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| Bob Scotts bothy |
When I barged in I surprised a young, red haired lad wrestling with a pine branch, trying to make it manageable for the stove. A girl sat, or was perched on one of the chairs, curiously balanced, as if about to fall off. She had a glazed, dozy look to her and a Cherokee haircut.
The place was untidy but there was no sign of rucksacks, boots or the other outdoor kit that hill walkers use. A bed duvet was spread out on the sleeping platform. I unpacked and started my stove for a brew with some oatcakes and cheese. They watched me closely. I asked, out of politeness, if they would like some and when the water boiled asked them to pass their cups. I was surprised when they said they didn't have cups. Instead he handed me an old plastic coke bottle with a ragged top. I filled this as best I could as they wolfed down the oatcakes. The lad said they'd been here for a couple of days and were using the wood stove to cook on, although I could see no sign of food.
I didn't sleep well. I was convinced they were on drugs. I was lying on the floor under the sleeping platform and sometime during the night a hand came from above and pulled out a screw of silver foil secreted behind the footstep on the platform upright. Then there was some loud sniffing. Next morning I was up early and left at 06.30. They were out for the count but had said they were going home today. With a bit of luck they'd be away by the time I came back and would have the place to myself.
There were a couple of tents at the Derry bridge and some English walkers were up and about, cooking breakfast. We started talking and I told them I was staying at the bothy. They said the odd couple had visited them yesterday, asking if they'd any spare food. They couldn't oblige as they were bound over Cairngorm and travelling lite.
I walked up Glen Derry meditating on this curiosity and becoming anxious about the kit I'd left behind. I'd heard only one storey of theft from a bothy and that was many years ago at Balaneasie in Glentilt. An itinerant tramp stole a lads good rucksack but left his own, battered object, in exchange. I had to trust them.
Returning down Glen Derry after wandering over Beinn Bhreac and Beinn a' Chaorainn I was thirsty. I was cultivating this drouth. I rarely carry beer into bothies because of the weight but this time I'd hidden a couple of cans in the burn as a well earned treat. I planned to sit around, have a leisurely meal and as the night descended light the stove and have a wee dram. What could be better?
I walked into the bothy expecting to find it empty but to my surprise they were still under the duvet, just as I left them. The lad heard me enter and sat up saying,
"We're still here."
Then he sunk under the duvet again. I went out to the burn and paced up and down. This was a conundrum. What could I do? I couldn't face spending another night with zombies. I went back in and said to them,
"Do you want a can of Beer?"
They opened the cans immediately and started drinking, sitting up in bed.
"Look," I said, "It's early yet so I've decided to go home. Do you want a lift to Braemar."
"Aye! That would be brilliant. We can get a bus to Aberdeen."
"Good. I'll just pack my kit."
Then the lad said,
"Will you take a look at my foot?"
"Sure," I said, puzzled. He thrust out a foot from the duvet. I studied it for a few seconds. It had a big, brown ,slimy patch on the top of it. I hadn't seen anything quite like this before.
"Is that a burn?"
"Aye. I spilt some boiling water on it when I was emptying the kettle."
"What's that greasy stuff on it?"
"It's the cream you put on babies bums. I got some for my son."
That was another conundrum.
"Zinc oxide should be OK, but have it cleaned and looked at in casualty when you get back to Aberdeen. It may be infected. Can you walk on it?"
"I should be alright."
He packed their bedding into two small rucksacks which he wore on his back and front. The girl carried nothing but the can of beer. When we reached my old car they were excited and looked as if they were entering Dr Who's Tardus.
"I bags the front seat," said the girl. She was very young.
Over a year passed before I returned to Bob Scotts. I was a bit scunnered by my last visit but when autumn came I decided to go back. Gone were the green and midgy days of summer. There is a crispness in the autumn air and the landscape is transformed. The bracken dies back to a rich russet and the leaves of the deer grass turn brilliant orange. I had decided to make a drawing of Devils Point. I could have humped my gear into Corrour bothy which lies at it's foot but it is usually very busy. Bob Scotts would be quiet mid week and was only four miles from the road. I'd drive up in the evening, spend the night in the bothy and with only my drawing kit walk into Corrour fresh in the morning. This kept heavy load carrying to a minimum.
The weather was set fair and the bothy was empty. I was in my sleeping bag by 9pm for a good nights sleep and an early start. I was just dozing off when the door burst open and a burly man burst in. He lit a candle and I could see he was wearing a greasy bunnet and seemed slightly drunk.
"Hi! I'm Liverpool Len. I've even got the tee shirt." He pulled up his jacket to reveal a black tee shirt with 'Liverpool Len' printed on it.
"I'm Dougie," I said and leaned over the sleeping platform to shake hands.
"Hi son, do ye want a beer, or a wee dram?"
"No thanks."
"Ee, son, I've had a terrible time, a terrible time, so I have. I've been down to Ballater to the hole in the wall."
"What?"
"The hole in the wall, the hole in the wall, the cash line and I couldn't remember me number.
Ye see, ye see, it's here, I've written it in the back of the bothy book. Look! Look!"
He grabbed the grubby visitors book and started waving it about, then glanced at the back page.
"Look at that! Look at that! Someone's torn it out."
Right enough, the back page was torn out.
"Oh my God! Oh my God! Look at that. Look at that. I've written it in the front. There you are son, there you are. Look at that. There it is. There's the number there. I couldn't remember it. I couldn't remember it. Do you want a beer son? Do you want a beer?"
I began to realise it was going to be a long night. I sat up.
"Why not? I'll have a can.
He was calming down a bit now.
"Five weeks I've been in the hills, five weeks. That's not bad, is it? That's not bad."
He glanced at my kit.
"I don't use anything like sleeping mats or torches. Live off the land, I do. Live off the land. Five weeks, that's not bad, is it?"
"How do you survive?"
"Live off the land I do. Live off the land. I caught five salmon, so I did, five salmon. Even arctic char."
"Arctic char?"
"Yea, arctic char, out of Loch Etchachan."
"Where are your fishing rods?"
"I keep them hidden. Hidden near the lochs."
"Five salmon I caught."
"Good." He looked remarkably plump for someone living off the land in these hard hills.
"Ee son, I'm frozen. Do you mind if I put the stove on? Got bitter cold walking in."
"Help yourself."
Seeing that I was intent on going to sleep he snuffed out the candle and pulled a chair up as close to the stove as he could. The embers were dying but he blew on them and fed in dry wood till it burst to life again. He went out and hauled in more wood. All this time I was trying, unsuccessfully, to sleep. He went in and out of the door for wood until he had a violent blaze. This was more than was necessary for warmth. I could feel the heat of the blaze through my sleeping bag. I became a bit worried by this and spoke up.
"If you put any more wood on you'll damage the stove."
"Naw," he said, "It's them that bring in bags of coal and bank it up that do the damage."
He blundered about, bumped into things, dropped pokers, hauled in logs, fed the fire and cast a demonic, animated shadow. All the time he muttered,
"Oh my God! Oh my God! This'll never do! This'll never do."
He would sit down again then suddenly jump up and sweep the floor muttering,
"Oh my God! Oh my God! This'll never do!"
He was the stoker from Hell.
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| The Stoker from Hell. Oil, 54 x 46 cms. 2017 |
The pyromania carried on until 1am when he crawled under the sleeping platform below me and fell instantly asleep. Unfortunately he snored. These were no ordinary snores but the kind of noise you'd imagine a bull elephant or rhinoceros making. This went on for hours, punctuated by startling and not a little frightening, "YAAAARGS", as if he was dreaming of fighting something off. These horrific screams were punctuated by long, noisy farts which sounded like someone tearing curtains. I was wide awake. By this time the can of beer had passed through me and I went out for a pee. It was a clear, starry night but it seemed oppressively dark. It was about 3am. I looked up and wonder of wonders, there was a total eclipse of the moon. I mention this in passing. Back in bed the epic went on. I must have dosed a little because I remembered a few very strange dreams.
The grey light of dawn began to filter in about 7am. As I wriggled out of my sleeping bag and into my clothes he shouted up,
"What a noise your making up there!"
"Not as much as you last night."
I made a brew and offered him some tea with a biscuit. He didn't have a cup, so I gave him my spare billy. He seemed normal this morning, even relaxed and pleasant. He started talking about his life.
"I was in the R.F.A. sir," he said, "Do you know what that is?"
I did, but I couldn't help notice that I was now 'sir' and not 'son'. Probably in daylight he could see my grey hair.
"Aye," I said, "The Royal Fleet Auxiliary"
"I was at the Falklands, you know sir, the Falklands."
"Really?"
"It was terrible sir, terrible. I was on the Fort Austin. The Fort Austin. We were carrying 36000 tons of ammunition. 36000 tons! It was terrible sir, terrible."
Now I knew the Fort Austin was just half that size, but didn't intend to quibble about details.
For everyone involved the Falklands campaign was a traumatic experience. Just sitting at home, as I did, watching it on T.V. was bad enough.
"I've seen her go up the Firth of Forth to pick up stores at Crombie. It's an old ship now. It's amazing it's still in service."
This seemed to impress him.
"What do you do sir?"
"I'm an artist. I'm going up to Corrour to do some drawing."
"I'm an artist too" he said, with a certain element of pride. He rummaged in his battered rucksack and brought out a handful of photos.
"There you are sir, there you are, that's me."
The photo was of a younger him with a mass of black hair standing with one foot on a low stack of concrete suitcases. I presumed this was somewhere in Liverpool docks, probably a community arts project.
"It's about emigration, you see sir, these are the emigrants suitcases."
"Very good," I said. By this time I'd finished breakfast and was keen to get on to Corrour.
"Well, I'd better be going."
"I think I'll go up to the Hutchie, today sir."
"Fine," I said, "It'll be nice up there."
I cut through the fresh smelling pines to the bridge and took the track up Glen Lui Beag to Currour. It was a fine morning and I put the sleepless night behind me. I found a good station with a view of Devils Point and sat there drawing for a few hours.
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| Devils Point and Cairn Toul. Mixed media on paper. 56 x 38 cms. 2015 |
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| Corrour bothy and Devils Point, 2015. |
The afternoon was wearing on and halfway back to Bob Scotts I grew wondrous weary. I'm sure that if I sat down I'd have nodded off but was worried that I'd fall into a fairy hill and be seduced by the Queen of the fairies and not reappear for a hundred years. Some hope. I pressed on. I was looking forward to a reviving brew with the sustenance of the country, cheese and oatcakes, followed by a leisurely meal of a more Oriental nature that I'd bought in a supermarket. I had a solitary evening planned as Liverpool Len would be up at the Hutchison Memorial Hut.
There's a clichéd saying about always expecting the unexpected. I have to admit that this one caught me completely off guard. I wandered into the bothy and for a moment I thought I'd entered an alternative universe. Although the window was open the room was thick with wood smoke. It smelt like an Arbroath smoke house. The furniture was scattered over the floor, chairs upside down, the little steel tables on their sides and the floor covered in soot, cinders and charred branches. It looked as if there had been an explosion in the stove but it was, fortunately, unharmed. Empty beer cans, wine and spirit bottles littered the floor. In the midst of this squalor lay Liverpool Len, bollock naked. I say naked, as he still had his famous T shirt on, but this was wrunkled up round his neck and hardly preserved his dignity. As well as the cinders, he lay in a pool of urine or white wine, probably both. There was no way I was going to discriminate. He made no sound or movement. I thought he was dead
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| Always expect the unexpected. Off set drawing and watercolour on paper 32 x 40 cms |
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"Well blow me down," I thought, "I'd better check if the buggers croaked it."
I picked my way round to his head then knelt down and shouted,
"Len! Len! Can you hear me?"
There were slavers running down the side of his mouth and he was in a foetal position so he probably hadn't choked. He had managed to insinuate his head under one of the low, steel tables so I moved this to get at him.
"Len! Len! Are you all right?" Stupid question, really. I shook his shoulder and saw an eyelid flicker. He was alive. He started to cough and splutter and eventually an arm moved. He tried to speak. His voice was little and seemed very far away.
"Dougie, Dougie, why did you go and leave me?"
Gawd! This was pathetic. I moved my head closer to hear his whispers.
"Dougie, Dougie, I'll make you a nice bit of toast and cheese."
"What! What's that?" I bent my head closer, just to make sure I was hearing this right.
"Dougie, Dougie, I'll make you a cup of tea and a nice bit of toast and cheese."
"In your dreams pall."
I crammed my kippered sleeping bag into my rucksack and stormed off down the road. There was no doubt that he was a poor, disturbed soul, needing psychiatric help. He may have been a veteran of the Falklands campaign but there was no way I could spend another night with him.
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