#St Ninian's High

[glasgowboyafoot]

Kirkintilloch in the early 1970s: Teenage Lust, Tragedy, and Love Lost (again)

Kirkintilloch Cross

Where do I start? I suppose Kirkintilloch Cross is as good a place to start as any. In the early 1970s, it had become part of our ‘cruising’ zone once we had grown out of Bishopbriggs, before we moved on to Kilsyth and, believe it or not, Banton. ‘We’ were my friends and me.

It was the late ‘60s - early ‘70s, I had left school a year earlier than most of my schoolmates, but despite making my own way in the world, I was still naive in many ways. Like many in their mid-teens, I was a bit cock-sure on the outside, unsure on the inside, and despite my demeanour and appearance, lacked self-confidence. This was especially where the opposite sex was involved. I was a bit gobby too, partly to cover up my unease and make myself look confident, and partly because I was in my apprentice stage of ‘your mouth will get you into trouble’ time, as may father often said. He was correct of course but at that time I never realised it.

Being chatty, the smallest of my coterie, and easily led, I was convinced, persuaded, or otherwise manipulated into being the chatter-upper whenever we ventured across young ladies. I had to do my mates’ bidding as they were older, had cars, and a bit more money than me, despite the fact that I was working full-time: £4 per week minus deductions didn’t go far. Without my friends, I wouldn’t have reached Kirkintilloch (aka Kirky) very often.

My task was easy. We (the car and driver, and up to three others including me) would drive up and down the main street of Kirkintilloch, Cowgate and into Townhead, going particularly slowly at the start near the Cross and its shops where young people hung out, and again after the canal which dissected the town. Coincidentally, that was where the local police station sat (now a pub). We sped up slightly in that middle part to make us look normal if there were any police present. How four young guys in a mini, noses pressed to the window on the look-out for talent, ever looked normal, I don’t know, but we were never pulled over. Once past the station we were in Townhead where there were older shops, including a café that was always a useful place to manufacture a stop.

Where do I start? I suppose Kirkintilloch Cross is as good a place to start as any. In the early 1970s, it had become part of our ‘cruising’ zone once we had grown out of Bishopbriggs, before we moved on to Kilsyth and, believe it or not, Banton. ‘We’ were my friends and me.

It was the late ‘60s - early ‘70s, I had left school a year earlier than most of my schoolmates, but despite making my own way in the world, I was still naive in many ways. Like many in their mid-teens, I was a bit cock-sure on the outside, unsure on the inside, and despite my demeanour and appearance, lacked self-confidence. This was especially where the opposite sex was involved. I was a bit gobby too, partly to cover up my unease and make myself look confident, and partly because I was in my apprentice stage of ‘your mouth will get you into trouble’ time, as may father often said. He was correct of course but at that time I never realised it.

Being chatty, the smallest of my coterie, and easily led, I was convinced, persuaded, or otherwise manipulated into being the chatter-upper whenever we ventured across young ladies. I had to do my mates’ bidding as they were older, had cars, and a bit more money than me, despite the fact that I was working full-time: £4 per week minus deductions didn’t go far. Without my friends, I wouldn’t have reached Kirkintilloch (aka Kirky) very often.

My task was easy. We (the car and driver, and up to three others including me) would drive up and down the main street of Kirkintilloch, Cowgate and into Townhead, going particularly slowly at the start near the Cross and its shops where young people hung out, and again after the canal which dissected the town. Coincidentally, that was where the local police station sat (now a pub). We sped up slightly in that middle part to make us look normal if there were any police present. How four young guys in a mini, noses pressed to the window on the look-out for talent, ever looked normal, I don’t know, but we were never pulled over. Once past the station we were in Townhead where there were older shops, including a café that was always a useful place to manufacture a stop.

Heading East in Kirkintilloch Town Centre: The Cruising Zone

On our trips up and down the street, if we saw any girls around our age, the horn would be tooted, hands would be waved, and, at times, the odd wolf whistle or ribald comment would be tendered from a now open window. Dependent on the response, a plan would quickly be put into action using a workable template that allowed for speedy decision making. Usually, I was the plan.

First, we would race ahead of the girls, in the same direction as they were walking. The car would stop about 200m ahead of them, I’d jump out, and my mates would make a somewhat noisy show of leaving me. This tended to involve some rubber been burnt, accompanied by the inevitable screech of tyres, and more toot-tooting… sometimes supplemented by very obvious handwaving again – this time at me. It all had the intention of drawing further attention to the car.

I would then be left, shaking my fist at the departing car. Or, if the girls weren’t near enough to see that, I would disappear into the café to buy some sweets. Either way, I would look lost and forlorn and make very obvious efforts to scan up and down the street as though looking for someone. In fact, this was enacted as conspicuously as possible. Inevitably, the girls would draw nearer. Now; the next stage.

As I ambled into their territory, still ‘searching’ high and low for my mates, I would make my opening gambit, uttering well-practiced lines in a tone that voiced my absolute disdain for my friends:

"Have any of you seen a maroon/grey/blue mini with some guys in it?"

The response was usually an intractable, "Yes," followed by, "they beeped their horn at us." Or similar.

"I know, I was in it at that time," I would state forcibly (to show my annoyance at the car’s occupants). Then I would utter disdainfullly my coup-de-grace, "They’ve pissed off and left me behind."

This latter part was said in the most pitiful manner, well at least in a tone that try to elicit some pity at best, or a laugh or two at worst.

If the conversation continued, well and good. My mates would pass by once or twice, making sure that they and the car could be seen and heard (full-bore exhausts were good for that). This gave me longer to chat about them and extract some pity, or at least pique the girls’ interest. When things worked well, they would be intrigued enough to want to see who these horrible guys were 😊 or at least they trusted me sufficiently to stay nearby when the car finally drew up. This final approach followed a pre-arranged signal from me that all was well (ish). Now, it was up to us all; to be charming, funny, complimentary, and generally nicer than any first impressions the girls had gained of the car’s occupants.

We all had to engage in this ’flirt’ without looking desperate. Not that easy, with three or four teenage lads with raging hormones chatting up some girls. Our hope always was that they would also have raging hormones and act like it, whatever that was. If we were lucky, and sometimes we were, we would ask if they would fancy a drive around.

On one occasion, the one that I will go on to narrate, the scenario played out well. In fact, surprisingly so. I did my bit, got out of the car in the middle of town, chatted to the girls, waved the car down, initiated the introductions, and then flirted as best as possible. The car owner, who I will call Alex for sake of his anonymity, another lad, who I will call Gordon, and me, were persuasive enough to entice the girls in. Actually, I’m ashamed to say that I did most of the enticing as I was the one that the girls had been speaking to for a while, and they seemed to (sort of) have confidence in me. Whatever was the precursor, three of the five girls that I chatted with did fancy a run. Let’s think about this.

A mini of the type that took 6 young adults!

Three teenage boys and three teenage girls is a tight squeeze in a mini car. I was relatively happy with that as I was now in the back seat, and that is where the girls had to squeeze. But it was tight, so tight that one of them had to move into the front seat and sit half in the lap and half off the lap of Gordon. That only lasted a short time before she asked to be dropped off to go and do her homework: A euphemism for get me out of here as I don’t fancy where it is leading. I assumed that she wasn’t sure about the gear stick or whatever it was prodding her leg. Whatever, three became two.

We dropped her off at the Cowgate end of the main road and then tootled around Kirkintilloch, onto the roads of Kilsyth, upwards to Lennoxtown, and Milton of Campsie, before heading back to Kirky again. We felt obliged to head back as the girls wanted to be taken home, but we were keener that they stayed with us. This made for a slow and roundabout journey. We chatted our best chat but as time moved on the girls definitely wanted to return to their hometown, or safety as they probably viewed it. I agreed with the girls but as yet couldn’t say so. Alex and Gordon were the eldest, more mature than me, and much less keen to go back. Nonetheless, I knew that it was the right thing to do and, in a way that avoided me losing face, I persuaded Alex to drive back towards Kirkintilloch. I think my quickly thought-out rationale was that “… if anything happened, we would be nearer home.”

We dropped the second girl off now as she was playing at being strong while being definitely a bit panicky. The last girl, let’s call her Elle (I know her name but would rather keep it a bit more private here), had been by far the chattiest of the three, the cockiest, the most comfortable in the situation, the most confident, and she liked me. I could tell. Well, she was happy to stay for a bit and we drove back out to the country. The last half-hour will remain branded in my mind until I die, for many reasons.

"Are you giving us it tonight?" said Gordon. Even I knew that ‘it’ was sex.

"You’re joking?" Elle replied.

At this point Alex pulled the car over into a quiet farm track and as it stopped, I could feel Elle tighten up as she was still sitting close to me.

"Well, no I wasn't joking. In fact I am thinking that you should cock it or walk it," Gordon said quite straightforwardly.

I went silent and thought that everyone would be able to hear my heart beating, it seemed so loud. Elle also went silent, either through fear, worry, or becasue she was trying to think her way out of the situation.

Gordon said again, "Cock it or walk it," but this time Alex echoed the statement.

Eventually, and to my surprise, Elle agreed but with a condition. She said, "Yes, but not out here. I’m not daft. You’ll just shag me and then leave me out here miles away." I was gobsmacked.

She continued, "I know a place in Kirky. Take me back and I’ll show you where it is."

Alex needed no further encouragement. He started the engine, flicked the lights on, and roared us off, in the direction of Kirkintilloch’s orange luminescence. True to her word, Elle directed us up the Hillhead Road, to a set of garages, if my memory serves me well, about 50m or so from Hillhead Road at the intersection with Whitehill Road or Fellsview Avenue (I’m not absolutely sure). Anyway, it all made sense as I found out later that she lived about 150 yards away in Meiklehill Road. Well chosen, near to her home, secluded, and with some built-in safety; she wouldn’t be left in the countryside.

East High Street. The road we drove along as we headed to Hillhead Road which started just to the left of the photo

We slowly drove into the darkened lane, continued about 25 to 30 yards along to its end, and drew to a halt. Alex cut the engine.

The two boys in the front turned round immediately. They looked like a couple of depraved lechers and were certainly up for it. Me? I was distinctly uncomfortable. Elle had agreed to have sex with us all, but my sensible mind overrode my hormones and I suppose my morality overrode natural teenage urges. The set-up wasn’t right in my eyes. First, I felt that she agree to it under duress. My feeling was that the situation could be easily construed as being coercive. It didn’t seem to me that Elle had been persuaded by our wit, glamour, or personality. She had been pressured into agreeing, not quite strong-armed but definitely, in my mind, bullied and intimidated into it.

My senses wouldn’t let me agree with this. I also had a moral code, and this was breaking it. Smashing it apart in fact. While sex is what makes the world go around, and I was still a virgin, this wasn’t how I imagined the first time would be. I didn’t want to be part of this. I had to think of a way out of it that would save Elle from a gangbang that I was sure she did not really want and yet save my face.

From somewhere, in the recesses of my teenage mind, a plan was quickly hatched. I was in the back with Elle and so I said to the other two, "Me first. I did the chat-up and she’s with me, so I’ll go first." The two other boys acquiesced, rather ungraciously but still enthusiastically enough as they wanted their turns quickly. So, they got out and gave me my ten minutes. Yes, ten minutes 😊

As the door shut behind the boys, I turned to Elle who was already unbuttoning her blouse. By the time I had made myself more comfortable it was halfway open, and she was sitting beside me with her boobs encased in a plain cream bra staring out at me.

I quietly said to her, "Listen, I’m not up for this."

She asked, "Don’t you fancy me?"

I told her that it was the contrary, I did fancy her but hated the situation. I didn’t tell her that I was also unwilling to perhaps be framed for a sexual assault a few weeks down the road.

"What about your pals?" Elle said. "They’ll still want it."

"Well, we’ll have to persuade them otherwise. You are too good for this." Thinking aloud, I said, "Can you sniffle or cry a bit?"

Elle nodded and sniffled.

"Good."

I told her to make sure that she kept her head down and tried to cry when we got out, oh, and to keep her blouse undone. That was a masterful stroke as it gave credibility to the next episode.

Opening the door, I got out and she followed me. The boys were at the end of the garages and turned towards us on hearing the car door open. They approached for their ‘turns’. I made a show of fiddling with the zipper on my jeans (which actually wasn’t down), then demonstrably pulled Elle towards my side and wrapped an arm around her, pulling her jacket around her but not closing it. That allowed the guys to see Elle in a state of partial undress and looking upset. Turning her face into me, she sobbed a few times and sniffled, while I looked at the astonished faces of the two guys, shrugged my free shoulder, and spoke into the gloom towards them:

"The minute I touched her she went rigid. By the time I got her blouse unbuttoned and my zip down, she was in tears."

The boys were still and staring at us both. Our act was having the desired effect.

I then said, "I tried to calm her down but couldn’t." Now for the final thrust, "She needs to go home. I’m taking her across the road to calm her down."

Thankfully, neither of the guys wanted to push it any further, realising (I hope) that it would only lead to trouble.

"‘Wait here for me and I’ll be back in 5 minutes," I said, and with that we were past them and heading out from the garages towards Hillhead Road, me holding Elle close, still tearfully play acting, or maybe not.

Just as before, Elle showed the way, but this time she was much more spritely. By the time we got to the main road she had buttoned her blouse and was thanking me for getting her out of that situation. By the time we got near her house, she was definitely more cheerful but still a bit tearful. I remember helping her to wipe away the tears. I like to think were caused by her realisation that she had met someone who cared but in truth were probably just through a sense of relief.

We walked slowly along Newdyke Road towards her house in Meiklehill Road, and as we approached the gate to her home, I remember being relieved. A gangbang with a slightly less than enthusiastic 15- to 16-year-old wasn’t part of my repertoire nor my raison d’etre. I was happy the way things turned out eventually. And, I had an ace up my sleeve, or I hoped that I did.

I walked up to her door with her, a little bit hesitatingly in case anyone came out and saw an obviously tearful girl with a strange guy. Two and two could easily make five in that situation. Elle assured me that nobody would come out as I wiped her last tears away.

"Are you ok?" I asked.

Elle responded positively and, by way of an additional thanks, grabbed me and hugged me close.

She looked up at me, into my eyes and asked in her husky, and as I noticed later in time, sexy voice, "Will you call me if I give you my number?"

"Yes," I replied. My trump card looked to be working. I was really keen to see her again, not to get inside her knickers quickly, but because I did like her.

At that she opened the door and dived inside, telling me to hang on. She returned with a pen and two small sheets of paper, stood in what I remember was a very brightly lit doorway, scribbled her number on one piece of paper, and handed it to me. Next, she sought mine, wrote it on the other piece of paper, folded it, smiled, and put it down her cleavage.

The journey home was relatively uneventful. I was glad the boys had waited on me as Kirkintilloch is a long way from my home and I had no money on me. Not only that, but the last buses had also been and gone. I was surprised that my mates seemed relatively relaxed about things, albeit that they were full of questions, mainly along the line of, "What the fuck happened?"

My explanation was simple, even if a bit of a fabrication. OK, a lot of fabrication.

I said, "Everything was going well, I had her blouse open and was kissing her and playing with her tits but when I started to open my zip… she started to cry." I paused for some effect.

The ploy of having Elle leave the car with her blouse still undone and her bra on show was truly a consummate ruse as they had witnessed for themselves that I had ‘tried’.

I continued, "She started crying and saying that she didn’t want to do it but only agreed as she was scared that we were going to rape her and dump her in the country."

My story was growing legs, but I stopped to let my last sentence sink in. The other two fell silent before acquiescing with my actions. Now, instead of being majorly upset with me, groupthink was that I had done the right thing to calm her down and get her home. They were sensible enough to realise any other action could have spelled trouble. Or at least it could have if it was true. Elle’s tears and our joint actions (acting) persuaded them that it wasn’t on for tonight. We trundled home in Alex’s mini with my two mates being more upbeat than I thought they’d be. After all, the initial stages showed that the ploy might work with other girls and that might lead to more productive results. Ever the optimists.

To this day, Alex and Gordon have no idea of what really happened that night and I’m not about to tell them.

The next evening. I was no sooner in from my work than my sister told me that an Elle had called and that she would ‘phone me later. I blanched at the thought. Although working and 17 years of age, I was still quite immature. I was fairly bright, sensible but not experienced with girls. Moreover, I was absolutely embarrassed that my sister and my family might be talking about me being with girls or even having a girl friend. not even a 'girlfriend.' Boy meets girls is the most natural thing in the world, yet I wasn’t ready to be open about the opposite sex with my family. They were nonplussed but I was majorly unnerved at that the idea of my teenage lust becoming public knowledge.

True to her word Elle called that night and we had a conversation of sorts. A conversation that went on for a few weeks until Christmas was past. She called again immediately after Christmas to invite me to a New Years Party in her home. I made up some excuse as I truly wasn’t secure about meeting her friends and family as a boyfriend, especially when I hadn’t met them at any other time. I was always worried that people would think of me as predatory, as opposed to being a normal boy. Also, there was a bit of pragmatism in my decision: I had no idea how I would get there and back on New Year’s Eve.

Early in the New Year, she called again asking if we could meet. I was desperate to do so, therefore, this time I said, "Yes!"

We duly arranged to meet under the clocktower at Kirkintilloch Cross on an early January Saturday in 1972. I had no idea what we were going to do other than perhaps walk around as the Black Bull Cinema across the road was closed.

The Back Bull Cinema in the '70s

Excitedly, I got prepared to go out. Smart but casual. I wore my best navy-blue Levi’s Sta-Prest, a shirt, and a light blue cotton jacket. Yes, light blue! And cotton! Not ideal for a winter’s night in Kirky but it was all that I had other than a suit that I used for work. I also reeked of Faberge’s Brut deodorant; the deodorant that had at last made it manly to smell nice, or should I say smell differently. On reflection, it was overpowering. I definitely used the deodorant and not aftershave as I still wasn’t shaving much at the time, if at all.

Looking up to the Steeple at Kirkintilloch Cross: The Scene of the Tryst that Never Was

I walked up to Springburn from the house and jumped on the blue bus that travelled out past the ‘Briggs, through the Torrance roundabout, and along Kirkintilloch Road until it deposited me at the top of the hill, close to our meeting place.

At school, I'd had a girlfriend, but that came to an unrequited and probably fortunate end – another story for another time. Other than that, I had only had a few other dates that never came to much; once more probably due to my lack of confidence/experience. So, I was both excited and nervous at meeting Elle, but salved my concerns with the fact that I knew that she seemed to really like me going by her persistent calls.

Arriving at the Cross, I got off the bus, and made for the steeple. There I waited, trying to look nonchalant amongst the other would-be-lovers who were also meeting there. And I waited, and waited, and waited until there was only me there. I was frozen to the core but wanted to hang on in case she arrived late. She never did. After two hours at the Cross, I walked along the Cowgate hoping to see some of her friends that I might recognise from that first night’s escapades. Nope. I used the local telephone box to call her house, a major step for me, but there was no response. By the time 9.00 pm arrived, I realised that I wasn’t going to see her that night and dejectedly awaited the next bus home. I was deflated. My ego was fragile enough, but now it had taken a bit of a battering. I felt sick.

Alexander's 'Blue' Bus: The Type that Took Me to Kirkintilloch Cross

On my way home, I sat in the bus and tried to rationalise things in the manner of everyone who has ever been stood-up. Why hadn’t she turned up? Was it a mistake? Had she met someone else? Surely not in the twenty-four hours or so since we last spoke. I knew that she liked me, and I knew that she was excited to meet up and show me off a bit in the town. I had no answers to offer myself for why I was ‘dizzied’.

For the next few days, I tried to get a hold of her but with no luck.

A few weeks later, in fact it might have been months later, I answered the telephone at my parents’ house and was met with the still husky but definitely sexier sounding voice, "Hello John?" (not my name but to preserve what little dignity I have, just like Elle, I changed it for the tale). I was taken-aback.

"Hi John? It’s Elle here. How are you?’

I was gobsmacked, remembering the date that never was. Probably a reply of "OK" was as much as I gave.

Elle came straight to the point. "Do you fancy going out? I’m sorry about the last time."

I was doubly gobsmacked. A question about whether we could meet up again, followed by an apology about the previous occasion. The next few minutes were like a scene from a play: a farce to be precise.

I answered straightforwardly, "No."

"Why not?"

"You stood me up."

She replied, "I couldn’t help it."

"Of course you could, or at least you could have had the decency to call and let me know what happened."

She went very quiet. I didn’t. I was in full flow.

"You left me at the Cross. I stood there like a tit freezing for hours. If you couldn’t have made it at least you could have got one of your mates to come and tell me."

She only answered with a much quieter than normal, almost reverent, "I couldn’t. I would have been there if I could have but I couldn’t."

"Don't talk rubbish. You just didn’t and I was left looking like a turd."

Elle didn’t try to counter my claims, just repeated, "I couldn’t make it. I really wanted to but couldn’t that night."

I stuck the barbs in further, "Were you grounded for being a bad girl or getting drunk or what?"

"No, that wasn’t it."

"Well, what was?" I asked her directly.

She said, "My wee brother was in an accident that day and was in hospital."

I thought that I had heard every excuse known to man for all sorts of things, but this was a new one. So, I did what any argumentative, less rational teenager who was trying to show how little he cared to save his damaged ego, would do, I laughed disdainfully and said, "I don’t believe you. That’s a rubbish excuse."

"It’s true!" Elle said in a hurt tone that I thought was trying to get a sympathy vote. "He was in a car crash. He hurt his leg and needed some stitches on his chin."

I think those were the two injured areas, but memories are a bit cloudy, it could have been his nose and ankle.

I just laughed sarcastically.

"I can prove it if we meet, if you come to my house. He has the scars to prove it."

I laughed again, thinking that this was another ruse to get me out to Kirkintilloch again to meet up. Elle never got angry, she just repeated, "I can prove it. Honest."

"You arranged to meet me, couldn’t do so ‘cause your brother was in a crash, had a sore leg and a cut, and that stopped you meeting me? And you weren’t able to get your mates to let me know? C’mon."

I tried to make this sound as sarcastic as I could, presumably as a way of getting back at her for not meeting me. "Come on, be truthful."

"I was in hospital with him and couldn't leave."

"All because he had a sore leg and a cut lip?" I questioned, "That’s a bit much."

"No, he got a badly broken leg in the crash and needed loads of stitches."

The conversation went on for a bit and to me it seemed to get more and more ridiculous as she was putting her side of the story. The injuries moved from a sore leg to multiple fractures, from a cut chin to loads of stitches. I was just unwilling to accept any of it. I thought that I was being strung along.

Eventually I asked, "Who was driving?" Elle had only said that it was an accident. So I was intrigued as to who had caused his apparent mayhem.

Eventaully she said, "It was in my dad’s car. He was driving."

"So, what happened to him" I asked mockingly, "did he end up with two broken legs?"

Elle was very quiet at the end of the ‘phone, then, with a catch in her breath she whispered, "He died."

"Aye right. That’s a terrible thing to say. Imagine making that up."

"It’s true. He died in the crash. He died," she said.

Her voice now betrayed her emotions as she relived that night.

I was shocked, deeply apologetic, and now wished that the griund would swallow me up. Elle was in tears, not sobbing but enough that I could make out her crying. And, I had no idea what to say. Here was I acting the tough, couldn’t care less guy: an act. But I was now caught like a politician being questioned at a hustings, mentally ducking and diving, trying to think what to say that would be right and proper and not dig a deeper ditch. All I could say was that I was sorry.

Elle was upset, rightly so, and said that she would have to get off the ‘phone now as someone else needed it. I knew then that I had hurt her badly, opened old wounds, and shown no empathy when it was necessary early in the conversation. I wished that I could change things, but I couldn’t.

Like many of us, life moved on, Elle and I continued to speak on the ‘phone at times but things were different. She left school to start nursing (I think at Lennox Castle Hospital) and I was working in Glasgow City Centre and then Govan. Without a car, a relationship would be difficult, and I think we both knew it. She called a few times, regularly at first, and was always polite and never pushy. I remember another New Year being asked if I wanted to go to a party with her. I did, but travel was the problem for me, or that was what I told myself.

A few years later, I called her and asked if she would like to go to a party in Edinburgh with me and two friends (who were long-term boyfriend/girlfriend). I had every intention of using that party night to mend broken bridges and show her that I cared. The night started well but finished less well. Disastrously so.

I had borrowed a car, picked up my friends, then went out to Lennoxtown for Elle. All was well until we reached the party. Most of the partygoers were university students from Glasgow or Edinburgh, many were my friends. I wasn’t a big drinker but felt that I had to show off to Elle, so I got absolutely rat-arsed before I knew it.

The night was a blur but, at the end, I remember collapsing into a bed with her, and as she helped me to undress, I felt the room spinning, and made a rush to the loo, just in time. I remember cuddling close to her in bed, and apologising for my condition, but also for the fact that in this state there was no way she was going to have any fun with me. I just slept fitfully and awoke the next morning with a hangover from hell. Unfortunately, I still had to drive us all home. It was a quiet journey, and an even quieter moment when I dropped Elle off. We promised to call. I didn’t as I was seriously too embarrassed to do so. I think that she was just fed up with me sort of stringing her along and she needed someone who cared for her more than I had been able to evidence.

The next time that I tried to contact her, she was married and had a child.

This story was written in part for some catharsis, to get things down on paper and off my chest. It has helped organise my thoughts and although some parts might be clouded by the lapse of time, for the great part, I have been true to myself, my mates, and especially Elle. If she ever reads this, I’m sure that she will recognise herself and her story in it. If it was being published, I would dedicate it to her. Dedicate it to a young girl’s life blighted by tragedy, exacerbated by her fancying a young boy who was too stupid to reciprocate as warmly or as fully as she wanted.

I hope that you have had a great life Elle. You will undoubtedly have a fabulous story to tell. Go for it but please send me a copy at glasgowboyafoot@gmail.com when it’s published. 😊 If anyone recognises the 'cast' of this story get in touch, it would be of real interest to know how things worked out in the end.

[safereturndoubtful]

On St Ninian’s Beach

26th June 2023

I had booked the most basic accommodation on the overnight boat from Kirkwall to Lerwick, a reclining seat. But I had hoped not to use it, preferring the illegal option of staying in my van bed. I had researched on the internet and read that it was something truckers did do. An article from an incident in January of 2006 was easily found, when in stormy conditions three trucks had toppled over during the crossing. On arrival in Lerwick it was found 6 drivers had stayed in their cabs, one stuck there until he was rescued.

Northlink stresses how dangerous it is, yet they are quite happy to let my dog stay there.. do they value his life any less than mine? By circumstance rather than choice, I boarded last, and had to reverse on with the studious attention of all the boarding crew. At the appropriate moment I disappeared behind the curtain. They either didn’t see, or weren’t bothered. Before the boat sailed I was in bed, waking at 7:15 am as drivers returned to their vehicles. The coach driver next to me gave me a knowing nod. It was clear he had done the same.

By 8 am I was at St Ninian’s Beach, about a half hour drive away, in heavy rain and just 9C. Roja and I had breakfast, and I read while Roja dozed and the rain eased, and by mid-morning the cloud cleared and the sun emerged.

This is my second visit of the year to the Wild Atlantic coast, the first being the Costa del Morte in Galicia in February, equally impressive.

The first photo is of the ruin of St Ninians’s Chapel, which dates back to the 12th Century. Before that it was an Iron Age Burial Ground. It’s other claim to fame is that in 1958 a local schoolboy found a wooden box on the site, which contained 28 silver objects of Pictish treasure.

St Ninian’s Isle is quite a spectacular sight from the car park, with its jagged rock cliffs, strikingly green pasture, and it’s shell-sand tombolo, the finest example of one in Western Europe. It is occasionally breached, in storms and at high tide, but today it was at its best, a superb wander though Roja chose not to use it and swim alongside for most of the way.

The perimeter of the Isle is about four and a half miles, but most who walk as far as the island, then choose shortcuts. As with most of the ocean facing coasts here, the south and west headlands are the wildest and most spectacular. There were a few other visitors. I met the couple in the other campervan at the carpark, from Durham, and prior to that at Dentdale, and we chatted for a while.

We were back at the van for 2 pm, and spent the afternoon with the dramatic backdrop trying to concentrate enough to attend to a few business matters.

Last week here was the Shetland Noir Book Festival, attended by writers such as Martin Edwards, Val McDermid, Ann Cleeves and Elly Griffiths. They even had a session here at St Ninian’s Beach. Cleeves write the Shetland series, that has now been adapted for television. It strikes me that the literary body count here on the tranquil Shetland Islands is bigger than most places, with the possible exception of Midsomer.

These rocky outcrops put me in mind of Chris Cameron, who is currently mid-way through his 60 day record attempt for the longest stay on a remote uninhabited North Atlantic rock, on Rockall, 200 miles west of St Kilda, and 300 miles from the mainland. It says a lot about the teaching profession that a guy has to go to such lengths to get a peaceful break. Maybe he won’t return to his post, and stay on Rockall.

Roja seems unbothered by the various dive-bomb attacks from the sea birds he receives. They concern themselves with him rather than me thankfully. With my untrained eye, those who bombed him include, the Fulmar which comes off the cliffs and hovers in the wind, the territorial Curlew with its recognisable squeal and curved beak from the scrub land, and the much rarer Arctic Tern from its slumber in the grass.

And a ‘spot-the-van’ pic..

[soulsanitarium]

🏴󠁧󠁢󠁳󠁣󠁴󠁿WITCH TRIALS IN SCOTLAND- Stirling

The 250-foot- high volcanic plug on which the present castle stands was probably occupied by the early British Picts. The settlement had developed sufficiently for it to be made a royal burgh about 1130. Alexander II of Scotland granted another charter in 1226 and made the castle a royal residence.(Britannica)

🏰Both Mary Queen of Scots & James VI celebrated here baptism of their children (Mary was also mom of Infamous witchhunter James).

From Stirling Castle's you can see the National Wallace Monument on the edge of the rolling Ochil Hills before looking north east for the mountain peaks of Loch Lomond & The Trossachs National Park.

⚖️According to a Survey of Scottish Witchcraft Database Bessie Stevenson’s trial happened 3/1659 in Tolbooth - Stirling. She confessed to healing with deeds, but denied using any words. Other witch trials linked to this:

Magdalene Blair, Janet Millar, Issobell Keir, IIssobell Bennet, Margaret Harvie, James Kirk…According to Martin (2009) Total Number of Suspects in Stirling (1561–1736) was 53.

Survey of SWDB:

💦”She (Bessie) knows a blasted person, which means a bewitched person 'by the gogling of their eyes and turning hither and tither to ather side.' Washes their clothes in St. Ninian's well for healing. This will either 'end them or mend them.' She learned it from lady McFarlens daughter 24 years prior. She transfers the disease if she meets anyone on the way back from the well. Also layed two foxtree leaves under their head and middle. She cures maw turning by leading people around an oak tree three times, repeating words. For curing persons forespoken she recites words and takes some of the illness into herself. For curing heart fires she uses a belt and two threads she rolls them and if the threads are on the top and the bottom the person has heart fires.”💖

Probably older folklore believes was behind Bessie’s magic than this Christian saint (Ninian). She used magic in her healing more than any herbs. Stevenson was executed outside the city and her body was probably burned at the sight.🔥

[myhauntedsalem]

The History of Zombie Road

Zombie Road has quite a reputation as a place where shadowy figures and other non human entities have long been reported.

Gregory Myers of the Paranormal Task Force presents this piece on the history and deaths of one of the most haunted locations in the United States.

Within the urban sprawl of St. Louis lies a remote area called “Zombie Road”. Urban Legend tells a variety of eerie tales which include being host to ritualistic and occult practices which spawned inhuman and demonic entities while other tales tell of those who met their peculiar demise and still roam this desolate road in the afterlife.

“Zombie Road”, real name “Lawler Ford Road” is about 2 miles long through a valley of forest oak land hills and ends near the Meramec River in the Glencoe, MO area where it meets the newly established “Al Foster” trail.

The history of this area goes back to ancient Native American times where this was one of the few pathways cut by nature over the centuries through the bluffs to the Meramec River area just beyond them. It is believed that traveling ancient Native Americans used this pathway for foot travel and also quarried flint here for the making of various tools and weapons.

In the early 1800’s a Ferry (boat) was operated at the bottom area of this passage at times where a ford was located in the river for settlers and travelers to cross the Meramec River to the other side where the Lewis family owned much of the land. The origin of the road name is unknown to historians even today.

Ninian Hamilton a settler from Kentucky was the first settler to occupy and own land in this area in 1803. After his death in 1856, James E. Yeatman a prominent St. Louis citizen, a founder of the Mercantile Library and president of the Merchants Bank acquired the large parcel of land that Mr. Hamilton settled and owned.

The Pacific Railroad completed their railroad line from St. Louis to Pacific along the Meramec River in this area in the 1850’s. Della Hamilton the wife of Henry McCullough, who was Justice of the Peace for about thirty years and Judge of the County Court from 1849 to 1852, was struck and killed by a train in this area in 1876.

The first large scale gravel operations on the Meramec River began at what would become Yeatman junction in this area. Gravel was taken from the Meramec River and moved on rail cars into St. Louis. The first record of this operation is in the mid-1850’s. Later, steam dredges were used, to be supplanted by diesel or gasoline dredges in extracting gravel from the channel and from artificial lakes dug into the banks. This continued until the 1970’s.

From about 1900 until about 1945, Glencoe and this area was one of the resort communities of the Meramec River’s clubhouse era. Many of the homes were summer clubhouses, later converted to year round residences then lost to the great local floods of the 1990’s.

Some say this is called Zombie Road because the railroad workers who once worked here rise from their graves at times to roam about. Some insist that they have heard old time music, seen anomalous moving lights and other ghostly sightings from that forgotten era. Another tale tells of a patient nicknamed “Zombie” who escaped from a nearby mental facility never to be seen again. His blood soaked gown was later found lying upon the old road later named after him.

Other tales include one of an original settler who met their demise upon the railroad tracks. Another includes a pioneer who lost his wife in a poker game then went back to his homestead and took his own life. Many still report seeing these lonely spirits even today.

During the age of Prohibition a nearby town housed speak-easies and the summer homes of well known gangsters. Tales tell of individuals who were dealt a bad hand by such public enemies resulting in their permanent placement within the ground or bordering river to never be seen again.

The bordering river has tragically delivered many to the other side through the years. Children and adults alike have taken their last living breath within its dangerous waters before being found washed up on its shores. Even during this new millennium, several children met their demise one day within its banks.

The railroad still shows “Death hath no mercy” as many have met their final fate upon its tracks. Local lifelong residents can still remember multitudes of tragic occurrences dating back to the 1950’s. One of these occurred in the 1970’s when two teens were struck by an oncoming train. Some of the local residents were used in search parties to find the body parts scattered about the area.

During the 1990’s a mother and her five year old child were crossing a bridge when an oncoming train met them. The mother’s last action was pushing her five year old child off the bridge. The engineer was able to stop the train and save the child. Although the mother died, this is still one of the happiest endings to a story this area will provide.

More recent past has seen this area become refuge for those wanting privacy to practice the occult and other rituals. Who can really know what true doorways to the darkness or unknown were opened here.

During the 1960’s a couple in their late teens were on top of the bluffs overlooking the road below. The male somehow lost footing and during the fall caught his face in a fork of a small tree growing out from the side of the bluff. His face and scalp remained while the rest of him fell to his death upon the road below. Others have also met their demise from the high bluffs above.

The area has also seen its share of suicides and murders. In the 1970’s a hunter stumbled across a car still running at the end the road. Closer inspection revealed a hose running from the exhaust pipe to the inside of the car with the driver slumped over the steering wheel.

One can agree that there is no lack of legends or tragedies surrounding this area which can explain the bizarre and eerie encounters of those who visit. I was one who became truly intrigued and attracted by such lore and was determined to either prove or disprove the Urban Legends surrounding it.

Within an hour several people observed a human sized shadow figure as it descended upon them from a small bluff nearby. It then ran onto the road, stopped, then disappeared into the darkness of the night. Throughout the night others heard unexplained voices, were touched by the unseen and witnessed the unexplained. This was one night that everyone could conclude that indeed some Urban Legends actually are real!

[thetranquilteal]

The Vintage Calendar [AO3] by @thetranquilteal

With the ending of her contract with the UK Armed Forces, all Claire Beauchamp wants for Christmas is to enjoy a quiet holiday in Scotland with her long-term boyfriend Frank Randall. While visiting with close friends, however, Claire is gifted with a vintage advent calendar that sets her life on a path she never expected... one that leads to Northern Badgers star, James Fraser.  

Modern Day AU loosely based on the Netflix Christmas movie ‘The Holiday Calendar’. New chapter posted every day!

Day 16: Stocking

When Claire finally woke the next day the sun was high in the sky and rays of sunshine were streaming through the windows in the living area lending a natural warmth to both her and the  rest of the apartment. Loathe to move too quickly, she pottered about for a while, first making a cup of tea and then looking to see what figurine the vintage calendar had presented her with today.

It was a red and green striped stocking and, unlike the generic kind seen in books and on television, this one was long and skinny to the point of having to be propped up with a tea light candle she had on hand in order to stand by the others on the mantle. 

Deciding it was time to be proactive, she set herself up at the kitchen table with her laptop, some brunch by her side. It didn’t take her long to prepare and then email her written report to Dr Beaton and soon enough events of the previous day filtered through her mind. 

The ghost of St. Ninian's Espresso ran across her tongue. 

She put down her piece of avocado toast in disgust and packed up her laptop as well as what she considered to be the most useful books she had on hand. She finally had time to go over the flora she and Jamie had brought back from Gàrradh Geamhradh and stored at the Arena. 

She wasn’t going to waste one moment more.

[Continue reading on AO3]

[scotianostra]

David C. Weinczok @TheCastleHunter's Scottish Wonders AtoZ.

G is for Glasgow Cathedral. 

St. Ninian came from Whithorn in Galloway in the 5th century and dedicated a Christian burial ground at Cathures (later Glasgow) in the Kingdom of Strathclyde.

To this spot in the following century came Kentigern, popularly called Mungo. He was born tradition says on the shore in Fife near Culross where the ruins of St. Mungo’s chapel are supposed to mark the spot. At Culross he was brought up by St. Serf and trained for the priesthood.Mungo left St. Serf and came to Carnock in Stirlingshire from where he accompanied the corpse of a holy man, Fergus, which was carried on a cart by two untamed oxen. They stopped at St. Ninian’s burial ground in Cathures where Fergus was buried. The Blacader Aisle in the Cathedral, may mark the site.

Kentigern was chosen by the King, clergy and people to be their bishop, and he founded a monastic community and built a church where, reputedly, St. Columba came to visit him. From here Kentigern travelled to Cumbria, to the Lake District, and as far as St. Asaph in North Wales.

The date of his death is given as 13th January, 603. His tomb is in the Lower Church of the Cathedral where there is a service held every year to commemorate his life.

There is little known about the church buildings which stood on the site of the present Cathedral until the early part of the 12th century.

The first stone building was consecrated in about 1136 in the presence of King David I and his Court. Destroyed or severely damaged by fire, this cathedral was succeeded by a larger one consecrated in 1197, during the time of Bishop Jocelyn to whom Glaswegians owe the institution of the Glasgow Fair in July, which is still observed as an annual holiday.

In the early 14th century,  the Nave was extended and completed. The south-west door and the entrance to the Blacader Aisle and the walls of the nave up to the level of the sills of the windows belong to this period.

The next major rebuilding came later in the 13th century with William de Bondinton who was responsible for adding the Quire and the Lower Church. The doorways of the sacristy (Upper Chapter House) and of the Lower Chapter House date from the mid-13th century, and the whole church may have been completed before the end of the 13th century.

Most of the Nave above sill level probably dates from after 1330, and the West Window from the later 14th century. The Pulpitum and the Blacader Aisle were added in the fifteenth century.

After the Reformation a wall was put across the nave to allow the western portion of the nave to be used for worship by a congregation which became know as the Outer High. This congregation worshiped in the nave from 1647 until 1835.

The Lower Church was used by another congregation, the Barony, from 1596-1801, until a new church was built just across from the Cathedral.

When the Lower Church was no longer used for worship, soil was brought in to a depth of about five feet and it became the burial place for members of the Barony Congregation. The visible parts of the pillars were coloured black with white “tears”, the graves were enclosed by railings four feet high, with two narrow passages for access. The Lower Church was cleared before the middle of the 19th century.

The congregation which used the Quire was for a time called the Inner High. The pulpit was placed between pillars of the south aisle and the King’s Seat was on the north aisle. In 1805 a major reconstruction saw the pulpit removed to the east end. Galleries were inserted between the pillars on three sides, and the King’s Seat was removed to the western gallery in front of the Pulpitum or Choir Screen.

This brief history has been taken from “A Walk through Glasgow Cathedral” written by a previous Minister of the Cathedral, the late  Very Revd. Dr. W. J. Morris.

[anastpaul]

Saint of the Day – 13 January – Saint Kentigern of Glasgow (518-614) Founder and Archbishop of Glasgow, Missionary, Miracle-worker, known as “Saint Mungo”, (also known as Cantigernus or Cyndeyrn Garthwys) was the apostle of the Scottish Kingdom of Strathclyde in the late sixth century and the Founder and Patron Saint of the city of Glasgow.   Born in c 518 at Culross, Fife, Scotland and died on 13 January 603 in Glasgow, Scotland of natural causes.   Patronages – Glasgow, Scotland, Penicuik, salmon, those accused of infidelity, against bullies.

According to the “Life of Saint Mungo” written by the monk, Jocelin of Furness, in about 1185, Mungo’s mother was Princess Theneva daughter of Loth, the King of the Gododdin, who ruled an area centred on today’s East Lothian.   After an illicit encounter with her cousin, the young King Owain of North Rheged, now part of Galloway, Princess Theneva fell pregnant.   Her irate father had her tied to a chariot and launched off Traprain Law. It miraculously landed softly, hurting neither Theneva or her unborn child.   The King, now believing Theneva also to be a witch, then cast her adrift in a coracle without oars on the River Forth.   She drifted up-river and came ashore at Culross in Fife, where Kentigern was born.

St Mungo’s Birthplace

Kentigern was given the name Mungo, meaning something like “dear one”, by St Serf (c 500—583), who ran a monastery at Culross and took in both mother and son.   St Serf then oversaw Mungo’s upbringing.   At the age of 25, Mungo began his missionary work on the banks of the River Clyde.   Here, he was welcomed by people previously converted to Christianity by St Ninian (c 360–432) and here Mungo built his church, close to the confluence of the River Clyde and the Molendinar Burn.   Since the 1200s the site of this early church has formed part of Glasgow Cathedral.

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Mungo worked on the banks of the River Clyde for 13 years until the anti-Christian King Morken of Strathclyde drove him out in about 565.    He then made his way through Cumbria to Wales, where he spent time with St David (c 500-589), possibly founded a cathedral at St Asaph and even found time for a pilgrimage to Rome.

But in the 570s King Rhydderch Hael of Strathclyde, having overthrown Morken, invited Mungo to become Archbishop of Strathclyde.   Mungo initially based himself in northern Galloway.   In August 584 Mungo is said to have converted the bard Merlin to Christianity near the site of a church he later founded – Stobo Kirk.

Mungo later returned to the River Clyde, where his church became the focus of a large community that became known as Clas-gu or “dear family.”   From these beginnings emerged the modern city of Glasgow.

It was at Clas-gu that Mungo was visited by Saint Columban (543-615), who at the time was working as a missionary in central Scotland.   It was here, too, that Mungo died, apparently in his bath (or while giving a baptismal service – interpretations differ), on Sunday 13 January 614.   He was buried close by his church and today his tomb lies in the centre of the Lower Choir of Glasgow Cathedral, probably on the actual site of his grave.

St Mungo was said to have preformed many miracles but four of them have been remembered in this sweet verse, which children in Scotland sing and recite:

Here is the bird that never flew Here is the tree that never grew Here is the bell that never rang Here is the fish that never swam

In the first, he is said to have restored life to the pet robin of St Serf, which had been killed by some of his fellow classmates in Culross, hoping to blame him for its death.

In the second he used branches of a tree to restart a fire at St Serf’s monastery that had gone out, because Mungo had fallen asleep, while he was meant to be watching it.

The third relates to a miraculous bell he brought back with him from Rome.

And the fourth involved the story of Queen Languoreth of Strathclyde being accused of infidelity by her husband, King Riderich, who alleged she had given her wedding ring to her lover when, in reality, the king had himself thrown it into the river. 

Facing execution, the Queen appealed to St Mungo, who ordered a servant to catch a fish from the river.   When the fish was cut open, the ring was found inside, demonstrating the Queen’s innocence.

St Mungo High Street, Glasgow

Today the bird, tree, bell and fish form the four elements of the Crest of Glasgow City Council, see Crest below.   St Mungo is also responsible for the motto of his city, based on his original prayer:  “Lord let Glasgow flourish through the preaching of Thy Word and praising Thy Name.”   Sadly and pathetically, since 1699 this has been shortened to “Let Glasgow flourish.”

St Columban’s Life here: https://anastpaul.com/2018/11/23/saint-of-the-day-23-november-st-columban-543-615/

St Ninian’s Life here: https://anastpaul.com/2018/09/16/saint-of-the-day-16-september-st-ninian-c-360-died-432-apostle-to-the-southern-picts/

St David’s Life here: https://anastpaul.com/2017/03/01/saint-of-the-day-1-march-st-david-of-wales/

St Mungo Statue at Kelvingrove, Glasgow

Saint of the Day – 13 January – Saint Kentigern “Mungo” of Glasgow (518-614) Saint of the Day - 13 January - Saint Kentigern of Glasgow (518-614) Founder and Archbishop of Glasgow, Missionary, Miracle-worker, known as…

[gallerybyzantium]

[whenfrasermetbeauchamp]

“Put your head between your knees, lass,” he instructed, pushing on the back of my neck, “ ’til the faintness passes off.”

“I know what to do,” I said irritably, doing it nonetheless. I closed my eyes, feeling the ebbing blood begin to throb in my temples again. The clammy sensation around my face and ears began to disappear, though my hands were still icy. I concentrated on breathing properly, counting in -one-two-three-four, out-one-two, in -one-two-three-four.…

At length I sat up, feeling more or less in possession of all my faculties. Dougal had resumed his seat on the stone coping, and was waiting patiently, watching to be sure that I didn’t fall backward into the spring.

“There’s a way out of it,” he said abruptly. “The only one I can see.”

“Lead me to it,” I said, with an unconvincing attempt at a smile.

“Verra well, then.” He sat forward, leaning toward me to explain. “Randall’s the right to take ye for questioning because you’re a subject of the English crown. Well, then, we must change that.”

I stared at him, uncomprehending. “What do you mean? You’re a subject of the crown as well, aren’t you? How would you change such a thing?”

“Scots law and English law are verra similar,” he said, frowning, “but no the same. And an English officer canna compel the person of a Scot, unless he’s firm evidence of a crime committed, or grounds for serious suspicions. Even with suspicion, he could no remove a Scottish subject from clan lands without the permission of the laird concerned.”

“You’ve been talking to Ned Gowan,” I said, beginning to feel a little dizzy again.

He nodded. “Aye, I have. I thought it might come to this, ye ken. And what he told me is what I thought myself; the only way I can legally refuse to give ye to Randall is to change ye from an Englishwoman into a Scot.”

“Into a Scot?” I said, the dazed feeling quickly being replaced by a horrible suspicion.

This was confirmed by his next words.

“Aye,” he said, nodding at my expression. “Ye must marry a Scot. Young Jamie.”

“I couldn’t do that!”

“Weel,” he frowned, considering. “I suppose ye could take Rupert, instead. He’s a widower, and he’s the lease of a small farm. Still, he’s a good bit older, and—”

“I don’t want to marry Rupert, either! That’s the…the most absurd…” Words failed me. Springing to my feet in agitation, I paced around the small clearing, fallen rowan berries crunching under my feet.

“Jamie’s a goodly lad,” Dougal argued, still sitting on the coping. “He’s not much in the way of property just now, true, but he’s a kind-hearted lad. He’d not be cruel to ye. And he’s a bonny fighter, with verra good reason to hate Randall. Nay, marry him, and he’ll fight to his last breath to protect ye.”

“But…but I can’t marry anyone!” I burst out.

Dougal’s eyes were suddenly sharp. “Why not, lass? Do ye have a husband living still?”

“No. It’s just…it’s ridiculous! Such things don’t happen!”

Dougal had relaxed when I said “No.” Now he glanced up at the sun and rose to go.

“Best get moving, lass. There are things we’ll have to attend to. There’ll have to be a special dispensation,” he murmured, as though to himself. “But Ned can manage that.”

He took my arm, still muttering to himself. I wrenched it away.

“I will not marry anyone,” I said firmly.

He seemed undisturbed by this, merely raising his brows.

“You want me to take you to Randall?”

“No!” Something occurred to me. “So at least you believe me when I say I’m not an English spy?”

“I do now.” He spoke with some emphasis.

“Why now and not before?”

He nodded at the spring, and at the worn figure etched in the rock. It must be hundreds of years old, much older even than the giant rowan tree that shaded the spring and cast its white flowers into the black water.

“St. Ninian’s spring. Ye drank the water before I asked ye.”

I was thoroughly bewildered by this time.

“What does that have to do with it?”

He looked surprised, then his mouth twisted in a smile. “Ye didna know? They call it the liar’s spring, as well. The water smells o’ the fumes of hell. Anyone who drinks the water and then tells untruth will ha’ the gizzard burnt out of him.”

“I see.” I spoke between my teeth. “Well, my gizzard is quite intact. So you can believe me when I say I’m not a spy, English or French. And you can believe something else, Dougal MacKenzie. I’m not marrying anyone!”

He wasn’t listening. In fact, he had already pushed his way through the bushes that screened the spring. Only a quivering oak branch marked his passage. Seething, I followed him.

...

“And just what is this?” I asked. This was in the nature of a rhetorical question, for the top page of the bundle said CONTRACT OF MARRIAGE in a clear calligraphic hand, the letters two inches high and starkly black across the page.

Dougal suppressed a sigh of impatience at my recalcitrance.

“Ye ken quite weel what it is,” he said shortly. “And unless you’ve had another bright thought for keeping yourself out of Randall’s hands, you’ll sign it and have done with it. Time’s short.”

Bright thoughts were in particularly short supply at the moment, despite the hour I had spent hammering away at the problem. It really began to seem that this incredible alternative was the best I could do, struggle as I might.

“But I don’t want to marry!” I said stubbornly. It occurred to me as well that mine was not the only point of view involved. I remembered the girl with blond hair I had seen kissing Jamie in the alcove at the castle.

“And maybe Jamie doesn’t want to marry me!” I said. “What about that?” Dougal dismissed this as unimportant.

“Jamie’s a soldier; he’ll do as he’s told. So will you,” he said pointedly, “unless, of course, ye’d prefer an English prison.”

I glared at him, breathing heavily. I had been in a stir ever since our abrupt removal from Randall’s office, and my level of agitation had now increased substantially, confronted with the choice in black and white, as it were.

“I want to talk to him,” I said abruptly. Dougal’s eyebrows shot up.

“Jamie? Why?”

“Why? Because you’re forcing me to marry him, and so far as I can see, you haven’t even told him!”

Plainly this was an irrelevancy, as far as Dougal was concerned, but he eventually gave in and, accompanied by his minions, went to fetch Jamie from the taproom below.

Jamie appeared shortly, looking understandably bewildered.

“Did you know that Dougal wants us to marry?” I demanded bluntly.

His expression cleared. “Oh, aye. I knew that.”

“But surely,” I said, “a young man like yourself; I mean, isn’t there anyone else you’re, ah, interested in?” He looked blank for a moment, then understanding dawned.

“Oh, am I promised? Nay, I’m no much of a prospect for a girl.” He hurried on, as though feeling this might sound insulting. “I mean, I’ve no property to speak of, and nothing more than a soldier’s pay to live on.”

He rubbed his chin, eyeing me dubiously. “Then there’s the minor difficulty that I’ve a price on my head. No father much wants his daughter married to a man as may be arrested and hanged any time. Did ye think of that?”

I flapped my hand, dismissing the matter of outlawry as a minor consideration, compared to the whole monstrous idea. I had one last try.

“Does it bother you that I’m not a virgin?” He hesitated a moment before answering.“Well, no,” he said slowly, “so long as it doesna bother you that I am.” He grinned at my drop-jawed expression, and backed toward the door.“Reckon one of us should know what they’re doing,” he said. The door closed softly behind him; clearly the courtship was over.

— Outlander/Cross Stitch

Photos: Starz, Season One, Episode Six, September 13, 2014

Book: Outlander (Cross Stitch), Chapter Thirteen, Diana Gabaldon, 1991

Tumblr: September 9, 2018, WhenFraserMetBeauchamp 🏴󠁧󠁢󠁳󠁣󠁴󠁿❤️🇬🇧

WFMB’s Tags: #Outlander #Season One Episode Six #S1E6 #The Garrison Commander #Outlander/Cross Stitch #Chapter Thirteen #Does it bother you that I’m not a virgin? #Well, no, so long as it doesna bother you that I am. #Claire Fraser #Jamie Fraser #28 #090918

[your-fave-is-catholic]

Your Fave MIGHT Be Catholic: Peter Capaldi

Known for: Academy Award winning actor, writer, & director from Scotland, he is best known for playing the Twelfth Doctor in the popular English television series Doctor Who. Besides that, he has also done a number of other television shows as well, including Prime Suspect, The All New Alexei Sayle Show, Delta Wave, The History of Tom Jones: A Foundling, Horizon, BBC Breakfast, Waking the Dead, Skins, Torchwood, The Musketeers, Watership Down, & several guest appearances on many other television shows. He also has done a number of films as well, including Turtle Diary, Dangerous Liaisons, December Bride, Bean, Shooting Fish, Mrs. Caldicot’s Cabbage War, Max, House of 9, Magicians, In the Loop, World War Z, The Fifth Estate, Paddington & its sequel, Christopher Robin, & many more. He also has done work for the stage, & such theater shows he has done include An Inspector Calls, Twelfth Night, Othello, Blood Brothers, Murder is Easy, The Judas Kiss, & The Ladykillers. He also is a director of various short films, & his short film Franz Kafka’s It’s A Wonderful Life won him the Academy Award for Best Live Action Short.

Why I say MIGHT as opposed to IS: This particular post was requested by an anon some time ago, & they said that he was definitely raised Catholic, but was uncertain on whether or not he still practiced it. Looking into it, the first part is definitely true: according to a Scottish people search website, when he was growing up Peter attended three different Catholic schools in Scotland: St Theresa's Primary, St. Matthew's Primary, & St Ninian's High School. Whether or not he’s still into the Catholic faith, it is unknown. All this said, I think it’s still very likely that he’s still Catholic, & that’s what I’ll believe for the time being.

If this post is wrong: If this post is wrong & Peter has stated in a reliable source somewhere, whether it be in an interview or even social media, that he practices a different religion or no religion at all, please politely inform me in an ask & I will change this right away!

3/24/19 Update: According to @umka2002 in a recent ask, they mentioned 2 things: first, that I forgot to mention one of his biggest roles of Malcolm Tucker from the television series The Thick of It. But more importantly, they also mentioned that Peter is no longer Catholic & is now an Atheist. In a 2010 article from The Telegraph, he says: “I grew up as a Catholic but I don’t believe in God now.” I sincerely apologize for making this mistake, though I hope this update will clear things up. Also, to the original anon who requested Peter Capaldi, while I appreciated the suggestion & thank you for your contribution, I’m afraid this information is no longer true. I hope that you aren’t too disappointed by this!

[drunkenfishsticks]

I am very excited to announce the expansion plans for Drunken Fish and Kimchi Guys to Edwardsvillie, Illinois. I just purchased and closed on a near 2 ACRE middle outlot off of HWY 157 across from the "Trace on the Parkway" and SIUE. We will be opening both Drunken Fish and Kimchi Guys with a drive through. 🍣🍗 We expect to open by the 2nd quarter of 2023! 🍾🍾 Edwardsville, Illinois is a city in and the county seat of Madison County, Illinois, United States. As of the 2020 census, the population was 26,808. The city was named in honor of Ninian Edwards, then Governor of the Illinois Territory. It's about a 20 minutes drive from Downtown St. Louis. Southern Illinois University Edwardsville, the Edwardsville Arts Center, the Edwardsville Journal, the Madison County Record, and the Edwardsville Intelligencer are based here. Edwardsville High School and Metro-East Lutheran High School serve students in the area. Edwardsville also serves as the headquarters for Prairie Farms Dairy one of the largest dairy cooperatives in the United States and ranked in the top 10 of the largest privately held companies in the St. Louis region. I am looking forward to the journey that this will take us. As always, I want to thank everyone who continues to support us and everything that we do. I wholehearted appreciate it from the bottom of my heart! 😍😍😍 #sohospitalitygroup #drunkenfish #kimchiguys #612North #missjava #edwardsville #traceontheparkway #SIUE #sushiinillinois #sushilovers #koreanfoodinIllinois #koreanfriedchicken #lacledeslanding #stl #sushi #KFC (at Edwardsville, Illinois) https://www.instagram.com/p/CZfEbh_OqFB/?utm_medium=tumblr

[weavingthetapestry]

24th of June 1314: The Battle of Bannockburn (Second Day)

(Cambuskenneth Abbey)

Part 1- Lead-up to the battle; Part 2- the first day of the battle

As it turned out, it was the Scots, and not the English, who should have worried about treachery in the night. Despite having fought against Bruce for much of the conflict, David of Strathbogie, Earl of Atholl, had changed sides by late 1313, and was one of the three earls with the king at Bannockburn. Another of these, however, was the king's brother, Edward Bruce, for whom Atholl had allegedly conceived a deep hatred on account of Edward's desertion of his wife Isabel (Atholl's sister) for a sister of Sir Walter Ross. It was claimed by John Barbour that this issue came to a head on the night of the 23rd, when Atholl and his men headed towards the Scots’ supply depot at Cambuskenneth. There, they slew Sir William Airth along with many of his men, and raided the supplies in the Abbey before leaving the area completely. For this crime, Atholl's lands were forfeited and he was banished to England, but his descendants continued to cause trouble for the Bruce kings long afterwards. 

Several miles away in the New Park, the Scots rose at daybreak and readied themselves for battle, as the morning of the 24th of June dawned clear and sunny. Robert Bruce had been convinced not to withdraw the previous evening, but while the victories of the previous day had been an auspicious beginning, the task facing the Scots was still immense, and the king did his best to hearten his army. Probably on the evening of the 23rd (though some sources say the next morning), he addressed them, in a speech which has been variously recorded by different sources, but was plainly inspiring to the Scots whatever its form, and if the next morning they felt any trepidation about the battle ahead, they seem to have been no less determined to face the challenge. The English chronicler Geoffrey le Baker’s account was written sometime after Bannockburn, and is likely embellished, but his description is no less compelling,

“On the other side you might have seen the silent Scots keeping a holy watch by fasting, but with their blood boiling with a fervent love for the liberty of their country which, although unjust, made them ready to die on her behalf.”

The previous evening having been the eve of the feast of St John the Baptist, the army had fasted, but now they received bread and wine, and masses were said. Walter Bower claims that Maurice, the Abbot of Inchaffray, having taken King Robert’s confession previously, presided over this mass, before making his own speech to the host and then leading them onto the field, walking ahead of the army with cross in hand. The Scots quickly formed up in their divisions, almost all, including the king, being on foot, many carrying axes at their sides and spears in hand. As already mentioned, most sources state that there were three divisions, two in front, and a third in the rear commanded by the king, which may have included many men from Carrick and the west highlands and islands, as well as Lowlanders. The other two seem likely to have been commanded by the king’s brother Edward Bruce and Thomas Randolph, Earl of Moray, (John Barbour’s claim that there was a fourth division under the Steward and James Douglas being largely rejected by historians, though A.A.M. Duncan has raised the possibility that Douglas was serving under Edward Bruce, which would fit his movements later in the battle). Once in their divisions, the king likely created new knights, as was chivalric custom, though again Barbour’s claim that this was when Stewart and Douglas were knighted may have been poetic licence. This done, the army advanced, moving out of the New Park and down into the land near to where the English had made camp.

(One interpretation of where the second day of the battle may have taken place (Barrow’s), with the English camp in between the Pelstream and Bannock burns. Not my picture.)

The site of the fighting which took place on the second day of the Battle of Bannockburn has never been conclusively located, despite the best efforts of historians and archaeologists across the centuries, which have most recently included a huge archaeological dig to mark the seven hundredth anniversary. Some archaeological finds would seem to support Barrow’s hypothesis, which was also supported by Duncan. In this view, the English encampment is thought to have been on the fields which are currently sited just across the railway from Broomridge, surrounded by the Pelstream and Bannock burns, and it is even possible that the battle itself was fought down here, or perhaps at Broomridge itself (though there are now houses on the spot). It is also possible that the battle may have been fought up the hill from Broomridge, over the other side of Balquidderock wood, on the ground that Bannockburn high school now occupies. The position of the Bannockburn Heritage Centre near Borestone (to the west of the aforementioned sites) is actually very unlikely to have been the spot of the battle, though local legend states that Borestone takes its name from a nearby stone (which survived until the mid-twentieth century) in which Bruce's standard was planted during the battle. This legend can only be definitively dated to the eighteenth century, however, and, though there are arguments for spots slightly further afield, most theories seem to agree on a spot somewhere in the vicinity of Balquhidderock wood. I cannot comment on this with authority though, and so I recommend personally reading up on the subject further, as there are other opposing arguments (and it’s also really interesting- see the references below for the full titles of Barrow and Scott’s books). For now though, I’ll return to narrating the battle. 

The English army had not had a particularly restful night. Though some sources claim that the soldiers ‘spent the night in braggartry and revelry with Bacchus’, exulting in the rout of the Scots rabble they were sure would follow, other sources indicate that many within the army were anxious and restless. The cavalry had armed themselves and readied their horses in the night, and Thomas Gray states that when they saw the Scots march out of the woods, they mounted hurriedly in some alarm. The behaviour of their king and other leaders can hardly have been comforting: the English commanders were deeply divided, both on account of individual pride and on what course of action they should take. Seasoned veterans counselled against attacking that day, reasoning that the Scots would likely begin to melt away if the battle was postponed or become too tempted by the prospect of gaining spoils to maintain discipline. Gilbert de Clare, the Earl of Gloucester, though relatively young, is also supposed to have supported this argument, but according to the ‘Vita Edwardi Secundi’ many of the other younger nobles felt that delaying the battle was cowardly, while King Edward is said to have accused his nephew Gloucester of treachery. Gloucester did not take this at all well and, allegedly replying, ‘Today it will be clear that I am neither a traitor nor a liar’, he quit the king’s presence in anger and readied himself for battle. 

(Part of one possible location for the English camp- and maybe the battle itself- between Broomridge and the A91).

To the Scots coming out of the wood the sheer size of the English army would have been immediately apparent, and according to some reports only the vanguard was distinguishable from the rest of the vast force assembled in front of the Bannockburn, the cavalry’s armour glinting in the early morning sun. From the English point of view, the far smaller Scottish army appeared like a ‘thick-set hedge’, the two foremost divisions bristling with spears as they advanced in their schiltroms. This type of tight-knit spear formation had its weak points, but the Scots were in a much narrower, and therefore more advantageous, position than Randolph’s force had been in the skirmish by St Ninian’s the previous day. Moreover, the Scots had been drilled thoroughly in the weeks leading up to the battle, enabling them to use the schiltrom offensively as well as to simply stand their ground. They moved swiftly in the direction of the English, but briefly paused as they came in sight of the enemy and the whole Scottish army knelt down to pray, both confusing and impressing their foes. Soon after they rose to their feet again, battle was joined. 

The Chronicle of Lanercost maintains that the main battle was preceded by a short duel between the two sides’ archers, but if so this probably stopped as soon as the main bodies of the two armies clashed. It is unclear just how this clash occurred, but, while the ‘Vita Edwardi Secundi’ implies the Scots advanced first, most sources suggest that the English vanguard, under the earls of Gloucester and Hereford, suddenly charged the Scots schiltroms, particularly those under Edward Bruce. As this Scottish division came under pressure, Thomas Randolph’s division pressed ahead to lend support, and the English vanguard soon felt the full repercussions of charging straight into thousands of spears, as the Scots held the line and did not falter under the weight of the heavy cavalry. Jammed together the English cavalry found it difficult to fight effectively, and hadn’t the space to pull the schiltroms apart from the sides. Sir Thomas Gray, whose father had been captured charging a schiltrom the previous day, wrote:

“They [the English] were not accustomed to fight on foot; whereas the Scots had taken a lesson from the Flemings, who before that had at Courtrai defeated on foot the power of France.”

The twenty-three year old Earl of Gloucester seems to have been an early casualty. Whether in a fit of pique over the accusations of cowardice and treachery his uncle Edward II had levelled at him, or because he was still squabbling with his other uncle, the earl of Hereford, over who should take precedence in leading the vanguard, he had hurled himself at the schiltroms with much ferocity. When a phalanx that may have been under the command of James Douglas suddenly rushed forwards, however, Gloucester’s horse was brought down by the Scottish spears and its rider hit the ground, where he was lost in the fray.

(In this recent imagining of the battle, Gloucester may be identified by his arms- yellow (or) with red chevrons. The knight to his right is possibly intended to be Aymer de Valence, Earl of Pembroke while elsewhere in the background can be seen the arms of James Douglas, Edward Bruce Earl of Carrick, and Hugh Despenser the Younger. Not my picture) 

***Gloucester’s death may have been a blow, and others in the vanguard probably met similar fates, but the Scots were not out of trouble yet. According to John Barbour, at some point the English archers moved to the side and began causing real problems for the spearmen in the schiltroms. From his position behind the main battle, holding his division in reserve, King Robert sent out a small cavalry force under the command of the marischal, Sir Robert Keith, numbering about five hundred and mounted on relatively light horses. Keith’s horsemen got in among the English archers and scattered them, and as the archers fled they ran into their own troops coming up from behind and worsened the crush. It may have been then that King Robert committed his men to the battle and the Scots began to steadily push their foes back in the direction of the Bannock burn, the English giving ground as their line collapsed and men fell backwards over each other under the weight of the Scottish onslaught. Not long afterwards, if Barbour is to be believed, an even worse omen appeared,, as what looked like thousands of Scottish reinforcements suddenly emerged from the wood and headed in the direction of the battle. In fact, this was no second army at all, but the camp followers and carters and other members of the supply train who had been left behind in the New Park (tradition has it they were stationed near the appropriately named Gillies’ Hill but this is more folklore than evidence). Seeing the fight from afar, they had allegedly chosen leaders among themselves, made banners from sheets, and marched down to the battlefield in time to join the struggle. Their arrival though, appearing like a second army, was a terrible blow to English morale, and many now began to flee. 

From where the men in charge of Edward II’s rein were standing, the situation was beginning to look rather perilous, and it was now that the Earl of Pembroke and Sir Giles d’Argentan made the decision to remove their king from the battle. Edward was less than happy about being made to leave the field, but went, ‘much against the grain’, striking out at the Scots behind him with a mace. Once the king was clear, however, the famous knight Sir Giles d’Argentan took his leave of the party, claiming that he had never been accustomed to fleeing from a fight, and rode back into the fray, where he met his end. Pembroke and Edward, with the rest of their party, continued on towards Stirling castle as fast as their horses would carry them. Arriving at the gates of the castle, however, they were refused entry. Some sources imply that the garrison had switched their allegiance to the Scots, others that the captain Philip de Mowbray quite sensibly, pointed out to the king that once inside Stirling he would never be able to escape again. Whatever the case, the king’s party was forced to gallop hell-for-leather back the way they’d come, tearing past the King’s Knot and the battlefield in the direction of Lothian. 

(Not my picture.)

The rest of the English army had not been so lucky. When the king’s standard was seen to leave the field, this signalled the complete collapse of the English defence, and men began fleeing in earnest, the Scots pursuing them with triumphant shouts, cutting down any they could reach and snatching up spoils as they went. In their haste to get away from the enemy, many of the retreating English soldiers fell into the ditch behind them, through which flowed the dark waters of the Bannockburn, and this stream now became a graveyard as it filled with the bodies of the drowned and the wounded. Others fled in the direction of the castle, and Barbour describes the castle rock as visibly crawling with men as they scaled the crag any way they could. King Robert was apparently still anxious about the English deciding to turn and fight again, however and attempted to prevent his men from chasing them too far, especially avoiding any attack on those in the park under the castle, where the hundreds of fleeing soldiers might yet regroup. However, if we are to believe John Barbour, the king still granted James Douglas permission to pursue the party containing the English king- if captured, Edward II would have been too large a prize for King Robert to pass up such an opportunity.

In all the confusion, and despite the area swarming with men, both friend and foe, King Edward made it safely to the Torwood and from there his party, numbering around five hundred, headed south-east. James Douglas and his men swiftly gave chase, and by the time they reached Linlithgow, the Scots were nipping at the heels of the English. According to Barbour however, Douglas’ force, numbering only around sixty, was far too small to engage them, even when they joined up with another force that had defected from the English, and the Scots settled for picking off stragglers in the rear. When the English paused at Winchburgh to rest their horses, the Scots paused too, lurking some distance away and keeping a careful watch, until the English remounted and the chase began again. Eventually though, their headlong flight paid off, and Edward made it safely to Dunbar, the coastal fortress belonging to Patrick, Earl of Dunbar, who was quick to demonstrate to the English king that he was still loyal, evacuating many of his own people to make room for the royal party. From Dunbar, a small, open boat was procured, and Edward, with only a few attendants, escaped by sea to Berwick. The rest of his party followed overland as best they could, though they were constantly harassed by the Scots of the borders. Many of their horses were left running wild, and were seized eagerly by the Scots. A force of Welshmen under the command of Maurice de Berkley, heading towards the border of their own accord, were also much harried by the Scots, with many being taken or killed. In the south-west, Bothwell Castle received a large number of men seeking refuge, under the command of Humphrey de Bohun, Earl of Hereford. Unfortunately for them, the keeper of Bothwell, Sir Walter Gilbertson, was not as loyal as the Earl of Dunbar, and, having ensured that Hereford’s force was subdued, he soon brokered a deal with the Scots, and handed over his prisoners, including the earl. 

By late afternoon, the battle was very much over. The Scots busied themselves clearing up the rich pickings left behind by the magnificent English army- their fastidiousness when it came to spoils partly account for the lack of surviving archaeological evidence. As well as horses, treasure, and armour, they may also have found Edward II’s seal, as he lost it in his haste to escape and had to borrow Queen Isabella’s when he finally arrived in Berwick. It was equally important to count the dead, and while it is difficult to gauge the number of Scottish losses, most accounts only give two notable names- Sir William de Vieuxpont and Sir Walter Ross, the latter allegedly a close comrade of Edward Bruce, being the brother of his mistress Isabel of Ross. The English death toll was far higher. As well as Giles d’Argentan, among the dead were that hardy veteran of so many Scottish campaigns Robert Clifford, Lord William Marshall, Edmund Mauley the steward of Edward II’s household, and Payne de Tibetot, whose young son and heir had been born not even a year before. The earl of Gloucester’s body was also identified among the carnage, which is said to have saddened King Robert, the two being close kin, and an honourable guard was appointed to wake the corpse that night. Gloucester’s body was later returned to England and buried in Tewkesbury Abbey, while several of the other English nobles were given honourable burials. The rest of the army, meanwhile, was interred in large pits.

(The earliest known artistic portrayal of the Battle of Bannockburn, from a manuscript of the fifteenth century Scotichronicon. Obviously not my picture.)

While Bruce may well have lamented Gloucester, his death also meant the loss of a hefty ransom for the Scots, but in that department at least they were generally well off, not least due to the capture of the Earl of Hereford. Humphrey de Bohun was later to be exchanged, with others, for the aged yet formidable bishop of Glasgow, Robert Wishart, and several of Robert Bruce’s kinswomen, including his queen, Elizabeth de Burgh, his sister Mary, and his daughter Marjorie Bruce, all of whom had been in captivity in England since 1306. Other captives were not of such high rank, but still had their uses- for example, Robert Baston, a Carmelite friar who had apparently been brought along with Edward II’s army to compose poetry commemorating his victory over the Scots. In the event, he was captured by the Scots and in return for his release was commissioned to write poetry celebrating their victory, though Baston’s poetry is less partisan than either side might have liked, and more grief-stricken than triumphant. I agree with Walter Bower in that Baston’s poem makes for interesting reading, particularly from the point of view of someone who was near the field at the time of the battle itself, so here are a few verses:

“Weeping in my tent, I lament the battles joined, not knowing (God be my witness!) which king is to blame for them.

This is a twofold realm, where either half seeks to be master; neither wishes to be a supplicant subjected to the other. England and Scotland are two Pharisaic kingdoms. This one is at the top and so is the other, lest one or the other fall. Hence spring gaping flanks, spattered with rose-red gore, embattled ranks, mown down with bitter anguish; hence wasted strength, overwhelmed by Mars, hosts engulfed while hammering out mutual conflict; hence pallid faces, one drowned, another buried; hence manifold mourning, a noise that mounts to the stars; hence wars that arise and waste the resources of the land. I cannot recount the particulars of a massacre that transcends all reckoning

(...)

All round the scene are places heaped high with spoils. Words charged with menace are hurled back and reinforced with acts. I know not what to say. I am reaping a harvest I did not sow.  I renounce the trickery of guile; I cultivate the peace that is a friend of right. Let him who cares for more assume the care of writing it. My mind is dulled, my voice is harsh, my work totally blurred.

I am a Carmelite, surnamed Baston.    I grieve that I am left to outlive such a carnage.”

Sixty years later, John Barbour took a rather different view of the battle in his poem ‘the Brus’, written in the days of Robert I’s grandson. His work is a romance more than history, though it provides many details for events that we cannot find elsewhere and is therefore an invaluable source, if often problematic. Thus Bannockburn is presented in triumphant terms, but is not without its chivalric episodes, as in the story Barbour tells of the Yorkshire knight Sir Marmaduke Tweng. The survivor of Stirling Bridge had similarly managed to weather Bannockburn and, by hiding his armour under a bush, somehow managed to avoid coming across any of the thousands of Scots roaming the field in the immediate aftermath of the battle. When he happened to come across the Scottish king however, he spurred his horse in Bruce’s direction and yielded to him personally. Apparently impressed by this, King Robert ensured that he was treated well, chivalrously waived Tweng’s ransom, and sent him home to England laden with gifts. 

Eventually, Stirling Castle, the source of all the troubles, surrendered to the King of Scots. It was then razed, like Edinburgh and Roxburgh, so it could not be held by the English again, but it was of course rebuilt later on, and survived to continue causing trouble across the centuries.

The Battle of Bannockburn did not end the First War of Independence. It didn’t even prevent Robert I from being faced by threats from other Scottish magnates, though it certainly did do much to bolster his position in his kingdom and rendered his rule a great deal more acceptable to many of his subjects. Even some English commentators seem to have reluctantly conceded his primacy, and Bannockburn certainly played a huge role in this- Sir Thomas Gray, for example, refers to Bruce as the king of Scotland for the first time in the paragraph immediately following his account of the battle. Edward II’s ambitions in Scotland were also massively affected, and though the English king did mount other campaigns against the Scots they were largely unsuccessful and were often less confident than even the Bannockburn campaign. Bannockburn was also a triumph for a new way of fighting, and some of the tactics used therein found their way into the style of warfare practised so expertly by the English on their French campaigns during the Hundred Years’ War, and other instances of late mediaeval warfare. Its importance in popular culture from the fourteenth century to the present day, should also not be overlooked, even if some examples are rather cringeworthy. All in all, whilst it is important to recognise that Bannockburn was not the pivotal, conflict-ending event it is often claimed to be, it is still a fascinating battle, associated with many compelling stories, and is of great historical significance, both for Scotland and Britain as a whole, which makes it well worth studying.

(Not my picture. References and notes below)

*** This paragraph is based largely on the outline given in John Barbour’s ‘the Brus.’ As this is as much a work of literature as a historical source, much of it can of course be questioned, I generally have included the events in this paragraph as they are one of our only sources for the middle period of the battle and I wanted to give as a full an account as possible. That being said, it should be approached with caution.

References:

"The Brus", John Barbour, with notes by A.A.M. Duncan

“Chronica Gentis Scotorum”, by John of Fordun, translated by W.F. Skene

‘Scotichronicon’, by Walter Bower, translated by D.E.R. Watt (contains versions of Robert Baston’s poem and a verse chronicle by Abbot Bernard of Arbroath)

The Chronicle of Lanercost, translated by Sir Herbert Maxwell

"Scalachronica", by Sir Thomas Gray, translated by Sir Herbert Maxwell

"Vita Edwardi Secundi", by ‘The Monk of Malmesbury’, translated by N. Denholm-Young

‘The Chronicles of Geoffrey le Baker’, translated Richard W. Barber and David Preest

"Robert Bruce and the Community of the Realm of Scotland", G.W.S. Barrow

‘Bannockburn Revealed’, William Scott

"Bannockburn", David Cornell

"Edward II", Philip Seymour

And quite a few other secondary sources, occasionally the Calendar of Documents Relating to Scotland, and a host of leaflets, articles, e.t.c. If you want the source for a specific part, just ask, I should hopefully be able to provide it.

[myhauntedsalem]

The History of Zombie Road

Zombie Road has quite a reputation as a place where shadowy figures and other non human entities have long been reported.

Gregory Myers of the Paranormal Task Force presents this piece on the history and deaths of one of the most haunted locations in the United States.

Within the urban sprawl of St. Louis lies a remote area called “Zombie Road”. Urban Legend tells a variety of eerie tales which include being host to ritualistic and occult practices which spawned inhuman and demonic entities while other tales tell of those who met their peculiar demise and still roam this desolate road in the afterlife.

“Zombie Road”, real name “Lawler Ford Road” is about 2 miles long through a valley of forest oak land hills and ends near the Meramec River in the Glencoe, MO area where it meets the newly established “Al Foster” trail.

The history of this area goes back to ancient Native American times where this was one of the few pathways cut by nature over the centuries through the bluffs to the Meramec River area just beyond them. It is believed that traveling ancient Native Americans used this pathway for foot travel and also quarried flint here for the making of various tools and weapons.

In the early 1800’s a Ferry (boat) was operated at the bottom area of this passage at times where a ford was located in the river for settlers and travelers to cross the Meramec River to the other side where the Lewis family owned much of the land. The origin of the road name is unknown to historians even today.

Ninian Hamilton a settler from Kentucky was the first settler to occupy and own land in this area in 1803. After his death in 1856, James E. Yeatman a prominent St. Louis citizen, a founder of the Mercantile Library and president of the Merchants Bank acquired the large parcel of land that Mr. Hamilton settled and owned.

The Pacific Railroad completed their railroad line from St. Louis to Pacific along the Meramec River in this area in the 1850’s. Della Hamilton the wife of Henry McCullough, who was Justice of the Peace for about thirty years and Judge of the County Court from 1849 to 1852, was struck and killed by a train in this area in 1876.

The first large scale gravel operations on the Meramec River began at what would become Yeatman junction in this area. Gravel was taken from the Meramec River and moved on rail cars into St. Louis. The first record of this operation is in the mid-1850’s. Later, steam dredges were used, to be supplanted by diesel or gasoline dredges in extracting gravel from the channel and from artificial lakes dug into the banks. This continued until the 1970’s.

From about 1900 until about 1945, Glencoe and this area was one of the resort communities of the Meramec River’s clubhouse era. Many of the homes were summer clubhouses, later converted to year round residences then lost to the great local floods of the 1990’s.

Some say this is called Zombie Road because the railroad workers who once worked here rise from their graves at times to roam about. Some insist that they have heard old time music, seen anomalous moving lights and other ghostly sightings from that forgotten era. Another tale tells of a patient nicknamed “Zombie” who escaped from a nearby mental facility never to be seen again. His blood soaked gown was later found lying upon the old road later named after him.

Other tales include one of an original settler who met their demise upon the railroad tracks. Another includes a pioneer who lost his wife in a poker game then went back to his homestead and took his own life. Many still report seeing these lonely spirits even today.

During the age of Prohibition a nearby town housed speak-easies and the summer homes of well known gangsters. Tales tell of individuals who were dealt a bad hand by such public enemies resulting in their permanent placement within the ground or bordering river to never be seen again.

The bordering river has tragically delivered many to the other side through the years. Children and adults alike have taken their last living breath within its dangerous waters before being found washed up on its shores. Even during this new millennium, several children met their demise one day within its banks.

The railroad still shows “Death hath no mercy” as many have met their final fate upon its tracks. Local lifelong residents can still remember multitudes of tragic occurrences dating back to the 1950’s. One of these occurred in the 1970’s when two teens were struck by an oncoming train. Some of the local residents were used in search parties to find the body parts scattered about the area.

During the 1990’s a mother and her five year old child were crossing a bridge when an oncoming train met them. The mother’s last action was pushing her five year old child off the bridge. The engineer was able to stop the train and save the child. Although the mother died, this is still one of the happiest endings to a story this area will provide.

More recent past has seen this area become refuge for those wanting privacy to practice the occult and other rituals. Who can really know what true doorways to the darkness or unknown were opened here.

During the 1960’s a couple in their late teens were on top of the bluffs overlooking the road below.The male somehow lost footing and during the fall caught his face in a fork of a small tree growing out from the side of the bluff. His face and scalp remained while the rest of him fell to his death upon the road below. Others have also met their demise from the high bluffs above.

The area has also seen its share of suicides and murders. In the 1970’s a hunter stumbled across a car still running at the end the road. Closer inspection revealed a hose running from the exhaust pipe to the inside of the car with the driver slumped over the steering wheel.

One can agree that there is no lack of legends or tragedies surrounding this area which can explain the bizarre and eerie encounters of those who visit. I was one who became truly intrigued and attracted by such lore and was determined to either prove or disprove the Urban Legends surrounding it.

Within an hour several people observed a human sized shadow figure as it descended upon them from a small bluff nearby. It then ran onto the road, stopped, then disappeared into the darkness of the night. Throughout the night others heard unexplained voices, were touched by the unseen and witnessed the unexplained. This was one night that everyone could conclude that indeed some Urban Legends actually are real!

[azvolrien]

All right, time for more pictures. The day after Jarlshof and Sumburgh, I drove out to visit St Ninian’s Isle, a small island connected to the mainland by that spit of sand (known as a ‘tombolo’). It’s what’s known as a ‘tied island’, though it can apparently get cut off during the very highest of high tides, and is famous mostly for the treasure hoard that was discovered there in the 1950s and is now in the National Museum of Scotland.

[scotianostra]

19 St Ninian's Isle - Explored :-) by Nicole Via Flickr: St Ninian's Isle is a small tied island connected by the largest tombolo in the UK to the south-western coast of the Mainland, Shetland, in Scotland. The tombolo, known locally as an ayre from the Old Norse for "gravel bank"is 500 metres long. During the summer the tombolo is above sea level and accessible to walkers. During winter, stronger wave action removes sand from the beach so that it is usually covered at high tide, and occasionally throughout the tidal cycle, until the sand is returned the following spring. Depending on the definition used, St. Ninian's is thus either an island, or a peninsula; it has an area of about 72 hectares. .

[the-busy-ghost]

In February 1501 the king and Janet were in Stirling Castle. All that spring and summer building work was going on at the king's principal residences, at Stirling, Linlithgow, Holyrood and Falkland. In Stirling, a new garden was also being created and it was there in March that Janet ave birth to their son. On 7 March there are payments for velvet, silk and gold 'for the lady' as she is invariably referred to in the accounts of the treasurer; there is also payment 'for ane elne quhit tartir to be ane cude to hir barne', an ell of white silk to be a baptismal face cloth for her child, as well as material for a gown 'to the ladyis nuris'. (...) At the beginning of April came 'the ladyis upsetting fest', the feast after the birth of her child, with payments to the master cook for bread and for payments he had in turn made to the friar 'that put the flouris in the ladyis caudil', the hot drink commonly used at christenings and made of ale, wine, sugar, spice and eggs. James was off almost immediately to Whithorn in the south-west of Scotland to the shrine of St Ninian to give thanks, and on 23 April he made offerings at the tomb, the relics, that high altar and the chapel on the hill. Janet had her own expenses to meet and so her steward Master Leonard Logy was continually paid fairly large sums throughout the summer. She needed clothes as well; in May over six pounds was paid for seven ells of satin for 'ane kirtill to the ladye' and another forty-four shillings for five and a half ells 'Scottis blak to the lady to lyne hir ane goun and ane kirtil'. (...) Janet was to receive more than just rich clothes; on the first of June 1501 at Stirling the king gave to her the castle of Darnaway in Moray. (...) On 12 June James gave to his son James Stewart, 'procreated by him and Janet Kennedy', the lands and earldom of Moray, the grant including Darnaway, which was reserved to Janet for her lifetime under the conditions listed above.

‘Janet Kennedy, Royal Mistress: Marriage and Divorce at the Courts of James IV and V’, by Ishbel Barnes

Just thought it was worth quoting because I don’t have access to this part of the Treasurer’s Accounts but it’s interesting to see the money spent on the birth of one of James IV’s illegitimate children by a favoured mistress, and the element of celebration which is implied by this. James, Earl of Moray, was the eldest of James IV’s children by Janet Kennedy- though not his eldest illegitimate child nor even eldest son (both these titles belonged to Alexander, the future Archbishop of St Andrews, James’ son by Marion Boyd). Similar payments, though of slightly less value, are seen in the birth of Janet Kennedy’s unnamed daughters by the king slightly later on as well, and may arguably provide a nice insight into how much importance James IV seems to have attached to the births of his illegitimate children, at least those by long-term aristocratic mistresses. But also I just love accounts of expenditure, especially relating to ‘the lady’ of the day and her children, and especially considering the court did not yet have a queen or legitimate royal children, so it’s interesting to see the family links prior to this.