ivory fleur-de-lys you can stride off into your personal sunset with great confidence and a song in your heart.
Outside the shops the Press and Journal advertising board told an expectant world that Moray Council move on Travellers. Was the queue in which I stood about to be machine-gunned into compliance by some jobsworth in a high-visibility jacket?
We boarded the 305 Bluebird bus to Nairn without incident. The twelve year old driver was hiding his age behind dark glasses which made it easier for him to turn a blind eye to the woman peering out from behind a large bush which she manoeuvred into the seat next to her. Birnam Wood must be close. At this point in their journey Johnson had also started to make numerous references to Macbeth.
Hedge woman was followed by a man holding a single golf club. Presumably if he suspected the presence of a sniper behind the foliage across the aisle he would lay into her with his number 4 iron. Behind golf man came a youth hiding a massively elongated head in a smurf hat and wearing headphones as big as family-sized pizzas.
As we passed through Forres I caught sight of a plaster gnome on a swing in a front room window. Why had it been promoted from the garden? What small act of heroism had warranted this elevation? Was there a waiting list determined by seniority? Was it a punishment? ‘I’ll teach you to moon at the neighbours, you little bastard. You can just hang there for a few days.’
I misread a shop sign assuming it promised Trophy Witches and not trophies and watches. On balance I preferred the thought of handsome warlocks flaunting black-toothed Victoria Beckham doppelgangers on their arms. A witch hunt was under way.
A banner in a field urged me to Put British Pork on my Fork. There was something inexplicably gross about the image although I couldn’t explain why. For some reason I saw Blackshirts parading through Bethnal Green.
A roadside sign pointed to Activities. These activities must have been undefined for good cause. Presumably they were of an unsavoury nature.
Boswell also engaged in an unsavoury activity at this point in the journey. He stopped the chaise and in ghoulish tourist mode stood beneath the gibbet from which hung the semi-decomposed body of Kenneth Leal who must have regretted robbing the Elgin mail.
We passed a bus shelter designed as an alpine shrine.
One of the passengers again bore an uncanny resemblance to my mother. Why was she following me? It was definitely her sitting there, disapproving as she fiddled with her brown gloves and wearing her distinctive beige coat.
All of the passengers on the bus were travelling alone and were all huddled against the windows. There were no couples. This was strange. I had stumbled on a guarded local secret – this was the dating bus. They were in fact communicating in a variety of subliminal ways, putting out subtle signs of availability and preference. The hands crossed in the lap, left over right meant something. The scarf casually brushing both lapels was obviously a great come-on to the initiated. Not to mention the tapping foot. Before the bus arrived in Inverness phone numbers would have been swapped, pension books compared and long years of celibate widowhood were about to end in the nearest Premier Travel Inn to the A 96. At least I hoped so.
Boswell said of Nairn ‘It is a very poor place to be a county town and royal burgh.’The commentator in the First Statistical Account subsequently made the somewhat strange observation that the ‘natives were of average height.’ What had he expected, tribes of Oompa Loompas cavorting in the ditches, pygmies living in bins? A cursory glance down at the denizens of the High Street suggested they were still of average height. There could of course be giants in the adjacent schemes who spent their days leaning languidly on telegraph wires between games of basketball played with the inflated bladders of small people. I would be watchful.
Johnson declared ‘At Nairn we may fix the verge of the Highlands; for here I first saw peat fires, and first heard the Erse language.’ Written Erse was apparent in the sign above the local library LEABHARLANN INBHIR NARANN. But not a word of Erse could be detected floating on the linguistic breeze. Just a loud Yorkshire voice and a woman whose RP vowels were so garrotted that they tumbled like dead things into her green wellies.
At Nairn Johnson and Boswell received an invitation to visit Kenneth Macaulay, the author of a History of St. Kilda at his manse in Cawdor. They had a quick word with the long suffering driver of the
post chaise and journeyed along the banks of the River Nairn. We know nothing about this loyal soul who conveyed his odd passengers from Newcastle to Inverness. Had he been able to write he could have made a small fortune with his Confessions of a Cabbie. Tit bits from the Mouths of the Great Overheard on a Journey. With Pretentious Speculations and Idle Erudition from Dictionary Johnson and his small friend. Did Boswell slip him the occasional sovereign to secure the lustful services of the barefooted tavern maids? Did either of them ever speak to their anonymous driver?
At least they had a driver and a means of conveyance. Realising that there was no bus service from Nairn to Cawdor I hired a bike. I was warned against following the river path for the whole journey as it disappears after two miles into jungle so dense that the previous week three Japanese soldiers had emerged blinking into the daylight. They aggressively enquired if the war was over and steadfastly refused to surrender their weapons to the Highland Council peace and reconciliation team.
Not having cycled for years any initial exhilaration was soon replaced by disbelief at the sheer effort involved. I heard myself muttering ‘Piss off!’ at the numerous exhortations to slow down, drive carefully and beware of rumble strips. I couldn’t even spot any interesting road kill to distract me from the ordeal of turning ancient legs, only an ominous harvest of wing mirrors, a small price paid by boy racers for the joy of smacking cyclists into ditches and over hedges.
Boswell's Bus Pass Page 10