The Horsieman

by Ducan Williamson

  But when we came to a farmer who had a job for my father, he’d build us tents, one for himself, one for the girls and one for us, little bow tents. And we’d argue and fight, nip each other and pick each other. He would say, ‘Now behave yourselves, children. Tomorrow we don’t know what’s going to happen.’ Having a big family, you had to cope with them. But they were kindly persons, my parents, very kindly. They never beat us, never argued with us. My mother was a jewel. She was a great woman. And so was my father, and he was a big man. We had many wonderful times together. He knew he had a large family, and he knew he had to cope with it. But the most important thing was, teaching us things that he had known himself when he was young, what he wanted to teach us.

  He knew that someday we would leave and have to go out in the world and do our own thing. And he made sure that we were qualified to do just that. I could clip sheep when I was ten years old, because my father had taught me. I could cut peats when I was only twelve. And he had shown me, ‘Now do this way, laddie!’ I could make a basket when I was five years old. I could make heather scrubbers or make a besom, which has nothing to do with farm work. And he would always say, even though you had made a bad job, ‘Oh well, that’s not too bad. You’ve done well there. Keep it up. Do it again.’ Even though it wasn’t very good-looking. The first basket I made was twisted and out of line. He said, ‘You’ve made a wonderful job!’ So this was our education, what you couldn’t get if you went to school. Because once you stayed in school all the time, your whole culture changed.

  If I had been in school all my life from the age of six till fourteen, I should never have known about the curse of the standing stones, the love of walking, and the stories. And this travelling education was the most important thing: you knew the names of all the wild flowers, the name of every insect. You went to the anthills, were warned not to touch this, not to touch that and leave things alone. Not to take too much fish from the river, don’t eat and take too much shellfish, leave some for another day. It was schooling in a way. Because down through the ages the old traveller people in their lives had never been in school; but they became wonderful people, and knew many wonderful things that scholars didn’t know.

  MY WEE MAGGIE

  ‘O my wee Maggie’s a humph and a proochen

  A bu’n wood sprachen, my wee Maggie.’

  Johnie with the bundle, Maggie with the can

  Up the glen tae the auld blind man,

  ‘Up the glen tae the auld blind man

  And we’ll feek wir weed in the morgan.’

  Johnie said tae Maggie, ‘O, bing into the shed,

  I will shake the strummel and you can make the bed,

  For this is the place where your naismort she was wed

  And we’ll bing doon the glen in the morgan.’

  [Traveller courtship cong, translation from cant:

  ‘My wee Maggie is a strong carrier and a natural speaker

  With a bold, undaunted tongue.’

  Johnie carries the blanket, Maggie the teacan

  Up Tangy Glen to the mill owned by the two brothers, one of them blind;

  ‘And like travellers before us, we’ll get our tea in the morning.’

  Johnie said to Maggie, ‘O come into the shed,

  I will make the mattress and you can sort the bed

  For this is the place where your mother she was wed

  And we’ll go back home in the morning.’]

  Traditional

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE SOLDERING BOLT

  We had our schooling and my father did his best for us. In these days back in the early 1930s work was hard to get. There were all these small farms round about the district and they only employed one person, maybe two. And you maybe got a day’s work here and maybe a half day somewhere. But my father was a tradesman. He was a basketmaker and tinsmith. He could cope by his own way of working. But it needed my mother to sell his wares. He could make baskets and he was a fine tinsmith. And there was a demand in these times, just before the Second World War and after the 1914 war for his wares. And he could cope – with the people buying his stuff. My mother only sellt his wares in a small area – she had Inveraray and Furnace and Minard and Loch Gair. That was as far as she travelled on foot. And these people through the years who had used his products knew how good they were. They would say to whatever travellers passed through, and there were many who came to Argyll in these days, travelling through trying to sell baskets and selling tinware; ‘Oh no, oh no-no, we dinnae want nothing frae you. We’ve got wir own man who makes all these things fir hus. Betsy Williamson supplies us wi as much as we need. And we’re only sorry that we cannae buy something from her every day.’ You see what I mean? This was the story! And my father could supply everything that they needed because he could make kettles, he could make pots, he could make pans, he could make toasters, he could make baskets, he could make everything. He made them from tin. Now this was done to keep us at school. And he cut his wands for baskets from the wild willows in the woods, which he cut first the one year and then again the next year and so on. He knew every bush, he knew every tree, and he knew where to go to cut them, to pick them up. And he made scrubbers, or reenges for the pots, from the carlin heather. So this is how we were reared up.

  Traveller men and women were always busy making and trading their home-made wares – until the mid 1940s when the demand for tin dishes fell away with the coming of aluminium goods to the market. Before the end of the Second World War my father buried all his tinmaking tools, which had belonged to his father. He wouldn’t show us where he’d buried them, because he felt they were too precious to be lost or destroyed. The following is a description of the various tools and accoutrements for some of the many different types of traveller trades in which both men and women were engaged.

  The Tinker Man The tinsmith required a box of tin sheets, three feet by three feet; an anvil, made especially by a smith for making tin, which was portable; wooden mallet for taking wrinkles out of the tin; raisin hammer, which didn’t mark tin because the head was raised, used for shaping out or making bulges, and there were three types with iron, leather and wooden heads; snaps, to cut the sheets of tin; scutcher, a piece of wood for making seams; rivet tools, long pieces of iron with different sized holes for making tin rivets; rat stick, for measuring, it was a long piece of steel with a sliding tongue of tin; soldering bolts, three of differing sizes, one for corners; bar of solder; resin to make the solder stick; block of pitch to make pitched handles on the pans; copper wire to go round the mouth of the tin jug or pan for support; roll of hoop, thin strips of iron for making ears on pots; spirit of salt, dip to help solder take effect; flat hammer, for making corners; snottum or ‘pot stick’ for hanging pots and kettles over the fire.

  The Hawker The accoutrements were a hank for carrying and displaying the tinware, a circle of thick wire which hung on the wife’s shoulder as she carried the goods from door to door; inmated milk cans,1 basins for settling milk, made for farmers; square kettles, pots used for boiling tatties, soup, tea, making any food or drink; pans and big jugs; tea jugs, like enamel cups but made of tin; fish turners, spatulas; graters; toasters on legs which slid back and forth on the front of grates; milk cans, for carrying milk; sieves, for straining milk; sauce pans and flat frying pans.

  The Spoon Maker This set included a pot for boiling horn; six knives; files for sharpening knives; rasp, a large file for smoothing horse-hoof bones; selection of horn – sheep, cattle and cow; spoon set – iron spoon moulds for setting horn, which was first cut and soft boiled.

  The Basket Maker Equipment included a bundle of split hazel for making tattie creels or baskets; bundle of cane weighing about fifty pounds, split to make creels for holding tatties, feeding beasts, holding coal, kindlings and other domestic usages; bundle of wands weighing about twenty-five pounds, for making small message baskets; three–four knives; pliers; slipe, a hand-made wooden tool for peeling bark off willows.

  The
Cheeny Feeker He was a mender of delph or porcelain. He used a feeker’s bow and drill, a bent stick with a leather strap, like the early caveman’s fire starter; wooden drill in the centre of the strap for drilling holes in broken delph; a turn on the strap which was pulled back and forth to activate the drill; wooden drill-shaft with head of steel; steel clamps put in the holes of the delph to hold the pieces together.

  The Tiger Hunter He or she was a mender and maker of mats. She needed a roll of stack rope, coconut matting for door mats; large sack needle; ball of strong string for mending mats.

  The Pearl Fisher A traveller used a long hazel rod, six feet, with an end split and a ring for gripping the freshwater mussel shell; pearl jug, large with glass bottom to see through; sack for shell, once it has been collected; canvas boat (sometimes).

  The Scrubber and Besom Maker The tools used were a spool of wire, copper was best; sharp knife; long boots or stockings, for protection against snakes in the heather.

  The Mush Feeker He or she was an umbrella mender and they used a bundle of steel staves; roll of black cloth; roll of ribbon; box of ferrules, steel rings; umbrella ends, steel with rubber points; bone fringes for ends of staves; box of needles; knife; spare handles, made of deer horn, bone or wood.

  The summer of 1933, when I was five years old, my father got a wee job from an old man called Duncan MacVicar in Achnagoul. It would be about the month of May. The old farmer sent word down, ‘Will you tell Johnie to come up and gie me a wee bit help at making the hay?’ My mother tellt my father. And my father was dying to get a few days’ work.

  ‘Oh aye,’ he said, ‘Betsy, I’ll go up and get two-three shillings, and help you get a bite to the weans. I’ll go up the morn.’2

  So that night, anything Daddy wanted, we children were going to get it. All for the sake of going with him to this farm! He wouldn’t take the lassies, any of my three older sisters. And Willie was a bit too old. But my brother George, or Dodie, and I were going to get Daddy anything he asked. I said, ‘Daddy, what do you want? Do you want me to do anything for you? Are you wantin sticks?’ But finally he promised me he would take me with him the next day. And when he made a promise, you’d better believe it, he would keep it.

  He said, ‘Brother, I’ll take you with me tomorrow. Tae Achnagoul. Are you sure you can walk?’

  ‘Oh,’ I said, ‘Daddy, I’ll walk – I’ll run all the way with you.’ And I remember holding on to his jacket, a wee totie3 laddie. It was five miles. He wasn’t old in these days but he was a big man. Six foot odds. I’m holding on to his pocket, running all the road. And we got to the farm and we travelled up.

  This was the first time in my life I’d ever been in this place. But my father took me up and into this house. And this is the first time in my life I’d ever been in a house! The old farmer and his two aunties lived here. They brought us in. It was an old-fashioned house. And I was to spend many years in that old kitchen later on. There was a big table and a big fire, with a big iron kettle hanging on the swey at the front. What fascinated me were the two old sisters, to me like two old witches! Oh, they had these long dresses on them, buttony boots and their hair hung down their backs. There was this big old wooden table, with no tablecloth or anything. And these two big collie dogs sat in front of the fire. The old farmer and his two aunties knew my father very well.

  ‘Oh, come in Johnie and have a wee cup of tea.’ It was these old-fashioned clay mugs. And I mind on my father blowing the tea and giving me a wee sip out of the cup. I was just a wee shaver. Father says, ‘You sent for me to come up to the hay.’

  ‘Aye,’ said old Duncan MacVicar. I was to spend many years with him later on. This is where I gained my education. He said, ‘Aye, Johnie, I want you to cut me some hay.’

  ‘Oh,’ my father said, ‘aye, I’ll cut your hay.’

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘that’s the field down next to the main road.’

  Father said, ‘All right.’

  He said, ‘The harness is in the stable. And the horse is in the stable.’ Now that was all he tellt my father, not another thing. He said, ‘I’m gaun awa to the hill.’ It was lambing time.

  Father came down and he opened this door. There were two big horses standing in the stable. ‘In the name of God,’ I said, ‘what is my father going to do with these horses?’ I had never given it a thought before. And all this harness hanging up on these stacks along the wall pole and a bar across. And he takes a big leather belt, belts it up to the horse’s collar. He takes the other horse, puts it in the same way on the other side of the pole. And he belts this cross bar to the other horse’s collar. And he takes a long chain, cleeks it on one side of the machine, and another chain to the other side of the machine. He takes the four reins for the two horses down, two on that side and two on the other, and ties them in a knot. There’s a big handle – he wraps them round the handle. I’m amazed at this. Now there’s these two big metal wheels, and a big blade going out. All these wee things like fingers of your hands are sticking out the sides of this big blade.

  ‘Now,’ he says to me, ‘brother, I want to tell ye one thing; keep away fae that thing – it’s awfae sharp!’ The old farmer had tell him he’d sharpened it beforehand. There were two seats on the machine. He said to me, ‘You sit on that seat and I’ll sit on this one.’ Now he jumped up on one, and I jumped on the other. Now he said, ‘Haud on!’ But there was no place to hold! You had to hold on to the seat like a chair. And I’m sitting. ‘Chuik’, he clicked to the horses, and the two horses go forward. Away goes the machine!

  But we had a wee bit to go to the field. We went down this wee hollow and around to the foot of the field. He pulled the machine in close to the hedge, as close as could be. Now he said to me, ‘Brother, are you sitting all right?’

  ‘Aye,’ I said, ‘I’m sitting fine, Daddy.’

  He said, ‘There’s gaunna be an awfae noise.’

  I said, ‘How a noise? The’re nae noise off it yet.’

  ‘Ah, but,’ he said, ‘wait! It’s no workin yet.’

  I said, ‘What do ye mean? Oh, it’s no workin . . .’

  ‘Now,’ he said, ‘I haena put it in gear.’ There was a way, when the horses pulled it, you could put it in ‘free’ or you could put it in gear.

  So he pulled this lever and I saw this big blade going down, lowered into the grass – it was not grass, it was hay! And the hay was that height, about three feet high! He lowered the blade close to the fence. He turned a wee handle, and he chuiked the horses. And then it went, it started, bhrrrrrrrrrr, bhrrrrr. And I’m sitting down here on this seat. And he’s in that seat driving the horses and watching the drive shaft. It’s going bhrrrrrr bhrrr, like a thousand grasshoppers. The cutter blades are going back and forward like that, and the beautiful hay was getting cut. It was lying in rows, lying in rows. Right round the field, right round the field, close into the fence he stopped. I’m sitting watching these horses, and their two ears are going forward, you ken! And they’re walking, together tied to this pole. This to me was out of this world. I never was as happy in all the days of my life sitting on this thing! And he knew what he was doing. He went round the field twice. Now this, I was to learn later, was a reaping machine, an old Wallace reaper for cutting hay. And I’m so happy sitting beside him on this seat. So, round and round and round the field we go. Round and round and round. The farther he was going round, the more hay was getting cut, the centre of the field getting closer.

  All this hay was getting cut. Oh, we must have went on for about three hours. He looked up.

  He said, ‘We’ll stop now. Thon’s the old woman wavin to us. Old Morag.’ Morag and Chrissie were their names, the two old aunties. ‘She’s waving,’ Father said. ‘It’s dinner time.’ Father lowsed the two horses, lowsed the pole off their necks, took the harness off in the field. I was to learn later this was a thing the country hantle4 never did. Only travellers. The country hantle hadn’t got the idea. This was my father’s idea. Because the horse was wet, s
weating under the harness and sweating under the collar. By the time he had walked it to the farm and it stood for an hour and it walked back, the sweat was dry. But if he had walked it to the farm with the harness on, it would not have got a chance to dry. So he took off everything but the bridle. Because these collars were split. And he dropped them, put them beside the old reaping machine. He took the two horses with the reins over his shoulder and he walked them. And I’m walking.

  He said, ‘Are you wanting up on the horse’s back?’

  I said, ‘No, Daddy, I’m feart, I’m no gaun.’

  He said, ‘You’ll no faa!’

  I said, ‘I couldna sit.’ I never was on a horse’s back in my life.

  He said, ‘Come on, I’ll put you on the horse.’

  I said, ‘No, no, no! I’m no gaun on the horse’s back, no way in the world.’ He coaxed me. It was for my own good. But no. I said, ‘Gie me a haud o the rope.’ So he never actually gave me the rope. He held the rope and he gave me the bit that was on the other side of his hand. I was only a wee totie boy of five, and I’m holding this bit of the rope. I was thinking I was doing the work! So we led them up to the stable.

  He put them into the stable and he took an old bag, and he rubbed them down. He went to the big corn kist with a lid on it and he got a scoop. He filled it full of corn and put it in their two troughs. And I remember to this day . . . it must be exactly forty-eight years ago, nearly half a century, and I can remember it just like this moment.

  We walked up to the farm and it was up three steps to the house. The grass was growing on the steps and round the back there was a stick shed. And then there was a door for the hens going in, and a door for the cows going in. We went in the same door as the cow, two milk cows went in that way and turned right. And we turned left into the kitchen. My father took his bonnet off. I had never seen this show of respect before. He held his bonnet in his hand. He walked into the kitchen.