It took me a long time to get settled into the horsie business. You didn’t get the knowledge of horses easily. I mean, I wasn’t even accepted with these travelling people: when you came from another part of the country, from people who never had horses in their lives, such as my family; and you came among people who were born and reared with horses, you weren’t really accepted as a person who could understand the horsie trade! So I had to gather my own knowledge and make my own way so that my word might be taken – when I said something that really meant I knew what I was talking about. It may sound queer to you. But it took me nine years before I really could be accepted among these folk as a ‘horsieman’, after I’d had many deals, many swaps, many’s a bad deal and many’s a good deal. I bought my first horse at the age of twenty-one, and I would be thirty by the time I was really accepted. You had to gain your understanding of the people by having deals and swaps through the years with the travellers. It wasn’t the horse. But it was the talk – so that I could sit around the campfire and listen and be able to communicate with the persons and explain the troubles that a horse took, explain the diseases and the cures. And when it came to buying a young horse or breaking it in, my opinion was accepted. Because they knew from past experience that I knew what I was talking about.
A horse maybe looked beautiful. One man would say, ‘That’s a beautiful animal.’ I would say, ‘Okay, it’s a beautiful animal but he’s standing a wee bit bent in the front,’ meaning he’s a wee bit tight in the skin. His skin’s tight on his body, meaning he might have had a touch of hidebone. These small things you said were accepted and passed through the other travellers when they talked. They would say, ‘Aw, that’s a nice horse that Duncan’s got right the now. Well, that laddie knows what he’s talking about. He knows. He’s no fool.’ This didn’t happen in months or years. It took a long time. And then they’d say, ‘Oh, he’s a good man to have a deal wi. He kens what he’s talking aboot.’ One man would say, ‘I tried to deal him, but I couldnae dae nothing wi him.’ The other one would say, ‘Well, by God, I’ll tell you one thing, he’s the gamest ever I met!’ These are the small things that meant the world among travelling people. These were things said when you weren’t there, but were told to you later by people who’d heard them.
And then it came to the time – the stories round the fire. And if you could tell a good tale, even something that you heard told to you by somebody else, and capture the audience; then this was accepted that you knew what you were talking about. You see, the main thing that travellers were really interested in was your own experience. And they could pick up a lot from that. Somebody might tell stories that were a bit far-fetched, you know, unbelievable. But if it was entertaining, it was accepted. Not that they actually believed in it, but it was entertainment. So even suppose the story wasn’t yours; they thought if you believed it, and they had a good word for you and you accepted it, then . . . If he believes it, well, there must be something in it! This is the way the travellers worked.
I heard a story, and it was told to me by an old man. I came to Blairgowrie in 1948 and we all gathered round the campfire. And stories passed down, stories about this and stories about that, stories about ghosts and about good deals and bad deals among the horse trade, stories about bad horses and good horses, stories about fast horses and slow horses, about lazy horses and stories about kicking horses and biting horses, you know what I mean! And then stories were told about, eh, the belief that horses could see evil and about ghost horses that were fed by unknown spirits right through the evening.
And this old man I remember, called Angus Stewart, he said, ‘Well, people, you’re probably no gaun to believe what I’m gaun to tell ye, but this is the truth. Now I’m no askin you to believe it, or if you were tellin me the story I wouldnae believe it, but I’m tellin you the truth. And it’s up to yirsel if you believe it or not. I was in Inverness, me and my old woman, and I had a good yoke.’ What he meant by a good yoke was a good pony, a good set of harness and a good cart. And he said, ‘I went on the drink and I drank weeks out and weeks in. I swapped and dealed and swapped and dealed for the sake of gettin a few pound for money for drink.’ Which travellers do when they go on the rampart,32 they just go the whole way. ‘But,’ he says, ‘one thing I would never do is leave myself without something for tae shift my camp and my old woman,33 because I would never ask her to walk. But after about three weeks on the drink I finally realised I’d had enough, and I ended up with a Shetland pony, a wee set o harness and a wee float, and no money.’
Now this was the most interesting story you ever heard! And around the campfire you could have heard a pin drop. Now there were men there who had good yokes and men who had good horses.
‘So,’ he said, ‘we didna have no money or nothing. So I told her, “The best thing we can do is clear out away fae aboot wir relations, or we’re gaunna end up wi nothing.” So the next morning we packed up and we left the lot of them.’ That was the Stewarts from Inverness. Now when these people get together, it’s just a whole session that goes on for months on end, a drinking spree. And then it comes to a stop and they split up, they disappear. They all go their own ways for months at an end and never touch one single drink! They collect money and swap horses, deal and sell and they beg and do everything on their own way, and they accumulate a good few pounds. Maybe after six months they’ll say, ‘Well, it’s a while since we’ve seen wir relations. We’ll drive back to Inverness.’ And there’s a camp called The Longman which is a strip, a wood at Inverness, where they all gathered before the wool fair. I don’t know if it still goes on at the present moment, but the wool fair did in that time; and there they all met, swapped and dealed and drank and they carried on. Now this is where old Angie had been among these folk. It was all his own relations, cousins, brothers, sisters, friends of all description. And naturally when you meet your own crowd you’ve got to either join them or be an outsider. So, as the old man was telling the story.
He said, ‘After, oh, I’d been on the drink for about three weeks, I finally felt it comin to an end. Me and my old wife, after I’d swapped and dealed . . .’ He’d had good horses he’d swapped away. He’d got money about in the deals and drank it till he was left with a wee Shetland pony about twelve hands and a wee float that was just fit for a bairn! But good enough for him to carry his camp and hurl his old wife if she got tired. So he said, ‘I finally had enough.’ And we’re all interested in this, you see. He said, ‘I could take no more. So I told my old woman, “It’s about time we’re gaunna split up fae the family because they’re going to put us to ruination if we don’t.” So next morning before anybody was up we packed wir wee tent on wir wee cart and we took to the road. Now I’ve been down through Perthshire and Angus many times before and it being the summertime I told the old woman, “We’ll go to the berries in Blairgowrie. We’ll make wir way there.” No that I could pick berries very much, but we always could make the price o tobacco or a smoke or a cup of tea for wirsels. And maybe I could have a wee bit deal and get a bigger horse.’ They didn’t have any family, never had any in their life. So he said, ‘By the time we left it was late in the day. We travelled doon Loch Ness. We came to Fort Augustus. And the old wife had begged along the road and tried her best to push the fork and get as much that would make a wee bit supper for us. She finally got as much that would do us down the loch, which was – I think it’s twenty-four or twenty-six, I’m not sure, down Loch Ness.’ But it was enough food for the old couple to keep them going, because there were no shops or anything down that way.
So he said, ‘We came to Fort Augustus and we passed by, and then there’s a wee campin place at the shoreside. There was only a wee bit o grass, no very big, and a place for my wee tent.’ Now these people could make a bow tent, sister, past the common! I’ll tell you one thing, there never was any rain or sleet or snow would ever come inside a tent made by the Hieland Stewarts. They were masters o making a tent or a gelly. Even to this day if they want to do
it. Not the young generation, but the old – they were masters at the art of building a tent. Never would they get flooded with water, in no way in this world, and they carried the canvas and their sticks with them! They never cut any sticks, but carried the boughs for years. But as I was telling you, being their two selves they didn’t need much of a tent, just a wee bow tent and this wee Shetland yoke. He put up his tent and went for some sticks, kindled his fire and tethered the wee pony as close to the tent as he could, in case anything should happen to it during the night. There was no place else he could tether it, but close to the tent, because there was only a wee piece of grass, enough that would do it for a night. And he said, ‘We had a cup o tea. We sat and cracked and talked and said, “It’s a lang way tae Blairgowrie.” ’ But they were making their way there and they were in no hurry. You know, just an old elderly couple. This man would be at that time in his fifties. His woman would be about the same age. And he knew there were more relations to him there in Blairgowrie.
And he said, ‘This story I have never told a single soul. Men, you’re listening to something that I’ve never told to a single person in my life. And I’m no askin you to believe it. If you were tellin me the story, prob’ly I wouldna believe it. But I swear on my mother’s grave that this is the God’s honest truth.’ Now sister, that man is dead and gone in these past years, and if it’s a lie from me it’s a lie from him, right? He said, ‘After we had wir late cup o tea we went to bed. And you know in a bow tent there’s little room. We jist made a small bed as if you were laying down a single mattress.’ The small bed wasn’t much bigger than a sleeping bag, ken, in one of these small bow tents. And the old wife always put her basket with her messages in the back of the tent, and whatever she needed, clothes for him and her and things at the back of the tent. And the old man tethered his wee pony right at the front of his camp. And he went to bed. He smoked a pipe, you see. So in a bow tent they always kept a flap in the door in the front. And the old man, for the sake of the smoke for his old woman, flung the half of the flap up, see, and it was the summertime. But by the time they went to bed it was late, maybe twelve o’clock. He flung the flap up and he had a smoke. Now the old travellers had a terrible habit, you know. They wore these peaked bonnets, peaked scoop bonnets as we call them. And when they went to bed they took off the peaked cap and left it in front of them, put the tobacco and the matches in the cap so’s it would be easy to get.
So he said, ‘I lay smokin my pipe for a wee while and the auld wife she was asleep at the back. And I took my pipe and I put it in my bonnet, and the matches and the tobacco.’ If he felt the bonnet during the night, if he needed a smoke he knew where it was. ‘But,’ he said, ‘whatever happened, I must have dovered off to sleep.’ But he forgot to pull down the flap on the door. It was half up. So he said, ‘I must hae fell asleep at least for a couple hours, and it must hae been about between two and three in the morning. And it was a beautiful night. Cle-e-a-r as could be! In the dusk.’ They were making their way for the berries so it must have been about the month of June. In July the berries started. And it never really got very dark. ‘But,’ he says, ‘something wakened me – it must hae been the wee pony. It started tae carry on, and blowin and “whooh”.’ You know when a horse gets feart at night it blows! So he said, ‘This must hae been what wakened me up, the wee pony blowin through its nostrils. Now it was only about twenty-five yards to the shore o Loch Ness and there were a break in the trees where the pony was tethered. And naturally, when a pony has etten its grass it’ll lie down to sleep, lie down in front of the tent.’
And we’re all sitting round the campfire, putting on sticks. This was in Blairgowrie, the same place as he was making to, right in the middle of the berry centre! And everybody else in their tents were all asleep and there must have been about fifteen of us sitting round the fire, and every man there was a horsieman. We all had horses. And the old man wasn’t telling us anything out of the way. And he still had his Shetland pony that he’d come all the way with, and it was a beautiful wee pony.
He said, ‘You believe it or not, men, I got up. And I pulled on my trousers, and in my bare feet I went oot the door o the tent. And it was kind o dusky clear.’ And he said, ‘There’s my wee Shetland pony and it’s standin and it’s lookin out into the water – Loch Ness! And the loch moon was shinin in the water cle-e-a-r as could be. And the loch was as c-a-al-m as you could ask for. And I went up to the pony and I petted the pony. And I said, “What’s a-dae wi ye, pet, what’s a-dae wi ye?” And I petted it and I put my arm roon its neck. And the pony says, “ogcch-cch-cch-cch,” blowin like that. I says, “What’s wrong? Settle doon! What’s wrong wi ye?” And the pony, its ears was pricked forward like that – and it’s looking out intae the water. Now I never in my life ever gev a thought tae any o these stories or tales. I heard people speakin aboot things, there were animals in the water that would scare ye and frighten ye. But it didnae mean nothing tae me. And I was born and reared in Inverness-shire. But anyway, I put my arm aroond the pony’s neck, which wasnae very big.’ Now a horse is the only animal that can work its ears in any direction it wants. It’s the only animal that’s gifted with that ability. Cattle can’t do it, cows can’t do it, neither can a bull or a donkey. So, when you see a pony that pricks its ears up and puts them straight forward and its nostrils turns out, then it’s really tension there – it’s really afraid. And this is the way the pony was. He said, ‘I could see the red in its nostrils, its two ears was pricked straight forward and it was lookin straight out into the water. Me in my bare feet had made little noise. And I stood wi the arm roon the wee pony’s neck and I looked out in the water. And the first thing I seen was this head comin up oot the water. A big, long head and a long neck like a goose and a long forehead. And I thought it was like a giraffe. But it was black. And it looked this way and it looked that way, and then there was a splash! There were a hump on its back and it cam up and it went down. It put me on mind o one o these things I’d seen away doon on Loch Fyneside travellin through Argyllshire, like a porpoise! And when it went down again there was another bend in its back, and it went down again a second time as if it had two humps on its back. It stared me in the face for about two minutes! It had a neck and a head like a giraffe and two humps on its back and it disappeared. It broke the waves and it disappeared in the water! And the funny thing was, it swam under the water and I could see the circles in the water as it went out. It only swam about inches under the water and it was still breakin the foam . . . till it disappeared in the distance. That was my experience of the Loch Ness monster. And you know, men, I never told a single soul about this because they thought maybe I was asleep and dreamin. But I swear I’m tellin youse the God’s honest truth.’
Now that old man, sister, his old wife died many years later, and he fell down a stair and broke his neck. And I swear that I’m telling you the God’s honest truth. And I believed him. And so did everybody there, really believed him.
So, I landed in Aberdeenshire a while before that. And I met in with this old man called Hector Kelby and I was telling him two-three stories of evil, you know. And how a horse could see evil.
‘Well, I believe,’ he said, ‘that animals can pick up evil faster than anybody else. ‘Specially horses. Because it’s been proven to me.’
Now this old man was a great friend of mine. And I said, ‘Eh, how do you think an animal can see evil better than any o us?’
‘Well,’ he says, ‘they’ve got a better sight and they’ve got a better hearin. And if evil exists about the place, it’s the first animal that can pick it up is a horse.’
I said, ‘How do you think that?’
‘Well,’ he says, ‘listen to me, laddie. I’m gaunnae tell ye the truth. I’m goin tae tell ye a wee story what happened tae me. And I swear on my dear mother’s grave this is the God’s honest truth.’ And when people told you that, sister, you’d better believe it, because they weren’t telling you any lie.
He said
, ‘I was only seventeen years of age and I ran away wi my wife in Aberdeen. And my father, God rest his soul, had an auld white horse, an all-white pony.’ Now travellers hated white horses every way in the world, you know. I don’t know the reason why. You could get a white horse cheaper and better, even suppose it was good. I’ve had eight of them in my time, white horses. They had no disregard to the animal. The animal was just as good as any horse, but it was a stigma attached to the colour. Was it the fright of the travellers – that they believed a white horse attracted evil more than any other kind o horse? For there’s a legend saying that the devil could appear in the form of a black horse or a black dog, or in the form of a black stallion. But the only tales I could tell you in my experience of travelling among the traveller people for many years, I found more in common attached to the white horse. And I don’t know the reason, but they had a belief in their own minds that white attracted white. You see, ghosts were meant to walk at night-time after twelve o’clock in their shrouds, you know what I mean, from the graveyard. Now you can take it with a pinch of salt, but you can believe it or disbelieve it. It’s like a moth being fascinated by light, do you understand what I mean? A white horse at night would attract attention. If burkers were passing by on the road, and they saw the white horse, they knew that somebody was there – it’s like waving a white flag. And they believed that if spirits were walking about in their shrouds at night-time, and they saw something white, they got curious. And they would come and investigate, you understand what I mean? And you could be feeding your horse when this white thing comes up and scares the life out of you. But a black horse on a black, dark night couldn’t be seen so much, or a brown horse. But they had this belief, and you couldn’t change it to them. And there’s many’s a traveller wouldn’t even swap for a white horse. So to get my story squared up.
The Horsieman Page 33