#st ninians

[fuzzhugs]

Early Redwall Weirdness

Veterans of the Redwall fandom know that there's quite a bit in the first Redwall book that didn't carry over into the rest of the series.

One chapter mentions St. Ninian's as having a lady chapel, a feature in Roman Catholic and Anglican cathedrals, being a chapel dedicated to the Virgin Mary.

This implies the existence of a mouse Virgin Mary and a mouse Jesus who died for our mouse sins.

[thesilicontribesman]

St. Ninian's Isle Hoard, The National Museum of Scotland, Edinburgh

[calochortus]

St. Ninian's Isle by Peter Stenzel

[streetsofdublin]

A QUICK VISIT TO IVEAGH GARDENS

Designed by Ninian Niven in 1865, but with a history dating back over three hundred years, the Iveagh Gardens are located close to St Stephen’s Green Park in Dublin city centre.

A LITTLE KNOWN PUBLIC PARK JUNE 2023 Iveagh Gardens has been awarded a Green flag 2022-2023 which is an international bench marking standard for parks and green spaces. Designed by Ninian Niven in 1865, but with a history dating back over three hundred years, the Iveagh Gardens are located close to St Stephen’s Green Park in Dublin city centre.From modest beginnings as an earl’s lawn, the…

[churchwow]

In the Footsteps of the Saints

The Machars of Galloway have a long association with  St Ninian (whose shrine in Whithorn was once the prime pilgrimage site in Scotland) and other early Christian saints. Throughout the Summer we are offering a programme of short pilgrimage-style events at various sites around the area. These will involve a walk  of around half an hour in the beautiful Galloway countryside, pausing along the way to connect with our surroundings and the spiritual dimension beyond, and will each conclude with a short act of prayer and reflection at a particular holy site. Where possible these will link in with the weekly Ninian Moments acts of prayer inWhithorn and Wigtown.

Some events will be dependent on the tide to allow access to parts of the route  so it is not possible to give exact times in advance - see website. 

All events are open to locals and visitors alike and are free of charge (donations welcome).  Please dress for the weather. Stout shoes are advisable. You participate at your own risk.

First Tuesday of the Month

St Ninian and the church in Whithorn

Meet at Rispain Camp (between Whithorn and Glasserton) at 10.45am

Third Tuesday of the Month

Various locations, including Physgill Glen & Ninian’s Cave,  St Medan’s Church & Well, Isle of Whithorn & St Ninian’s Chapel

(Please see our website for details)

Mondays 8 July,  26 August, 30 September

The Wigtown Martyrs

Meet at Wigtown Market Cross at 10.45am

[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.

[maypoleman1]

26th August

St Ninian’s Day

Source: PlymouthLive website

Today is St Ninian’s Day. Ninian was a fourth century Christian missionary who was allegedly the first holy man to bring the faith to Pictish Scotland. Apparently the turf hut-dwelling Picts were impressed by the stone that the saint had brought into the north from Roman Britain to build the first Scottish church at Whithorn, near Burrow Head in Dumfries and Galloway. The Picts called it the White House and a priory remains on the church’s site to this day.

Further south, today was when, in 1921, the Hairy Hands of Dartmoor struck yet again. The Hairy Hands haunt a section of the B3212 in Dartmoor and allegedly interfere with drivers travelling on this stretch of road. An army officer claimed he was riding a motor cycle between Post Bridge and Two Bridges, when two strong hairy hands closed over his eyes, causing him to crash. He survived but was the third person that year to have had a mysterious accident on this road. In March a doctor travelling in a side car with his children was killed after ordering the kids to jump free because “something was wrong” as he wrestled with the handlebars and in June a woman was killed when a coach went out of control on the same stretch of road. Whether the B3212 haunting is a land version of the Bermuda Triangle, a more modern manifestation of the boggle phenomenon, or simply a coincidence of bad driving and mechanical malfunction, has been fiercely contested.

Large hairy hands were seen scratching at the outside of a caravan in the area by a terrified woman inside three years later, but the supernatural entity has kept its hands to itself since.

[dlyarchitecture]

[portraitsofsaints]

Saint Eoghan of Ardstraw (Eugenis)

Died 618

Feast Day: August 23

Patron of the Diocese of Derry  

Saint Eoghan or Eugene of Ardstraw was born to Irish Catholics in Leinster Co. where Christianity was first established in Ireland. While he was in school in Clones, Eoghan was captured by pirates and brought to Britain. After he escaped, he studied at St. Ninian's monastery in Scotland to become a priest. Then he returned to Ireland and established the Abbey of Kilnamanagh and was the first bishop of Ardstraw. He’s known for his sanctity, learning, and miracles, one being while traveling through a forest reciting the psalms, his attendant and the trees around him answered “Amen.”

Prints, plaques & holy cards available for purchase here: (website)

[scotianostra]

August 1st 1834 saw the abolition of slavery, an abhorrent thing, and something Scotland can't just wash its hands of.

Many of you will have walked through St Andrew's Square in Edinburgh, and some, myself included will have taken the obligatory pics, most of which will be dominated by a sort miniature Nelson's Column, but atop is the statue of Henry Dundas, 1st Viscount Melville, the 'Uncrowned King of Scotland'. You can just see him in the pic. Your eyes will fall also on several buildings that would have been homes or business premises of Scots who made their fortunes in the transatlantic slave trade. Many of the houses in the New Town were owned by people with investments in the slave trade.

Back to Mr Dundas, with his immense power he held at the end of the eighteenth century, he was able to use his influence to almost single handedly delay the abolition of slave trade a further 15 years to 1807 and the subsequent abolition of British slavery in 1834. He was impeached in 1806 (then acquitted) for the misappropriation of funds, and he never held office again. Who knows how much more suffering was inflicted on African people in the Middle Passage during those 15 years?

There has been much controversy recently about his statue. What words on his plaque would be appropriate to reflect this unsavoury side of his legacy and give necessary context to his role in Scottish society?

The magnificent Royal Bank of Scotland’s headquarters, Dundas House, was the original home of Lawrence Dundas, cousin to Henry Dundas. His brother George Heneage Lawrence Dundas owned plantations in Grenada and Dominica.

The 4th Earl of Hopetoun, the nephew of Henry Dundas’ second wife, and the vice governor of the bank, is immortalised in the bronze statue outside the bank. He was second in command to fellow Scot, Ralph Abercromby, commander-in-chief of the British forces in the West Indies. Together, the men helped to end the two year slave revolution led by French-African Julien Fedon in Grenada in 1795-6 in the fight against the French for islands in the West Indies. Fedon was a highly skilled strategist, and his men executed 40 British, including Scottish governor Ninian Home at his home in Paraclete.

After 15 months of fighting the rebels were captured and executed in the Market Square. Yet Fedon was never found. Legend says he escaped to a neighbouring island on a canoe, aided by either the Amerindians or ‘Black Caribs’ in St.Vincent.

The suppression of this revolution resulted in slavery continuing for almost another 40 years in Grenada.

And when the eventual abolition came it was Dundas and his cronies who profited further with compensation deals running into what today would be billions of pounds.

I'm turning of commenting on this as it can attract some comments that I would end up having to delete, you can vent your opinions through emoticons

Read more on this despicable man and the trade helped lengthen here. https://historycompany.co.uk/.../henry-dundas-lofty-hero.../

[sgiandubh]

Sorry I can’t prove it absolutely without revealing the name of the school and I don’t want to do that . No stalking or data mining just what she has posted on her public IG , as a former pupil and still resident in the area I recognised the uniform. I also have access to the schools SM account and her son is in 2 videos posted about recent school activities. I perhaps misunderstood the context of your post but I thought you were questioning the timing of her IGS picking up her son , my intention was only to comment that it was most likely real time as it was not a holiday for that particular school and the timing of posting was consistent with the end of school day . A further bit of local knowledge St Ninians is not a private / independent school in your link the email given is @stirling.gov.uk , that’s the local council or state school as we sometimes refer to them .

Dear (returning) Bank Holiday Anon,

Point taken on that particular school's account, and the email denotes a state school, indeed. Hutcheson's is still private, though and many private schools do choose to follow the council set term dates - makes for quite a tricky ball game. And you understood correctly, I was questioning her timing, as yesterday was a bank holiday and some schools will remain closed even today, for pupils, as far as I know.

I will never ask you to reveal anything about anyone, especially when children are concerned. Just don't and it is fine like that. We are not stalkers, we are just speculating in such situations, sometimes leading to hasty and obviously wrong conclusions.

Guilty as charged, Anon. I am not a hypocrite. Trust and credibility are very important to me. If we want to try and change something, in this strange environment, we should always start with ourselves.

That was a good and elegant lesson, Anon and I particularly liked the care with which you chose your words. Thank you for this. Truly.

[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 travelling 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 travellers 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.

Missouri Paranormal Research (now a division of Paranormal Task Force, Inc.), the paranormal investigative team I belong to, investigated this area on several occasions. Our visits converted many true skeptics into true believers of the paranormal. I was one of those the first time and even remarked “This was going to be like Winnie the Pooh looking for a ghost in 100 Acre Woods” prior to descending onto the old road.

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!

[thesilicontribesman]

St. Ninian's Isle Hoard, The National Museum of Scotland, Edinburgh

[pershing100]

St. Ninian's Manse, Leith

[tinyshe]

More Saints of the Day September 16

St. Cornelius

St. Abundius

St. Curcodomus

St. Cyprian

St. Cyprian, Bishop of Carthage

St. DulcissimaSt. Edith of Wilton

St. Eugenia

St. Euphemia

St. Lucy & Geminian

Bl. Michael Fimonaya

St. Ninian

Bl. Paul Fimonaya

St. Rogellus

[toshikihikari]

kiss, sender kisses receiver.

(ninian and eliwood 💕 because what other option is there really lol)

A lack of sleep had become a common occurrence in Eliwood’s life as of late. At best, there would be pockets of time in which the gentle cries of an infant next door would cease for a few hours, allowing him and his wife to rest until their son woke them again. At worst, Roy was near inconsolable and restless, leaving both Eliwood and Ninian without sleep by the time the sun rose in the morning. The past few days had been the latter, and by the shade of dark circles that had begun to form under Ninian’s eyes, the constant fussing had started to take its toll on her.

Any time she seemed more tired than usual, or more stressed, or unwell, Eliwood was concerned. He knew her time with him was limited, and he was fearful of anything that could hasten the process and take her from him far too soon. As Ninian was propping herself up to get out of bed for what seemed like the hundredth time that night, he gently put a hand on her shoulder. “Stay here,” he whispered, giving her a small smile, “I’ve got him tonight. Please, sleep.”

Before he could hear Ninian utter even a word of protest, he promptly jumped out of bed and headed to the nursery, where their son was making his protests known that something in his little life was not how he wanted it. Upon reaching Roy’s crib, Eliwood very gently lifted him up and into his arms. “Shh, Roy, shh...it’s going to be alright. You were fed a couple hours ago, so it can’t be that, so…did you go to the bathroom? Or did you just need a bit of comfort?”

At the sound of his father’s voice, Roy’s cries started to fade into whimpers, and Eliwood gave him a smile before kissing his head. “I see…so you were just wanting a bit of company, huh? Well, Daddy’s here. And I’ll be here for as long as you need.” He paced around the room for a few minutes, gently bouncing Roy in his arms, thanking St. Elimine that his presence was enough to calm his son down. He would have felt terrible if it was Ninian who he wanted after telling her to go back to sleep.

Roy let out a very soft yawn and curled into Eliwood, his eyes slowly closing. Eliwood pressed one last kiss to his head and sat down in the chair near his crib. While he was successful in soothing Roy, his slumber was quite fragile—the last thing Eliwood wanted to do was risk putting him down and waking him yet again. He leaned back into the chair and gently changed Roy’s position so he was sleeping fully on his chest, and closed his eyes. “Goodnight, Roy. I love you.”

***

Eliwood must have fallen asleep, because he awoke to a pair of lips pressing gently against his. As the silhouette of his wife came into focus, so did the soft hues of an early sunrise. His eyes immediately widened, and he looked down at Roy, who was still soundly asleep in his arms. “Ninian…I’m so sorry. I meant to return to bed, but I suppose I was more tired than I thought…and I didn’t want to disturb him, so…” he brought a hand up to cradle Roy’s head as he scooted forward in the chair. “Were you able to get some rest?”