by Jess Smith
BEDLINGTON/GREYHOUND CROSSES
A good Bedlington/Greyhound cross is said by many travellers to be one of the best Lurchers available—if you can get one. The difficulty is that very selective breeding by the specialists has produced a Bedlington which is no longer as effective for work as its predecessors and, therefore, when crossed it often lacks many of the characteristics which once made it such a superb dog. This is also Ginge’s experience.
It was once an exceptionally common dog with travellers in the North. The original was a cross with colossal stamina, able to take any game (rabbit, pheasant, hare or deer). Its thick coat gave protection against bad weather and against thorns and barbed wire; it was a very hard worker with a good nose, but its disadvantage was that it was not a bright dog, and so needed careful training as it did not easily think for itself. Although there are times when a dog needs to act by instinct training, it can be a disadvantage not to think for itself.
STAFFORDSHIRE/GREYHOUND CROSSES
Not a common Lurcher amongst travellers, though Welsh Romanies sometimes have one. I have never seen one at work, but am told they are courageous and have considerable stamina but are bad tempered with other dogs and can see that as a more desirable activity than the coursing itself. Their use is almost entirely limited to rabbits.
ODDS AND SODS
Only eight other crosses are recognised as Lurchers—Foxhound, Beagle, Golden Retriever, Spaniel, Setter, Rottweiler, Doberman and Labrador. Perhaps it’s a little unjust to put all other Lurchers into this category but, in my experience, there are very few to be found other than those listed above. I have seen Greyhound/Labrador crosses, which appear to be intelligent dogs, and once a Greyhound/Setter Lurcher, but I have no idea how these dogs performed. I have also heard of Rottweiler crosses which purport to take an elephant (well, a slight exaggeration here) but the experts tell me that with the Rottweiler’s nature, such Lurchers would be unlikely to be much good. Similarly, I am told that Lurcher/Lurcher progeny are often pretty useless. Ginge says that there is a lot of waste with such dogs, and good ones are hard to find.
So now, friends, when you hear stories of travellers who allow dogs to roam wild and also of tales about sheep killing, then you will know that the owners of these pets have not prepared their background with enough responsibility.
Thanks to Bob for that insight into the travelling man’s favourite dogs, which now leads me into this next tale. Another one of Mac’s.
15
THE LAST WOLF
Midway between the Highland villages of Brora and Helmsdale there stands a stone. Inscribed on it are these words:
To mark the place near which (according to Scrope’s ‘Art of Deerstalking’) the last wolf in Sutherland was killed by the hunter Polson, in or about the year 1700. This stone was erected by His Grace The Duke of Portland, K.C., A.D. 1924.
This commemorates the tale of how the said hunter went into Glen Loth with two youngsters, one his son, the other a herds boy. In a rocky mountain gully around the burn of Sledale they came upon a narrow fissure in the rocks. The laddies squeezed down and found a small cavern and in among the debris of bones and feathers there were six wee wolf cubs. Polson instructed the boys to kill the cubs. Now, when she heard her cubs screaming, the tormented mother, not seeing the concealed hunter, tried to rescue her young. Polson dived forward, and holding her by the long bushy tail, was able to stab her to death. In those days Polson was considered a hero, today he would have been marched into a court of law and prosecuted for animal cruelty.
Here then is Mac’s tale of a wolf.
It was when the twentieth century was at its start that a young travelling couple found themselves in the valley of the Tweed. Many miles of cart road without stopping had left them footsore and belly-weary. She was in labour with a first-born, and desperately needed a birth-bed.
Rachel bit hard upon her bottom lip; her pains were more powerful now than earlier and still they had not found a place to stop for the night. ‘God help me, Jimmy, but if I don’t lie down somewhere this baby will drop out onto the hard road.’
Her much-suffering husband had tried all day to find a suitable spot, but whenever he pulled the horse off the road a landowner appeared at the roadside and threatened him, each more menacing than the one before.
The last man came brandishing a hunting rifle. Jimmy practically begged on bended knee. ‘My wife is near her time: surely you can find it in your heart to allow us this small corner of a field?’ But nothing doing. So it was with great reluctance that Rachel and Jimmy found their journey’s end in the depth of a thick forest. The forest of Glentress. ‘I know these woods,’ he told his wife, ‘I remember coming here several times with my father’s family when I was a boy. We’ll be safe now, I know we will.’ Soon the tent was erected and Rachel lay on her birth-bed of soft fern and green mosses.
As the first streaks of early dawn sunshine crept over the skyline a tiny cry filled the forest. Those weary travellers now had a son; their first born. Jimmy drew water from the burn and set light to a few sticks, then boiled a brew for his exhausted wife. Rachel was hungry, but the previous day’s long arduous walk had left her so tired she could hardly lift her head. So after a gentle wash she and her new-born snuggled up inside the rounded canvas tent and both slept away the morning, while her man set off into the comforting shelter of the thick trees to find food.
It was peaceful at the small campsite and Jimmy knew his wife and child would be safe from harm. No need to concern himself about landowners, because they seldom ventured deeper than the perimeter dykes, usually sending foresters in to check instead. Jimmy knew the old man who patrolled this place and had gone with his father and gamed with him several times. ‘No, they’ll be safe,’ he convinced himself. After a few hours and two rabbits later he set off back to their temporary abode. A good distance from home a terrible scream, that sent dozens of wood pigeons fleeing skyward, had Jimmy, heart beating faster than a hare’s, leaping burn and bush to his family’s side. Soon, breathless and panting he was at Rachel’s bed. She and the baby, thank God, were unharmed, but something had frightened her. ‘So help me, I’ll swing for the beast that put this fear intae ye, Rachel,’ he cried, convinced that some so-called gentleman had found the tiny campsite in the clearing.
‘It was no man, my husband, an’ I wish tae all that is sacred that it was. No, it was a hound! One as big as any I have ever set eyes on. It had the eyes of a devil, and Lord roast me if I lie tae ye, husband, but it wanted the baby, I swear, it was our child it wanted.’ Poor Rachel, she cradled her child so tightly Jimmy though she might smother him.
‘Give me the bairn, Rachel, I’ll check him to see there’s no marks on him.’ Jimmy didn’t wish to seem unconcerned, but a hound—well, relief spread through him; his wife must have been dreaming. However, Rachel knew that no fever or fright could make her imagine things. She had seen something and had no wish to spend another minute in that forest because of it.
‘I’ll fill a heart intae the fire, lass, while you feed the little yin, then we’ll eat this gift from God.’ He moistened a flannel, then wiped the sweat from her brow. ‘Bonnie lassie, I know these parts, but if you think you saw a big dog then I’ll visit up on Braeside cottage and speak with Ian the keeper, he’ll put me right.’ That seemed to quieten her, allowing him to skin and cook the rabbits.
Later it was a stunned Jimmy that heard what the old keeper had to say.
‘Well, well, she’s still there, I thought Sir Colin took her out last winter.’
The said gent was a relative of the estate’s owner and had spent some time in the Canadian Rockies, said old Ian. He was there shooting; his favourite hobby was killing anything that moved. To add to his sport he was supposed to have smuggled over to Scotland—of all things—a wolf.
‘A wolf!’ Jimmy felt his bottom jaw drop, ‘what in the name o’ hell was he planning to dae wi’ a wolf?’
‘Aye, ye may well ask. Seems he had the idea o�
� filling the woods wi’ the creatures. Bring in his buddies and have wolf shoots. Nothing doing wi’ that stupid idea because every sheep farmer for hundreds of miles would have put paid to his wolf before he could bring in breeders. However he had the good sense to kennel the bitch, but did she not chew her way out. I scoured the ground for the poor cratur, never seen hide nor hair of her though. We breathed easy, thinking a dog fox might have killed her, until a young travelling laddie told me he heard puppy yelps coming from a hole in the forest. I told Sir Colin and we found seven pups. The only explanation to that must have been that a mating took place with the traveller’s Alsatian dog, they have a wolf-like way.’
Jimmy sat heavily down and thought on his wife and child, then excused himself and was gone. ‘I’ll pack and go this very day. If Rachel sees yon beast again she’ll go oot her senses.’ Jimmy was soon striding for home. He checked to see no one was near before climbing the dyke and disappearing back into the trees, but oh my, a shout from the hillside had him rear his head. It was the man with the gun, the one they encountered the previous day.
Old Ian however had meant to give Jimmy a bit of salmon, and chased after him just in time to stop Sir Colin shooting the travelling laddie stone dead.
‘Put that gun away, sir, for Jimmy here is the son of a friend o’ mine!’
‘What would you be doing mixing hands with the likes of rodents, Ian?’ asked the angry man.
‘Well, I ken o’ nane other than the travellers for keeping a trim on vermin. Everybody has their uses, Sir Colin, you know.’ Old Ian obviously was held in high esteem, because not many would get leave to speak like that to the landed gentry.
Jimmy, though, had been held back from being with his family and if it wasn’t for the scream Rachel sent through the forest that moment, he would have grabbed Sir Colin by the throat. Instead, ignoring him, Jimmy and old Ian ran to Rachel’s aid.
What a terrible sight met their eyes: the small canvas tent was flattened, firewood lay scattered. Rachel stood motionless, arms hung limp at her side. Worst of all, Jimmy’s baby son was nowhere to be seen. He grabbed his stunned wife and, shaking her, shouted, ‘what has happened to the wee yin? Rachel, the bairn, tell me!’
Rachel slid onto the forest floor, and holding a tiny white shawl toward the heavens screamed, ‘It took him, came back and took ma babby! I told you it wanted our bairn. Oh, why did you leave me?’ From then on she would not be consoled, such was her torment of despair. Jimmy turned to old Ian for help, but all seemed lost. A hungry wolf, what did they know of such things? No one knew anything of North American timber wolves in Scotland. Suddenly Sir Colin forced a way through the gorse and when he saw what had happened immediately apologised. ‘I had better tell you both,’ he said, ‘I found out that those travellers had returned, the ones who came last year. They spent a few weeks over on the other side of the forest. They had dogs, I think one must have been the Alsatian. I found a lair with more young and killed them. I know where it is; perhaps I can make amends and take you there. Maybe the she-wolf will be resting and feeding on...’. Quickly he stopped his tongue and walked off, old Ian and Jimmy at his heel. They left poor Rachel swaying from side to side, beating her breast and mumbling in the ancient mourning tongue of her ancestors. Jimmy caught the sleeve of Sir Colin’s jacket and threatened revenge for the disaster he was responsible for.
The gent wasn’t listening, however, because suddenly a sight rose up in front of the threesome. Jimmy and old Ian had never seen such a vision. A great grey form barred their way, standing its ground; dropping its head and with curled lip it flashed pure white fangs. Sir Colin slipped his hand down to where a ready-loaded rifle hung and lifted it to shoot. The big she-wolf charged, slashing with her mighty jaws, and landed on Sir Colin just as he fired. Both fell upon the mossy floor of the forest, blood pouring from the mighty beast. At last her torment was over, but she did not go alone. Sir Colin, for all his sins, also lay dead, having fallen upon a jagged tree stump. It all happened so fast that old Ian and Jimmy hardly had time to draw breath. Suddenly from a small opening beneath them, a cry was heard. Jimmy pushed his head inside a cave-like place, and there, lying on a bed of crushed dry leaves, was the living, breathing form of a baby—his own child. The mother wolf had substituted their newborn puppy for her lost ones. That was the only explanation they could think of. Jimmy and Rachel (who believed God had looked after her baby) left Glentress Forest the next day, and went on to have seven more children. Their precious first child was christened Ian. But he was seldom called by that name. Travelling people, however, will tell you the nickname he goes by—Wolfie!
I shall be hard pushed to forget Mac’s parting words on the wolf of Glentress. ‘A lassie a wee bit “gyte” was yon timber wolf,’ he told me, meaning she had been broken and did not fit.
Deary me, the ways of the world.
Still, no time to dwell, because we’re on the road again, a long road at that. Manchester looms, she of the thousands of people—all kinds of folks, different colours and creeds. However, very few of them were Scottish travellers, so let’s tell you how we fared during the winter of 1963, ten years after our last visit.
Before we settle there for the winter I’ll part with another tale for your attentive eyes. This wee story I now slip in was from an elderly Welsh traveller. His name was Eddy Blue Boy the Third. Sorry I can’t elaborate on the title, but he made me laugh and that is why this story stays in my mind.
I had seldom heard the ancient worthies until then, and although he parted with several tales it was this one that stuck firmly in my head.
16
DAVIE BOY AND THE DEVIL
Time and place have no meaning to the characters of our tale, so just say it happened a while ago in this place and that.
Davie was a traveller boy who had, after many years, come wearily home from a seafaring life looking for his family. When he at last arrived at the campsite where they’d last met, he was sad to see it empty, void of old and young, dog and pony. Sitting down on a stone, head in hand, he looked around the place where many had played and he felt heart-heavy. Scanning the quiet place before heading off, he noticed that where his camp usually stood was a mound of perhaps only a foot wide. As he began to scrape away the small handful of sand he recalled his father saying to him as a little boy, ‘if I have a message for you I’ll bury it.’ Yes, this was a message from his father, because in the hollow he uncovered lay a box. In it were three biscuits and a note. The note read: ‘If you be hungry, my son, don’t eat these biscuits until you have shared them.’ What a strange thing for his father to say, he thought. Still, his father was a wise man, and he had taken the time to conceal the box for Davie, who by the way was beginning to feel a mite hungry. However, he would abstain from a morsel until he met someone hungrier than himself. This was just around the corner because there he found an old back-bent woman who asked him for a small crumb of food. ‘I only have three biscuits old hag,’ he told her, ‘but you are welcome to share one with me.’ The wizened wife thanked him, ate the half biscuit then went at a snail’s pace away. Soon he came upon another old lady and she too asked him for food. ‘There are two biscuits in my bag but I’ll share one with you.’ Again the elderly soul thanked him for his kindness and crawled off.
Two days later his hunger had taken on a life of its own, gnawing at his innards. ‘I must eat this last biscuit,’ he thought in desperation, scanning the skyline for someone to appear. Just as he was putting the biscuit to his lips a sound from the roadside reached his ears. ‘Help me, please, I am starving to death.’ Davie made over to a clumpy grassy patch to find, lying in a dreadful state, another ancient woman. This one was even more sickly than the others. ‘Help me to sit up, young man,’ she begged, ‘I have no strength in these bones.’ Davie bent down and gently seated her against a tree trunk.
‘Here, old wife, I have only one biscuit left, but you can have it all.’
‘Thank you, my good man’, she said, handing hi
m a woven sack. ‘You deserve much more than a biscuit.’ Davie thought the old woman was perhaps missing her marbles, for what good was an empty sack to one who was in the last throes of hunger?
‘When I am gone down that road, you open the sack and ask it for whatever you desire, but never a thing of badness or greed.’ Those parting words left Davie totally confused. He scratched his head and sat down upon the same patch of grass she had sat on no more than minutes before. The hunger returned with a vengeance, eating steadily deep into his gut. He peered inside the sack, and making sure no one should see him and think his actions those of a madman, whispered, ‘Can I please have food?’
And did he have food? Did he ever! For there, to astonish his eyes, was a table bigger than one set in a banqueting hall, of every kind of eatables one could wish for. And for one who had the merest crumbs of shared biscuits in his belly, then was that not a feast! Davie ate until the last bite swelled in his throat and nearly choked the once-hungry lad.
Then, like a babe, he lay within a sun-warmed grass field and slept, slept and dreamt of steak and vegetables, puddings and creams, salmon and fruits, all produced from an old hessian sack. Yes, if ever there was a happy traveller man then he’d be hard pushed to beat our Davie.
Awakened and refreshed he carefully folded the magic sack and tied it over his shoulder. Little knowing or caring where his wandering footsteps would lead him, Davie set off down and over the road that led to somewhere or nowhere. By the day’s end he’d arrived at a town snuggled within high stone walls in the middle of which was a castle. ‘This is a strange place,’ he thought, noticing an obvious lack of inhabitants. As he looked all over for a place to shelter for the night, it soon became apparent not a single house had a light or open shutters to its name. Finding no one he went and knocked loudly at the castle gate. He waited some time before at last the gate creaked open, and standing peering out from behind the heavy wooden gate was an old man who asked Davie his business. ‘I need digs for the night, where can I lodge?’