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The Heart of the Travellers
OCTOBER, 2016 REGISTERED CHARITY NO: SCO045416 VOLUME 2, NUMBER
4
Pages Contents:
Editorial 2
Sandy Stewart: Memories of a Gentleman of the Road – David Cowan
3
News from Article 12 in Scotland 7
Edinburgh International Book Festival – Jess Smith 9
Times Past 11
King of the Road: John MacGregor – Alistair Ferrie 13
Update on the Tinkers’ Heart 22
Wanted! 24
The Haunted Hotel – Bob Knight 25
Poetry – Mary Thomson & Karen Ramsay 31
More News from Article 12 42
Scottish Heritage Angel Awards 2016
We were absolutely delighted to learn that Jess Smith was
nominated for a
Scottish Heritage Angel Award for her years of dedication to
protecting the
Tinkers' Heart.
These awards are new in Scotland - they were established in
2014. The
awards are a joint venture between Historic Environment
Scotland, Scottish
Government, Archaeology Scotland and Scottish Civic Trust,
supported by
the Andrew Lloyd Webber Foundation. There are five categories of
Award
and Jess was nominated for:
Nominated for Category B: Caring and Protecting -
Volunteer-led
involvement in saving/restoring heritage sites and
buildings.
Although Jess did not win this year, her nomination is all very
exciting and
very well-deserved. Read more about Jess's nomination / the 2016
Awards
here: Scottish Heritage Angel Awards
https://www.historicenvironment.scot/http://www.gov.scot/Homehttp://www.gov.scot/Homehttp://www.archaeologyscotland.org.uk/http://www.scottishcivictrust.org.uk/http://www.scottishheritageangelawards.org.uk/awards/2016-awards/b-jess-smith,-tinkers-heart/
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Editorial
Welcome to the latest edition of HOTT. We have a wide range of
news and
articles for your enjoyment in this issue.
Firstly though, it is always sad when someone moves on to
pastures new.
HOTT has been in existence for a few years now and, like all
organisations,
the people who make it up change over time. We’ve said farewell
to Gavin
McGregor as our chairman since our last issue. Gavin was an
excellent chair
and carried out this job with enthusiasm. However, he felt he
had come to
the end of his work with HOTT and resigned as Chair in
September. We wish
Gavin well in his new ventures.
Jess continues to be the public ‘face’ of HOTT and there is some
exciting
news about what she has been up to later in the magazine.
We’d like to thank Jane Fifield and the editorial team from
Strathard News
(www.strathardnews.com) for their kind permission to reprint
Alistair
Ferrie’s 2007 articles about The Blind Fiddler, John MacGregor.
Mr Ferrie
has since passed on but we hope he would be delighted his words
in this
story are still very much appreciated and his writing is of
great interest to
our readers.
Finally, thank you to all those who have contributed to this
edition, either
directly or being happy for me to trawl their Facebook pages and
pinch bits
and pieces. I hope you enjoy the two stories about Men of the
Road as
much as I did.
As always, your feedback would be welcome. Our contact details
are at the
end of the magazine.
Fiona McAllister – Editor
http://www.strathardnews.com/
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He’d been a Black Watch soldier once.
Sandy Stewart: Memories of a Gentleman of the Road
Photograph: Jess Smith
Sandy Stewart was a gentleman of the road, one whose life was
full of
interest and hardships. He’d been a Black Watch soldier once.
How he came
to be tramping the byways of Scotland is a sad and interesting
story.
Judging by all the Facebook comments in reaction to the photo on
the cover
though, he certainly had his fair share of fish suppers courtesy
of those he
met on his travels. The Sunday Post used to follow his travels
around the
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then more cursing - she broke into a canter - more cursing - she
galloped along to Broich Road
country once upon a time.
Sandy Stewart Photograph: David Cowan
David Cowan knew Sandy well. One of his memories is of an
amusing
encounter between Sandy and a young woman: ‘ “ I was lying in my
bed in
28 Commissioner Street on a hot summer's night when I heard old
Sandy
walking along the street - very slowly - and singing.”
“Then I heard the clip clop of a young girl walking along the
road in her high
heels, probably returning from the dance in the Masonic Hall.
Old Sandy
gave out a lot of cursing when he saw her which prompted her to
break into
a trot - then more cursing - she broke into a canter - more
cursing - she
galloped along to Broich Road.”
Then I heard a policeman about to arrest him: "You are breaking
the - my
God, you are wearing police issue boots - and trousers, and
coat. I give up!”
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He was married in Ealing in 1916 and had four children, born in
Aberdeen , Lucknow, Landour and Quetta.
I got hold of my old camera and flashlight and asked him if I
could take his
picture for a silver sixpence. "Is that you, colonel?" he asked.
Seizing the
opportunity I replied in the affirmative. He stood to attention
and gave me a
smart salute. Picture is for posterity now.” ‘
Heaven knows why the sound of high heels on a pavement should
cause
such a fuss, but David’s photograph, taken shortly afterwards,
shows a real
glint of mischief in his eye! That poor lassie must have got the
fright of her
life with all his cursing.
David’s curiosity about Sandy led him to contact the Black
Watch, asking for
information. This is part of Sandy’s story, as told to David by
Major Ronnie
Proctor:
Alexander Rennie STEWART was a native of INVERNESS and enlisted
in THE
BLACK WATCH in 1906 as a clerk to trade. He saw service in
France from
1914 to 1917 then posted to 3rd Bn as a CQMS in 1919. In 1919 he
saw
service in India with the 1st Bn until April 1926.
He was discharged the with the rank of COLOUR SERGEANT (although
he
claimed to have been Company Sergeant Major !) having the Great
War
medal, 1914 star, and Rosette , the War and Victory Medal , long
service
and Good Conduct medal.
He was married in Ealing in 1916 and had four children, born in
Aberdeen ,
Lucknow, Landour and Quetta.
David adds, “I believe that when his wife left him, Sandy was
distraught and
took to the road, travelling the length and breadth of the
Country.
I remember when travelling to work in Perth, passing him singing
and
walking very slowly into Crieff at Gorthy Toll. When I returned,
he was still
walking, having not quite reached Gillmerton - a distance of
less than three
miles in nine hours.
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At this time of year, when we remember the dead and fallen from
both world wars, spare a thought too for the survivors, like Sandy
Stewart, whose lives were forever touched by the horrors they
witnessed.
He slept for some time in a hay loft near Dunkeld, where he was
beaten up
by some young lads and hospitalised. In hospital he was most
indignant
when he had a bath as he didn't like water!
Some time later he was found dead near Dunkeld and given a
Military
Funeral."
Sandy Stewart was a character. He was also a survivor of the
carnage of
WW1. Heaven knows what demons he had to fight or how they
impinged
on his domestic life. His story is poignant and one of many.
At this time of year, when we remember the dead and fallen from
both
world wars, spare a thought too for the survivors, like Sandy
Stewart, whose
lives were forever touched by the horrors they witnessed.
And mind who you annoy with the clumping of your high heels,
ladies!
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Article 12 has been working hard to ensure that Gypsy/Traveller
rights remain on the international agenda.
News from Article 12 in Scotland
Doomsday in the Afternoon Educational Resources
As reported several issues ago, Article 12 have produced a
fabulous
resource for Teachers about Gypsy / Traveller culture. Education
Scotland
wanted a few tweaks made, but it looks like the resource will be
ready by
Christmas.
(Now THIS I want in my Christmas Stocking!)
Human Rights
Article 12 has been working hard to ensure that Gypsy/Traveller
rights
remain on the international agenda. Besides our joint report
with the
Traveller Movement we also contributed to the British Institute
of Human
Rights' Joint Civil Society Report to the Universal Periodic
Review of the UK.
Click on the link to read the report: Human Rights Check
Report
https://www.bihr.org.uk/news/hrcheckreportnews
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Please show your backing for ending hate crimes against Gypsies,
Travellers and Roma and support #OperationReportHate.
#OPERATIONREPORTHATE IS LIVE!
Article 12 in Scotland is part of the nationwide campaign to
raise awareness
of the unacceptable levels of hate crime against the
Gypsy/Roma/Traveller
communities. Visit the site for resources that you can use to
promote
#OPERATIONREPORTHATE. We are especially keen for people to take
their
photo holding this image then tweet it or post it to their
Facebook page. We
suggest the following text for your tweet [although you can
tweet what you
like!]:
Please show your backing for ending hate crimes against Gypsies,
Travellers
and Roma and support #OperationReportHate. Click here for
further
details: Operation Report Hate
Bernadette Williamson, Chairperson of
Article 12 in Scotland, showing her support for
#OperationReportHate .
http://bit.ly/2cqib1yhttps://www.facebook.com/hashtag/operationreporthate
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folk have enough worry in their lives without you giving them
more
Jess Smith at the Edinburgh International Book Festival
The Way of the Wanderers: The book I spoke about at the
Edinburgh
International Book Festival on Monday, August 15th.
I never thought this book would ever be published. My previous
books were
light and happy, packed with early years on the road, in a bus,
our home of
10 years, my love of travelling and the countryside was all down
to pure
unadulterated ‘Freedom that came from that home on wheels.’ My
culture
dominated those years, berry picking, tattie lifting, tramps of
the road with
tales to tell and summers full of laughter.
I had made a promise to my mother that my writing would
entertain
people. Mammy said, “folk have enough worry in their lives
without you
giving them more. You love to laugh Jess, that’s how you should
write.”
With this in mind I did just that.
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It wasn’t all gloomy, there was a lot of laughter and to present
the facts I hypothetically had to go back on the road, which I
found a joy to do.
However I had made a previous promise, this time to my father
and this was
to find the reasons behind discrimination towards Travellers and
write a
book of facts.
Separated schools, industrial schools, orphanages, sending kids
away to
Australia and Canada, and all the other terrible things done to
Travellers.
This can of worms was beyond my reach, I had nothing to verify
or back up
evidence that any of it took place. Yet it did and Scotland
opened her
archives and allowed me access. It wasn’t all gloomy, there was
a lot of
laughter and to present the facts I hypothetically had to go
back on the
road, which I found a joy to do.
Thanks to my publisher Birlinn, to my editor Tom Johnstone, and
to my
country for allowing me this platform to share Traveller history
from times
gone by. Thank you all for coming along to listen.
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That’s a fine-looking cuddy. And the mannie’s nae bad
either!
Times Past
A miscellany of notices, photos and comments to match the
weel-kent faces
and bring to mind all those glorious people, times and
places.
Don’t think too many kids would be
chuffed at working for 10p a day now!
Can’t make up my mind if the man or the horse is the more
handsome!
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A Tinker’s Funeral
Clan Gathering
Old News Cutting: Source unknown.
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Late of the Parishes of his Country
King Of The Road:
John MacGregor, late of the parishes of his
country.
Abridged by Alistair Ferrie.
I last saw him near a glen-foot that lies on the wise man’s side
of
Schiehallion, but I was taigled at the time with respectable
company and
could not therefore approach him for a bit blether. I noted his
direction
however, and the extraordinary slowness of his progress, so I
was able the
next day to overhaul him within a mile or so of Auchinleck’s
Farm. In all my
stravaigins, never had I met such a worthy soul.
What was he like?
A lost Lairdie or a King of men gone astray? In his youth he
might have been
six feet six or seven. But now, he was eighty years old and had
travelled a
weary way since he put love above the lass that turned her back
on him. A
big burly man still, he wore a guid blue Kilmarnock bonnet
cocked jauntily
on a head of, once red, autumn hued silvery hair. His face was
handsome
but ordinary, weather-beaten to a dull peat-brown with an eagle
nose and a
white moustache that covered a mouth that had a weariness to it,
a
middling chin with steel blue eyes with a faraway look in them
that gave the
appearance of a man who has inner visions: visions and
imaginings were his
only sight, this gentleman of the road being fully blind.
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Slung across his shoulders on a leathered strap were two pokes,
which doubtless contained the treasures of the humble, with a
fiddle-case dangling from his chest.
His apparel comprised a red tartan kilt of the clan that needs
no apology in
Lochaber, black and red marled hose and great boots like shoes
of fortune
with a heavenward tilt about the toes. Overall, he wore an aged
highland
cloak that retained the hint of a fine gentleman about the cut.
Slung across
his shoulders on a leathered strap were two pokes, which
doubtless
contained the treasures of the humble, with a fiddle-case
dangling from his
chest.
In spite of his blind eyes he carried his head high. In his left
hand he carried
the leash of a dour, ill-tempered collie dog that led him. In
his right, a stout
stick with which he kept tap-tapping the ground before him. A
second collie
dog trotted by his side or ranged ahead like a nervous scout -
defiant.
Here was indeed a gentleman gan-aboot boddie of the olden times.
Was he
a vagrant or mendicant? No. Plainly an honest, decent man of the
road.
A growl from the scout collie dog made my first advance
dangerous - but
soon we together got into step and the traveller’s blethers
began. My own
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“No Sir, I never enter a hoose.”
apparel was a little better than his although the long tiring
day ascending
the high crags had seen the wear of them. Yet, blind as he was,
he jaloused
by my voice what I was.
“Dominie or Meenister ye are?” he inquired.
“I am Sir, the first, but how did you guess?” quoth I.
“Because ye speak like ane wha explains.”
In admiration I commented favourably on his wayfarer’s wisdom.
He knew
Scotland from southern border to northern extremity and shared
much of
his knowledge with me. He had something to say, I remember, of
the old
Kirk at Linlithgow where James IV saw the freit of a blue-cowled
bogle that
warned him not to take the field of Flodden. With that, we came
upon the
Auld Smiddy.
“Come in and eat,” I cordially invited.
“No Sir, I never enter a hoose.”
So we sat outside, side by side, a pair of Dusty-Dan’s and the
wisest of us
(he) brewed the tea. It was an odd meal. He produced a wooden
coggie
from some secret place beneath his great cloak and drank his tea
from it,
taking sip-about with the collie dogs. When he partook of the
bread the
collies ate from it at the same time, so that the three mouths
nibbled at it
together. The slightest attempt by me to pat or touch the dogs
or any of
their mester’s belongings brought a snarl and a snap.
“Dinna meddle wi’ the Doggies or they’ll let fly at ye.”
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He told me of times past, honourable deeds done, great battles
fought and the fall of kings while seated there among the great
hills about us and the River Tay whispering by to her tryst with
the sea.
They were his only friends, and his jealous keepers. He lived
with them, ate
with them, slept with them - inseparable.
There came more blethers of the hills, the mist, the silence and
self-inflicted
loneliness. He was a dab-hand at the ancient prophecies in the
great book
and talked like one weel-kent in the mysteries. He put the truth
in this
never-to-be-forgotten word –
“Ye can never be close to God till ye climb high up into the
mists, alone,
where there is never another by your side.”
He told me of times past, honourable deeds done, great battles
fought and
the fall of kings while seated there among the great hills about
us and the
River Tay whispering by to her tryst with the sea. Even this
wise one
conceded his uncanny knowledge passed down by word of mouth
from
generations of MacGregors before him - I was sweir to let him
away, but
before he took to the road again I ettled after his domicile -
and his parting
words to me were:
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“When ye think o’ me for’by, think o’ me as the man wha wore the
MacGregor wi’ pride.”
“When ye think o’ me for’by, think o’ me as the man wha wore
the
MacGregor wi’ pride.”
With that we parted at the keystane of Caputh Bridge where it
spans the
Tay - and to this day I can hear the tap-tapping of the blind
man’s stick on
the camber of the hollow arch as he moved slowly away with the
collie dogs
trotting by his side.
If only we could learn each another’s story there would be
little need for
novels. But the patient one will always unravel the tangled
skein. I never
saw the blind fiddler again; but years anon, when he was in
final repose, I
learned of his whole story on a stormy winter’s night in a
highland bothy
nearby Glenshee.
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said estates and all goods there accounted for - has fallen to
His Majesty Treasury, ultimus hoeres.
It began with a heartless public notice in the Perthshire
Advertiser:
“Notice is hereby given that the estate of John Macgregor, known
as
the blind fiddler, a vagrant of the shires of Perth and Forfar,
who died
in Kirriemuir Poorhouse on 27th day of December 1916, said
estates
and all goods there accounted for - has fallen to His
Majesty
Treasury, ultimus hoeres.”
John Shaw
Town Clerk
Forfar
Gleaned now from the bothy nicht: there was nothing of the usual
tramp
about John MacGregor, who for fifty years had travelled the
highways and
byways of his beloved Scotland. Rather was he the last of the
old wandering
minstrels. Born somewhere nearby Cairnwell, he was a kenspeckle
man
about the Parishes of Bal’whidder and West Perthshire and of
Royal Deeside
and Braemar, a teller of many tales of his proud but
downtrodden
MacGregor Clan. He knew the good book from end to end. His
inward
eye saw all the more because his blindness threw him back on the
secrets of
the soul.
What took a guidman such as he to the life of a wandering
shenachie and
fiddler?
The story goes that when he was an upstanding lad of great
strength and
handsome looks with a sweetheart all of his own, he was working
in a great
granite quarry in Aberdeenshire when a blast went off and
blinded the
young giant for life. To a sweetheart true, her blind man is a
man held
doubly dear - but to his Aberdeenshire quine her man, now
blinded, was a
spoiled man.
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He fiddled for gentry and common folk alike - he thrice fiddled
before HRH the Queen Victoria by her royal command at the annual
Ghillie’s Ball at Balmoral Castle.
So she turned her back on his sorrow and consoled herself in the
arms of an
orraman from Inverbervie way. But the blinded man in MacGregor
pride
suffered in silence, and said nothing. Then, when his wounds
healed, slipped
away and took the old road to nowhere.
After that he fiddled his way through life, as many other
tainted folk have
done. Often in a barn he made the rafters dirl with the clamour
of the Reel,
when the country lads and lasses kept the Hairst Kirn going to
the skreich of
the new day. Yet, his tunes were not all happy: oft times his
fiddle would
wail out some low broken-hearted melody that came from the
depths of his
own soul – the slow, sad memories crowding on each another like
tears
from a lover’s eyes. When he played to himself it was as if he
was
eternally seeking some comfort which he could never find. None
could get
John MacGregor’s story by simply plucking his sleeve.
He fiddled for gentry and common folk alike - he thrice fiddled
before HRH
the Queen Victoria by her royal command at the annual Ghillie’s
Ball at
Balmoral Castle. His public tunes were agreeable to all,
particularly the royal
ear - but his best tunes were his lonely tunes: they were always
sad with
remembering his troubled life and that of his beloved
MacGregors.
He slept under the stars for choice: a fine bed for summer-time
when in the
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It was all he would have wished it to be – on the open road.
warm nights of August, the purple heather drugs the sleep of a
weary man
with hone-scented dreams, and the grousecock awakens him at dawn
for a
sun-splashed bathe in a tumbling torrented burn; but a hard bed
in
wintertime when the wind drives the rain in pitiless sheets down
the Glens,
or the silent falling snow makes sleep near a thing to death
itself.
“But for the collies,” he once said, “I wadna be here this day.
Often when
I’m far frae shelter I dig a hole in the snaw and lie down in my
cloak, and the
dogs snuggle in aroon’ my neck - the cauld snaw covers us aboot,
but we
dinna mind, for the three o’ us are cosy an’ warm
thegither.”
But it came to the last slumber of John MacGregor at the hinder
end. One
bitterly frosted night in December this old king of the road lay
down to
sleep at the roadside nearby Greenmyre Fermtoun in the Parish
of
Kingoldrum. His fiddle was broken and had lang syne played his
last tune.
His collie dogs were dead, no warm paws about his neck or the
creature
comfort they gave.
He was all alone under his beloved stars.
Next day, a kindly orraman found him unconscious and by the
mercy of
Heaven, the blind fiddler never fully regained his senses to
realise - his
stravaigins, his companionship and his music ... and his life’s
ebb.
It was all he would have wished it to be – on the open road.
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They found £50 in gold about his person, so his strip of earth
was his to the last.
John MacGregor was removed to the Parish House at Kirriemuir to
spend his
last hours. They found £50 in gold about his person, so his
strip of earth was
his to the last. The rest of his simple belongings went to the
king, aye, the
monarch whose Grandmother had commanded him to play for her.
Every man’s story is his own by right. When it comes to the end
of all things,
none can tell with surety the dreams that trouble a man’s last
sleep. But
were I to favour John MacGregor - late of the Parish of Scotland
and
ambassador supreme to the MacGregor - and speak of his wandering
life
and honourable times, I would in respect, humility and in
admiration say
thus:
John MacGregor was mired in his own history and every new day -
a
blessing - brought its own adventure and new friendships. Less
articulate
folk than John would keep to their own class, and live in
tedious misery
without much knowledge of those who move in the other classes of
society.
But the sagacious John MacGregor – the blind fiddler - in his
lifetime of
wandering knew no class, and the world is the worst for his
passing.
Royal was his race, rest in peace old friend of the Earth.
From the personal papers and Diaries of Alexander (Sandy)
Ferrie, 1884 - 1964.
Alistair Ferrie.
First published in 2007; editions 37 & 38 of Strathard News.
Re-printed here
by kind permission of their editorial team. With many thanks to
them for
allowing this piece a new audience.
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We are lucky to have the support of Mike Russell MSP and his
expertise has helped us negotiate a number of twists in this
road.
Update on the Tinkers’ Heart
HOTT is still in discussion with Argyll & Bute Council, the
Landowner and
other interested parties to find a way forward to make the Heart
stand out
as the important spot it is. We are lucky to have the support of
Mike Russell
MSP and his expertise has helped us negotiate a number of twists
in this
road.
Argyll & Bute Council are – understandably – reluctant to
improve the
signage to the Heart at this present time due to the lack of
safe parking and
the speed of traffic on the road. It would seem that the
simplest solution is
to improve the parking, but this will take time to sort out.
Then the signage
can be put in place and hopefully, people will visit the Heart
to remember
the past and look to the future.
Anything like this always takes time and, although it can get a
wee bit
frustrating at times, it will work out in the end.
However, one thing that is irritating is what seems to be the
almost
deliberate blocking of access to what is now a National Monument
by
shenanigans such as in the sign below:
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These kinds of tactics are not exactly unfamiliar to
Travellers
Somehow or other, the farmer renting the adjacent field appeared
to think
it was a good idea to put calving cows on the land where the
Heart lies and
to set up a notice warning people to stay out, thus blocking
access to this
scheduled monument.
These kinds of tactics are not exactly unfamiliar to Travellers
and this
particular one has been treated as it deserves. This matter has
also been
reported; as have all similar seemingly obstructive
manoeuvres.
The Heart belongs to many people, not one; and it is now in the
care of
Historic Scotland as a national monument. Perhaps the length of
time it is
taking to come to arrangements over both the signage and the
parking is
partly the problem here. The sooner safe access is available,
the better.
We’ll keep talking!
Fiona McAllister
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HOTT’s not looking for a webmaster, just a willing volunteer who
knows how to build websites from the templates provided by the host
company and how to display HOTT’s work off to the best
advantage.
Wanted – One Clever Geek!
(Or at least a website- savvy one.)
HOTT’s website (www.heartofthetravellers.scot) is in desperate
need of a
volunteer to love it, hug it, take it out on dates… well, keep
it updated
anyway… and generally pay it more attention that I have the time
/ ability to
at the moment.
HOTT’s not looking for a webmaster, just a willing volunteer who
knows
how to build websites from the templates provided by the host
company
and how to display HOTT’s work off to the best advantage.
If this sounds like you and you’d be up for sparing one or two
hours a week
just making the website work better for us than it does at the
moment –
please get in touch.
You’ve no idea how welcome your contribution to HOTT’s work will
be!
Fiona
http://www.heartofthetravellers.scot/
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When it comes to ghosts or paranormal events I’ve always had an
open mind, neither believing nor disbelieving.
The Haunted Hotel
Bob Knight
This story is true and actually happened to my brother, and
myself. When it
comes to ghosts or paranormal events I’ve always had an open
mind,
neither believing nor disbelieving. I remain to be convinced,
although the
following events seemed real enough at the time. I heard
“something” but
never saw what, or who it was. I’ll leave it to you to make up
your own
mind.
In the summer of 1976, or it may have been 1977, I’m not quite
sure of the
actual date all these years later, I was “on tour” with a band.
One of our
dates was in Nairn, a small northern coastal town not far from
Inverness.
We’d played there before, but always on the return leg of a
tour, which
meant we had never stayed overnight in the town, always
preferring to
drive home the eighty or so miles after the performance.
However, on this
occasion we had taken a booking on the outward leg of the tour
and
consequently booked into a local hotel.
Having arrived in the town in the early afternoon, we set up our
amplifiers,
drums and P.A. system in the hall of the venue. We ran through a
few songs
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26
It was a substantial old granite building; a proper hotel
just to check that everything was working properly, and even
rehearsed a
few bits and pieces as bands often do when on the road.
Satisfied that
everything was in fine working order, we made our way to the
hotel, which
had been booked for us by the organisers of the venue. It was a
lovely
summer afternoon and we soon found the hotel, which was just off
the
main street on a road leading to the harbour and beach. It was a
substantial
old granite building; a proper hotel, not a bed and breakfast,
and we were
shown to our room on the first floor.
As it turned out, all the accommodation was in one very large
room, what in
a more modern hotel would be given the fancy title of a family
room. There
were two single beds and a double, so my brother and I took the
double,
giving the other two band members the singles.
The band played well that night, and it was a great crowd. We
always got a
good reception at that particular club, and having played there
before, we
knew a lot of people who came up after the show and spoke to us.
It was
getting quite late, but amongst the audience were a few
musicians we knew
well, and who invited us back to their house for a small party.
Not wanting
to appear unsociable, or offend anyone, we agreed to go back
with them for
an hour or so. It’s easy to get a reputation for being
“big-headed” or worse
when you’re a musician with a professional touring band, so
sometimes it’s
just easier to “go with the flow” be sociable and leave as soon
as you
reasonably can. On the other hand, it can be really lovely when
people like
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27
They “walked” down the road, hanging on to each other, singing
an old Jacobite song, “Bonnie Charlie’s No Awa,” which was rather
strange, since it wasn’t in our repertoire.
you enough to want to be in your company and offer you their
hospitality,
and it’s not always a case of leaving as soon as possible.
By the time we’d done socialising; singing a few songs, and
generally having
a good time, it was getting very late indeed, so being a small
town, the hotel
wasn’t too far away and we walked back the short distance to it.
It was a
beautiful summer night, late June, or early July, and the
weather was very
mild. My brother and I don’t drink, no particular reason why,
we’re
definitely not religious or anything, we just don’t drink
alcohol, but the
other two band members were a bit the worse for wear. They
“walked”
down the road, hanging on to each other, singing an old Jacobite
song,
“Bonnie Charlie’s No Awa,” which was rather strange, since it
wasn’t in our
repertoire.
As we got closer to the hotel we managed to quieten them down a
bit,
because we didn’t want their singing to waken any of the other
residents.
Finally, we got them somewhat noisily upstairs and into the
room, where
they threw themselves down on top of their beds, fully dressed,
and
immediately fell asleep.
My brother left the room to go to the toilet, there being no
such thing as
en-suite facilities in those days, and I sat on the edge of the
bed waiting for
him to come back as I wanted to go too. He came back pretty
quickly, and I
asked him where the toilet was, and he told me it was down at
the end of
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28
“There’s something at the end o’ the corridor right enough,”
said my brother, “I’ve just seen it.”
the corridor.
I went out, closing the door behind me, but it was really dark
at this end of
the corridor and I groped along the walls searching for a light
switch, but
with no success. I stopped for a moment to let my eyes adjust to
the lack of
light, but as I stood there, I heard the floorboards creaking at
the far end of
the corridor, although I couldn’t see anything. Thinking it may
have been
the hotelier disturbed by our less than discreet entry, I
decided that
discretion was the better part of valour, and retreated back
into the room.
“You’re back affa quick” was my brother’s comment as I came back
in and
closed the door.
“Aye it was too dark, I couldnae find the light switch, and
there’s somebody
moving aboot doon at the far end o’ the corridor. I’m nay that
desperate, I’ll
haud it in,” I joked.
“There’s something at the end o’ the corridor right enough,”
said my
brother, “I’ve just seen it.”
There was a moment of silence as I digested this
information.
“How d’ye mean, it?” I enquired.
“Jist what I said, ‘it,’ it’s nae a person, or onything I’ve
ever seen before,” he
said, and this is what he told me.
“I went oot ontae the steps. (There were two steps leading down
from our
room to the corridor) I looked for the light switch jist like
you, but couldnae
find it, so I edged my wye along the corridor in the dark. It’s
nae sae dark
doon at the far end because there’s a great big windae in the
ceiling,
stained glass kind o’ affair. The moonlight was shining through
and it wis
quite clear. I heard somebody walking back and fore and thought
maybe the
manager or somebody wis up and aboot, disturbed because o’ the
noise the
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29
“Is it my imagination, or is that creaking getting closer?” I
asked, seeking confirmation of my fears, and for once hoping I was
wrong.
two boys made coming in. I was a’ ready wi my excuses and
apologies, but
then I saw something, jist beyond the moonlight, at the far
side, in the
darkness. It was jist moving back and fore, side tae side. It
had nae human
or animal shape. The nearest I can describe it was that it was
aboot the size
o’ your Marshall speaker cabinet, (Approx 36”x36”) nae very
tall, broad and
squat, jist moving back and fore. The hairs on the back o’ my
neck and airms
stood on end, I couldnae stop watching it, kinda mesmerised by
it. I
managed tae tak my eyes aff it, maybe somebody in one o’ the
ither rooms
coughed, or made some sort o’ noise and broke the spell, and I
backed doon
the corridor and back intae the room,” he finished.
We sat there for a minute or two, saying nothing, but by now it
was about
three in the morning, and we were exhausted. He was already in
bed, so I
undressed and got into bed too. As we lay there we could hear
the creaking
from the far end of the corridor.
“Is it my imagination, or is that creaking getting closer?” I
asked, seeking
confirmation of my fears, and for once hoping I was wrong.
“Aye, it sounds closer to me, it’s louder onywye,” said my
brother.
In the next half hour, the creaking got louder and louder until
it seemed to
be right outside our door, and there it stayed for the rest of
the night.
Backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards it went, the
creaking
floorboards announcing its unwelcome presence. The sound would
stop
from time to time, and just when we were beginning to hope it
had gone, it
started again. I had visions of the “thing” bursting open the
unlocked door
and some unspeakable horror coming into the room. The thought
was
almost as bad as the actuality, but no such thing happened. The
evil,
whatever it was, stayed outside the door.
I remember saying to my brother at one point that we would know
if it was
something evil, because evil doesn’t like the light and being
close to
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30
“Well, they won’t be the first to say they heard something
strange up there,” was all he said.
midsummer, the dawn would soon be with us. My words were
quite
prophetic, for as it got lighter, the sounds outside the door
lessened until
with daylight they stopped entirely. We finally managed to fall
asleep about
5am.
Hotels don’t make any allowances in the morning for sleepless
nights, no
matter what time you manage to fall sleep, and when someone
knocked at
our door about 8am announcing that breakfast was being served we
duly
got up, washed, and trooped down to the dining room. Sitting at
the table
one of the now sober band members said he’d had a great sleep
and asked
if we had slept well.
When we told him what kind of night we’d had he thought we were
joking
and laughed. We finally convinced him we were telling the truth
and it
wasn’t a joke, but he still laughed. He thought it all highly
amusing, and
when the hotel proprietor came into the dining room, he could
hardly wait
to tell him of our disturbed night, thinking the hotel owner
would deny it
and say it was all nonsense. Instead the hotel owner confirmed
our story.
“Well, they won’t be the first to say they heard something
strange up
there,” was all he said. Our friend wasn’t quite so cocky now
after hearing
that, and packed first thing after breakfast. He couldn’t wait
to get out of
the place.
There was no other confirmation of the story, no follow up to
tie it all up
nicely in a neat package. We never went back there and we heard
nothing
more about it. Of course, if we had been really brave, or
insatiably curious,
we could always have opened the door to confront whoever or
whatever
was out there, and get to the bottom of it, to find out the
truth. Just ask
yourself – would you have opened that door?
Copyright: R. Knight 16/11/09
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31
Edna had wandered off the track completely and was now tracing
mine and Jess’s rellies instead of her own.
Poetry
Mary Thomson
Doing the Family Tree: I was inspired to write this little ditty
after ploughing
through a mass of McAllisters and McArthurs to find that, just
like the
McKays, O’Neills and McManuses, their inter-marrying was like
walking
through glue with wellies, trying to track them down. An email
from Jess
told me she felt her head was going to implode with it all and
Edna had
wandered off the track completely and was now tracing mine and
Jess’s
rellies instead of her own. Then there’s wee Franny up in Huntly
jinin in.
Anyway here’s my thochts on paper:
Daein the Faimly Tree
If you come fae traivilin’ stock, dinna dae yir tree
Or if you dae, yir shair tae landUp jist as moich as me!
Jist tak yir mammy’s word for it Yir granny is her ma
Cos if ye dig, ye’ll probly fine She’s daddy’s ma ‘n a’
There’s weemin wi umpteen han’les Like Betsy, Bid and
Bridget
Fanny could be Frances Or hae a bye name, Such as Midget
They canna mak their mind up
They hae surnames by the dozen
Is it Docherty or Riley …
Och I’ll hae that ain o’ mi cousin.
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32
The scatterin’ o’ the faimliesCan fairly bring ye grief.
And as fir joabs,
They kid be onythin’
Frae piper through tae hawker Umbrella feek or herbalist
Can be a Summer Walker
Thir’s tinsmiths, dealers, chimney sweeps
Bell hangers there are many
Horsie men and drokkerers
Fae Ayr intae Kilmany.
Some come fae Fife and some fae Cork
Yi kin find them anywhaur
Lundin Links or Penicuik
Fae Wick doon tae Stranraer
Blairgowrie, Perth and Murthly,Intae Comrie and Crieff
The scatterin’ o’ the faimliesCan fairly bring ye grief.
Hard tae find ye mon be
Like needles in a haystack
But ye’re a’ mine I bear yir blood,
Yir quirky wies o’ dain things,
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33
And maks us what ye see
Yir guid points and yir bad yins,
Aye and ither ains beside.
So I’ll jist go on digging ootFowk wha I’m related
And no matter wha or what you be
We’re a’ what God created
So here’s tae you, Oor ain dear folk
Be you, Dan or Auntie Fee
The same blood flows
through a’ oor veins
And maks us what ye see.
Molly McKay 2009
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34
For me was never meant
A LIFE LONG GONE
I’ve never walked the lang lang road
Nor cooried in a tent
My back sair bent wi heavy load
For me was never meant
Not for me the berry fields
The lee lang simmer day
When corncrakes crawed their bonny song
Amangst golden parks of hay.
The heather hills were not my home
Nor the midnight sky my ceiling
Voices roon an open fire
Bairnies listening laughing squealing.
The wandering life was not my own
No basket weaver I
No hawker, peddlar, chimney sweep
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35
And pride swells bravely in my breast
I cannot tell a lie
I’ll never mend a fairmer’s riddle
Nor mak a milkin churn
Nor thin the neeps nor sow the corn
Mak tea ahint the burn.
Nor have I felt the hornie’s boot
As heshouted to move on
Dirty tink, get oot, get oot And dinna be here the morn
That time has gone this lang time syne
When their ancient crafts were needed
Progress, machinery and hate
Have alas the tink preceded.
But in my veins rins thick rich blood
Of these much maligned God’s craturs
And pride swells bravely in my breast
With love for my fore-faithers
I’ll wave your banners proudly high
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36
But we’ll win through somehow
Shout your praises to the skies
With gusty voice I’ll make them hear
Renting Heaven with my cries .
You’ve had your day I’ll not deny
Your need long over now
But the fight goes on and will not die
But we’ll win through somehow
Mary McKay 2009
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37
In her soft spoken
voice and with her
couthie ways
She’s telling me
the stories of all
her yesterdays.
BY GRANNY’S FEET
The coal fired crackled softly given out a gentle heat,
As a wee girl I sat at the side of it, down by my granny’s
feet.
I am rubbing the sore looking bunion on her toe to sooth it
But in truth, it is her that is soothing me.
In her soft spoken voice and with her couthie ways
She’s telling me the stories of all her yesterdays.
This travelling lady has been to so many places,
Done so many things, and kent so many faces.
A story she could find to tell about whomever she had met.
Kindly and cautiously every person she would vet!
“You have to have your wits about you out on the road lassie”,
she’d say.
“Being born and bred for survival helps to keep you from harm’s
way.
Now hen did I ever tell you the story o ‘yon’ Mrs. Mackinnon
A real lady she was, always bought my finest sheets the very
best o linen
Lived in the big farm hoose at the Grange O Lindores,
House clean as a new pin you could eat off her floors.
Oh, that woman couldnae half bake ataw!
Her delicious sponge cakes would fair drop yer jaw.
Always gave me tea in a wee china cup,
And a piece o home baking to go wae ma sup,
She’s deid noo that fine woman, god rest her soul now, me o
my
It was good kind respectable folk like herself that aye got me
by.”
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38
each tale from the past
Granny then talked about the different camping grounds, the
lethans, happy
lands, and the gothens.
Of the stooshies and troubles they got from toffee nosed
boffins.
From folks who thought we were an inferior race,
And the dreaded roused up hornies, moving them on from place to
place.
Between each tale from the past she would lie back in a
slouch
In order to reach her baccy that she kept in her apron
pouch.
With her thumb she would push it and press it deep into her
pipe
Then smiling, thinking and nodding, she would strike up a match
and set it
alight.
I’d watch the lips that enthralled me pucker round that pipe of
clay
Eagerly but contently listening for what she next had to
say,
Drawing on her pipe and on her memories she would puff away for
a while
Then she would look down at me looking up and both of us would
smile.
-
39
Came through her voice as precious gifts to me, by the fire at
my granny’s feet.
Then, sitting back and getting comfy in her seat,
Off she would go with another story and for me another
treat.
I loved to listen to all she was saying
Occasionally she would start to sing her body gently
swaying.
How she would capture my imagination with insights that were so
vivid
The prejudice she encountered from judgmental fools fairly made
me livid.
Some of the hard times she related must have been no less than
hellish,
But the laughs and near hysterics from her tales are the ones
I’ll truly
cherish.
Like all her people she was strong, hardy, bold and brave.
Her world was travelling and hawking, no other life did she
crave.
The love for the road radiated from deep within her being as she
spoke,
As I journeyed with her, learning about her people, and my own
kinfolk.
When I raised myself up from that fireside its embers now orange
and
cooling,
No better education could I have had from any formal
schooling.
My roots, my heritage, and all that passed both sad and
sweet,
Came through her voice as precious gifts to me, by the fire at
my granny’s
feet.
Feet that had walked more miles than some folk have barely
driven,
God rest YOUR soul Granny as you travel the roads in heaven.
Karen Ramsay
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40
Crystal Butterfly
If Wishes were Horses
Brennan Artography
Some more beautiful photographs from Dolly Miller-Brennan for
you to
enjoy!
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41
Kentucky Hay Man
For more information about Dolly and her work, visit:
http://www.gypsyartshow.com/2014/07/artography-by-dolly-miller-
brennan.html
http://www.brennanartography.com/
http://www.artebelladaily.org/?s=Dolly+Miller-Brennan
https://twitter.com/Dolly_World
http://www.gypsyartshow.com/2014/07/artography-by-dolly-miller-brennan.htmlhttp://www.gypsyartshow.com/2014/07/artography-by-dolly-miller-brennan.htmlhttp://www.brennanartography.com/http://www.artebelladaily.org/?s=Dolly+Miller-Brennanhttps://twitter.com/Dolly_World
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42
This lovely sign was spotted by Elizabeth Donaldson as she was
on her way to Prestwick Airport.
More News From Article 12 In Scotland
On October 11th, Deidre Brock MP and the Scottish National Party
(SNP)
hosted The Traveller Movement and Article 12 in Scotland at the
Houses of
Parliament, London. They discussed #OperationReportHate,
criminal justice,
health, education and other issues affecting Gypsies, Travellers
and Roma in
the UK. Sabrina McDonagh passionately shared first-hand her
experience of
discrimination as a Scottish Traveller.
The MPS are in no doubt about the problems still facing
Travellers and said
they looked forward to working with the groups to challenge
discrimination.
By coincidence, the photograph below was posted within a few
hours of
Article 12’s report about their London visit. This lovely sign
was spotted by
Elizabeth Donaldson as she was on her way to Prestwick Airport.
Elizabeth
said: “I took my kids to the airport in August and saw this sign
being proudly
displayed on several positions on this holiday site.”
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43
It seems that news of the obligations on businesses under the
Equalities Act
2010 (Scotland) is slow in reaching Ayrshire and arguably, any
Traveller
turned away from this holiday park site and not allowed to rent
a unit for a
wee break may well have a case under the Protected
Characteristics of the
Equalities Act.
Just to help the park out a bit, in case they might want to
re-think their
business strategy – or at least - their signage:
Race also covers ethnic and racial groups. This means a group of
people who all share the same protected characteristic of ethnicity
or race.
A racial group can be made up of two or more distinct racial
groups, for example black Britons, British Asians, British Sikhs,
British Jews, Romany Gypsies and Irish Travellers.
https://www.equalityhumanrights.com/en/advice-and-guidance/race-discrimination
Good luck to Article 12 and #OperationReportHate. This wee
snippet above
from Ayrshire shows exactly why the work they do is vital.
https://www.equalityhumanrights.com/en/advice-and-guidance/race-discrimination
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44
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And Finally…
Thank you once again to all contributors for submitting your
fabulous
articles and photographs – this magazine wouldn’t exist without
you. If
you’d like to contribute to the next edition, please send your
submission by
January 23rd, 2017.
How to Contact Heart of the Travellers:
Submissions and letters are welcome for the next edition. Please
email
them in word document / Jpeg form to:
Email: [email protected]
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Website: www.heartofthetravellers.scot
Graphic by J. Lavelle
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