SHIPYARD, the story of a painting.

Oil on canvas, 81cms. x 64cms.
1967

This painting is a survivor. It is now over fifty years old and was lucky enough not to be committed to the annual bonfire of my student work I had every summer. For many years it languished in the attic but always had some personal value for me. It was a product of a unique experience and for me, a painting in a breakthrough style.

 I started at Duncan of Jordanstone College of Art, Dundee, in 1965. In those days there was a two year general course before specialising in the subject of your choice. I was keen to be a painter. I worked hard but I don't think I was regarded as having more than average promise. The painting school was run by Alberto Morocco and like all the Scottish art schools the course was very traditional. The emphasis was on life drawing, painting and still life. 'Composition', where you could make paintings of your own subject, was the place where aspiring artists could shine. At the end of the second year those of us going into the painting school were told to make a painting over the holidays. There was no specific subject given and the return to college in late September seemed far away. I had no idea what I would do.

As it happened, I was lucky to get a summer job working as a plumbers mate at Burntisland shipyard. The duties were quite simple, just to assist the plumber with another pair of hands, fetch and carry and generally make myself useful. The work was not hard and there was usually some free time when pipes were being prepared or waiting for access to areas where other trades were working. My plumber was tall and gentlemanly and as a tradesman wore a collar and tie, a bunnet on his bald head and a clean brown boiler suite that was belted in the middle. He never swore but had a dry sense of humour.

"Dougie, you know, this ship was designed in Switzerland. I'll let you into a secret. Why don't you go down to the engine room, into the double bottom and find the golden rivet."

He tried all the usual ones like

"Dougie, go to the stores and ask the store man for a long stand." 

If you fell for that one the store man said.

"A long stand? I think there's one somewhere. I'll be back in a minute."

When we were not working in tight, dark corners bolting flanges together I would be out on deck, watching what was going on. Big sections of rusty steel would hang in the air as cranes lowered them to the deck. There was the constant flash of welding and cascades of sparks as burners cut through plates. Although riveting was almost a thing of the past the noise of metal clanging on metal was intense. Then the hooter would blow and in an instant all fell silent. Tea break. As if from nowhere flocks of seagulls circled as men opened their haversacks and unwrapped their pieces. The burners would reduce the pressure of their torches to a yellow flame and play it on blackened syrup tins with a screw of tea leaves in them. The hooter blew, the gulls flew off, the cranes began to swing and the clanging, bashing and flashing continued till dinner time.

One afternoon, when things seemed slack, I skived off and went to look for a pall who was an engineer. I knew there was a big push going on in the engine room  and to get there I had to go down though the decks of the engine trunking .This was open to the sky and as I descended the steel companion ways there was an outbreak of shouting and laughter above me. Sparks had set fire to an awning and blackened canvas drifted down as men pulled it down and stamped the flames out. I stared down into the depths at the top of an enormous diesel engine. The three cylinders were open and I could see one of them held a person. I could only see the top of his head but recognized Richard. He was standing in the giant cylinder pot with a small square of abrasive, rubbing it smooth. I shouted above the din,

"Richard! How do you get all the good jobs?"

He looked up with the expression of a martyred Saint. There was nothing to be said.

Laying deck service pipes in a straight line was easy, but it was not all like this. In difficult sections, like the bow, there were no straight lines at all. A template had to be tacked together, using thin strips of wood then carefully carried to the plumbers shop where the workshop team took over. The template was laid on a large metal bed, perforated with holes and steel pegs inserted at every bend. A suitable pipe was filled with sand, (to stop it buckling) heated red hot and placed on the bed. A cable attached to a winch bent the pipe round the steel peg. This could be done several times, till the pipe was true to the template.

For me, all this was a visual feast. Every day the hulls in the stocks changed colour as the red leaders rolled on different layers of paint. They reminded me of giant Rothko paintings, which at that time  I'd only seen in books. I've seen a lot of Rothko's since and for me the ships hulls were much better. I thought of taking in a sketch book and doing some surreptitious drawing, but my senses were over awed and I hadn't learnt yet to be selective. I was also frightened of the ribbing I'd get being seen to be an artist. The word had spread, however, that I was an art student.

One day I was high on the superstructure when a young welder came up to me.

"Whit dae ye dae?"

"I'm an art student."

"Aye, a ken that, but whit exactly dae ye dae?"

"I study drawing and painting."

"Aye, but whit dae ye paint? Dae ye ever paint lassies?"

"Oh aye, we have to do life drawing and life painting."

"Life drawing, whits that?"

"Oh, just drawing the human figure."

"An these lassies, dae they hae ony claithes on?"

"Nope! Not a stitch."

"Totally naked, nae nickers or onything?"

"Nude"

"Naked nude? Fuck me!"

"Actually, it's really boring."

"AW JIMMY, THIS BOYS GONNAE DRAW US A BIG NUDE!"

When I left the shipyard to go back to college the sights, smells, sounds and even the taste of rusty metal and red lead went with me. I was bursting with sensations.

I arrived in Dundee a few days before college was due to start. I'd rented an old flat in St. Peters Street, part of the 'Twilight Zone' that was soon to be demolished. Things were, to say the least, basic, but it was cheap and only a hole in the wall where I could come back to sleep. There was a little box room with an easel so I quickly stretched a canvas and primed it with emulsion paint, which dried quickly. I had no problem about subject matter as my head was full of shipyard. I painted quite spontaneously with no preparation and it was still wet when I took it into college.

A tutor came into the studio to see what everyone had done and give us a crit. This was Dennis Buchan, one of the younger members of staff. Usually he lit a fag and drew heavily on it while he pondered the work. When he saw my painting, however, he cried out,

"Wow! Who did this? Where did that come from?"

He seemed genuinely surprised. I was pleased with this response and painted a longer version, looking down on two vessels. This was accepted for the Scottish Young Contemporaries exhibition held at the Richard Demarco Gallery in Edinburgh and sold for £25, which seemed like a lot of money. Unfortunately, at this time I lacked the confidence to sign my work so I had to take my box of paints to Edinburgh and make a signature, a lesson I've never forgotten. That painting disappeared from my life, but a few years ago I found it online in an auction house in Glasgow. The title was given as Dundee Shipyard and attributed to one Douglas Stannus Gray, (1890 - 1959), whose work is completely different from mine and died seven years before it was painted. Whoever bought it got a bargain, for it went for only £170.

It was years later that I found that Stanley Spencer had served as a war artist on the Clyde and made a remarkable and unparalleled record of ship building. When I viewed these paintings in the 1980 exhibition at the Royal Academy it was as if I was back in Burntisland. All that was missing was the noise and I could remember that. Sadly, the yard which had built 310 ships and worked for over fifty years failed two years after my summer there. The ship that I worked on, the Ohrmazd, was financed by the British Government for Pakistan. There were endless changes and wrangling over equipment, so that the contract over ran. This incurred severe financial penalties which the company couldn't pay and closed in 1969.

The Exhibition (2)

                           Of maps and Munro's Tables

Nowadays we take maps for granted but the mapping of the Highlands and islands of Scotland wasn't completed by the Ordnance Survey until 1855. Roads were poor and the railways connecting Inverness and Fort William to the south still to be constructed.

In 1889 the Scottish Mountaineering Club was formed, mainly to promote the cause of Alpinism. The members were inevitably drawn from the landed and professional class, men who had the wealth and leisure to pursue such an unusual activity. The Scottish Hills were not much thought of, seen mostly as training for the Alps. The general consensus was that there was only between thirty and forty tops over 3000 feet.

To dispel their ignorance and settle the question once and for all, one of their first and keenest members was asked to look into the matter. Sir Hugh Munro, an estate owner from Kirriemuir, published his findings in the Scottish Mountaineering Club Journal of 1891. His tables must have come as a surprise, for he listed 538 tops over 3000 feet and 283 considered as separate mountains. This gave a huge boost to the exploration of the Scottish hills as enthusiasts pushed into the remote areas attracted by the tops listed in Munro's Tables.

Sadly, many of these areas had been depopulated. Even the sheep runs that had replaced the people had gone and the mountainous areas transformed into large sporting estates, some of which jealously guarded their privacy.

Munro managed all but two of these tops, but others went on to complete the full round. In recent times, with improved communications and almost universal car ownership, most communities have a few people who have completed the Munros. After that, if they still have the energy, they can tackle the lower Corbetts and Donalds. These hills are also listed in Munros Tables.




Munro's Tables
Oil on canvas bonded to board.

Of course, all this scurrying around the country climbing hills was impossible without maps. I have come to believe there are two types of people in the world, those who love maps and the rest, who are indifferent to them. This second group seems to live in a cloud of environmental vagueness, verging on the permanently lost. Maps are knowledge and as the old saying has it, knowledge can be power.

I'm sure there are still people in remote areas who resent having their photographs taken. They believe that someone making an image of them is stealing their vital powers, soul or spirit. Maps are much the same. Mapping a country is an essential precursor to invasion and many maps are state secrets. Having a collection of maps of mountain areas stuffed in a drawer gives us a sense of ownership. We can follow the watercourses, work out routes and poke our fingers in the most inaccessible recesses without stirring from our home. They are an aid to action, things of beauty and a perfect blend of science and art. However, I sometimes wish that Scotland still had some unmapped land.



Walkers discover a disturbing anomaly in their map
Oil on canvas, 61cms x 81 cms 

 Sometimes, Chance takes part in the production of a painting. One day, on my daily walk along the beach I came upon a worn, white board, washed up on the tideline. It was plywood coated with Formica but badly worn with a hole right through it. I reckoned it must have been the table off a creel boat, worn by the creels. What attracted me to it was that each layer of plywood looked like the contours of a map. I walked on, but decided if it was still there the next day I would take it home.

It lay in the studio for some months while I thought about it. Eventually I patched the hole and started to use the plywood contours as a start of a painting. Of course, it had to be a map.

The Living Mountain
Oil on driftwood panel, 160 x 60 cms

 

I peopled it with a host of hill walkers such as you find nowadays on a good weekend. The colouring was based on the old Bartholomew's maps which I found very attractive. The mountain is called Ben Dinnaeken. A friend actually asked me where Ben Dinnaeken was, so I told him I didnae ken.

 

 The title, The Living Mountain, is a book by Nan Shepherd which has recently become very popular. The book is unusual and well worth reading, especially by anyone who loves the Cairngorms. There are some beautiful description but it leaves me feeling slightly uneasy.The essays are an attempt to distill the "essence" of the hills, which seems to me an impossible task. As a poet, author and teacher she was obviously aware of contemporary trends and her writing seems a bit self consciously literary. This, of course is my personal view and I would encourage anyone who is interested in the Scottish hills to read it for themselves.

 

 

Hill Fever - The Exhibition (1)

 

In the spring of 2018 I put together many of my paintings on a Scottish hill theme for a one man show at the Kinghorn Station Gallery. I intended to post the paintings in time for the exhibition, but I was too busy. So, only a year late, I'm doing this now. I could not afford a catalogue but I did put together a loose leaf folder which I called 'The Exhibition Viewers Manual' containing photo's of the paintings and text relating to them. The manual forms a basis for this and subsequent blogs, with a few extra comments and additions. I hope this makes sense. 

 




On Ben Macdui

0il on canvas, 61cms x 71.5cms.

 On an April morning I left Bob Scott's bothy and walked up Gleann Laoigh Bheag. I intended to climb Derry Cairngorm up the side of a burn on it's south western slope, but I was in a complete dream and walked past my turn off. Soon I was climbing Sron Riach and could see Derry Cairngorm across the glen. It was too late now to turn back, so headed, quite happily, up Ben Macdui. It was one of these dark, gloomy days, but with cloud just above the four thousand foot mark. The steep slope soared skywards, partially covered by snow fields. I now looked down on the summits of Carn a' Mhaim and Devils Point and into the gloom of the Lairig Ghru. The true immensity of Macdui is revealed on this slope. The term 'awsome' is greatly overused, but I did feel awe, along with a little trepidation.

By the time I'd reached the ruin of the sappers bothy black cloud covered the top, blowing stinging, horizontal snow. At the summit I turned my back on this and marched on a bearing till the mist cleared. Then I had the pleasure of loping over big snowfields all the way down to a frozen Loch Etchacan. All the way I kept my eyes peeled for the Big Grey Man, but he was not there.

A Mountaineer Fleeing.
Oil on canvas, 46cms x 66cms
 

The Big Grey Man of Ben Macdui

 

In the past, when people had to make their own entertainment, the Highlands were rich in stories and legends. Many of these tales were of fairies, witches, monsters and the supernatural, created to make the listener uneasy or give them a fright. Most have now been forgotten, but one or too, like the legend of the Loch Ness Monster, have grown arms and legs and attract tourists from all over the world.
 

The Big Grey Man of Ben Macdui would have been forgotten, or not even born, had not a senior member of the Cairngorm Club, at an annual dinner, told a strange tale. The speaker was Professor Norman Collie, an Aberdonian by birth and now first Professor of Organic Chemistry at London University. He was also one of the great mountaineers of his era and had climbed extensively from the Rocky Mountains to the Himalayas. The year was 1925, but the event he related occurred much earlier, in 1891.

He had just left  the summit of Ben Macdhui and the mist was thick. He couldn't see much and his only sensation was the crunch of his boots. Then he began to hear another crunch, as if someone was following him, but taking a longer stride than him. It happened again and again and he could make no sense of this. He stopped and peered back into the mist but could see nothing. When he started walking again the crunches followed him. He was a rational man and told himself that  this was nonsense. However, his nerve broke and he fled in panic all the way down to Rothiemurchus forest. He said "Whatever you make of it I do not know, but there is something very queer about the top of Ben Macdhui and I will not go back there again by myself, I know."

His account was published and all sorts of speculation and nonsense swirled about it. Collie hade only heard a noise, but eventually he received a letter from a very reputable source that claimed to have actually seen the Big Grey Man. The writer was Dr. A.M. Kellas, who became a Himalayan mountaineer and a pioneer in the study of high altitude physiology. One day he and his brother were just below Ben Macdhui summit, hammering on rocks and trying to find crystals. Suddenly they saw a giant figure come down towards them from the summit. It disappeared in a hollow but while waiting for it to reappear they were overcome with terror and fled down to Loch Etchacan and off the mountain. They were absolutely convinced this was a physical entity and not a shadow or optical illusion.

Since then the Big Grey Man has been mixed up with all sorts of nonsense, including flying saucers. Others, on the outer boundaries of religions such as Buddhism, claim he was one of the five 'perfected men' who control the destinies of the world and have even conversed with him in the Lairig Ghru. My own view is that people do get frights, especially when they're tired and suffering the sensory deprivation of thick mist when there's very little tangible to relate to. The human mind abhors a vacuum. Also, too much is made of Collies and Kellas's scientific rationality. They wouldn't be the first or the last scientist to find an outlet in practical joking. However, if such a creature does exist he must be lonely. For companionship, the cause of sexual equality and the propagation of the species I have invented a Big Grey Woman. May they be happy!

The Big Grey Woman
Offset drawing and watercolour, 29cms x 31cms.

 

 

 

At the Well of the Fox

I left the car in the Balmoral car park and took the track that leads from the estate village south to Gelder Sheil. This was new to me, as all my previous walks up Lochnagar had been from the Spittal of Glen Muick or long days from the old campsite in Glen Doll. It was in the last days of March 2016, after a winter of heavy snow on the hills. By this time the wide moors were clear but the northern corries of Lochnagar were still plastered with snow. In fact, we were going through another cold snap and much of the snow on the tops was new.

Beyond the woods a good Land Rover track wound across  the rolling moor. In the distance, the small clump of trees around Gelder Sheil were an obvious landmark, slowly growing closer. About a kilometre from the trees there was a parting of the ways. The left fork carried on over the bealach between Conachcraig and Meikle Pap to the Spittal of Glen Muick, while my route swung round and followed the course of the Gelder burn.

Along the banks of the brawling Gelder the Queen had been out planting trees. Unfortunately, many of the young saplings had been swept away and a stretch of the gravel track damaged and repaired. I took this to have been caused by the great downpour in January of the previous year which had washed away part of the A93 between Crathie and Ballater as well as destroying the footbridges at Derry Lodge and Glen Clova

Gelder Sheil is a small shooting lodge and stables dating from Queen Victoria's time. The stables have long been used as a climbers bothy and have only recently been renovated by a group of tradesmen called the Ballater Chiels. They've done a grand job. It is now well insulated with wooden floor, walls, and a stove. Unusual for a bothy there is no communal sleeping platform but wooden bunks. I was slightly suspicious of the high, coffin like sides, but the truth was that I had the best nights sleep I've had in a bothy in one of these bunks. It kept me tight and snug and I couldn't role off my sleeping mat.

I was out at first light and stood at the edge of the trees and looked up over the moor to Lochnagar. There was not a cloud in the sky but the still hidden sun blazed on the snowy tops and corries. It was magnificent. I had to be there.




Lochnagar from Gelder Sheil. Oil on board, 2016.



I strapped my drawing board to the back of my rucksack and set off over the moor. The track soon ran out and I followed a faint, boggy path up towards the corrie. I couldn't help notice that cloud now covered the sun and mist banks were slinking in from the north east and obscuring the tops. This was not good and It was very cold. The boulder fields were snow covered and I had to exercise great care to prevent plunging into hidden holes. I struggled on, probing every footstep with a walking pole till I could see the loch which was frozen and snow covered. There was no sense of the scale of this great amphitheatre because of the mist swirling across the corrie. Occasionally the high edge of the plateau would appear and I'd think the mist was lifting but it didn't and closed in again. I brushed the snow off a boulder and sat down to sketch but knew it was a forlorn hope. I'd piled on all my warmest clothing and I can draw with thin gloves on but the wind cut through everything and I soon began to feel cold. I couldn't see anything so why risk hypothermia by hanging about? Reluctantly, I repacked my sack and followed my route back over the boulders again. I wandered down to the bothy feeling rather despondent and decided to implement 'Plan B'. The previous day I'd started a drawing of the Gelder Sheil so I finished that then went home. Although it had been a good trip I'd expected too much of the weather and from a sketching point of view had been a failure. I'd have to give this more thought.



Gelder Sheil with the bothy on the right.
Above, view of Lochnagar.





Just over a year later, in April 2017, I was back on Lochnagar. I'd risen early and arrived at the Spittal of Glen Muick just after 9am. My pack was heavy for as well as a drawing board and art kit I carried a tent. I took the 'tourist route' that crosses to Gelder Sheil. From the top of this Land Rover track, now badly eroded, a footpath cuts off to the west, climbing up over boulders and heather grouse moor. This took me some time with a heavy pack and I pitched the tent on a rare patch of gently sloping grass by the Fox's Well. This little spring is the last water before climbing onto the summit of Lochnagar.



Camp by the Fox's Well, looking down to the Spittal and Mount Keen.

After a quick snack I set off with only my drawing board on my pack and with the lightened load felt positively sprightly. The view into the corrie is dramatic but this winter had been a poor one for snow and there wasn't much in the gullies. There was, however, a sprinkling all around as it had snowed the previous night. I walked up to the rocky summit of Meikle Pap and tried to find a sheltered station with a good view of the corrie. The view was wonderful but shelter hard to find so I maun thole the bighting breeze. I managed to sit and draw for about two hours, usually long enough to make a good start to a picture which I then finish back in the studio. This time I was not happy. Drawing is a bit like sport. When you are warm and relaxed its possible to work fast and there is no separation between hand and eye. The colder you are the tenser you become and more aware of the hand not doing what the head wants. This disconnect leads to messes and mistakes. Pens are dropped, splodges appear, the wind buffets the drawing board so its impossible to make accurate marks. Pencils roll down holes between boulders and are difficult to retrieve. Eventually you begin to shiver and blurt out, even though there's no one there to hear you," THAT'S IT!" and give up in disgust.

Quite clearly drawing in extreme conditions requires different methods. I had tried one but had another up my sleeve. During the winter I'd been drawing along the Fife coast, just using pencil on A3 paper which I'd prepared previously with a wash of watercolour. This meant I could work quickly standing up and complete a sketch in a few minutes. This could then be worked up with watercolour back in the studio. This method was practical for a cold, windy climate, required the minimum of equipment and also retained a freedom and spontaneity which I like.

Lochnagar from the Meikle Pap, April 2017

I descended from my windy perch on the Big Tittie rather thankfully and started to climb the Ladder. This, of course, is not a ladder at all but a cunningly constructed track up a steep boulder field. I used to enjoy scrambling up the higgledy- pigildy granite slabs where I always seemed to make good time for less effort because it was interesting. Whoever planned this path, however, is a subtle genius and by the tilting of a rock here and moving one there has created a pathway of delight. It is virtually invisible till you are on it and carries you heavenward, or at least to the rim of the corrie. From there you can peer down the Red Spout to the dark lochan below









Looking into the corrie from the top of the Red Spout.
Pencil and watercolour, April 2017.

The path moves away from the corrie edge then starts to climb again to the summit plateau. From a big cairn you can see over to the western corrie and the rolling plateau that stretches to the Tolmounth and Glas Maol. Sir Hugh Munro, him of the 'Tables', commented that, "so elevated and flat is the range that a straight line of ten miles could be drawn from Creag Leacath ( just south of Glas Maol ) to the Meikle Pap of Lochnagar and except for about half a mile on either side of the Tolmount, the elevation is everywhere above 3000 ft. while even at these points it only falls to 2863 ft. and a dogcart could almost be driven the whole way. "

It was a fine day with high cloud and visibility was good. I did a few sketches on the broad summit and peered down the black spout then headed back again. A few minutes walking passed the cairn I realised I was on the wrong track and heading west. This was a navigational error in perfect visibility. I cut back onto the correct route reflecting that I was tired and couldn't be too careful. At the top of the ladder I met a gentleman coming up and  had a pleasant but brief chat. He looked up at me and I looked down on him, both unable to pass until the other gave way. He had, however, to press on as the day was getting late, so I stepped aside.

Cac Carn Mor, left and Cac Carn Beag, the summit, right. In
English, Little Shit and Big Shit.

Looking north from the top of the Black Spout

It was 6pm when I returned to the tent with still a couple of hours of good daylight left. I was tired and a bit fed up as I felt my drawings had been a failure. A brew and a meal of spicy rice and chorizo sausage cheered me up a bit, but I was still wondering why I did this. I looked out of a narrow gap in the tent door at a small patch of rough heather. A cold breeze was blowing so I wrapped my sleeping bag over my shoulders. Time for a dram. I poured some whisky with a dash of water from the Well of the Fox. Ah! I felt the warmth of the spirit spread around my body till I glowed all over. Time for another dram. Ah! I sat there like Buddha, smiling to myself and quietly at peace with the world. I loved my tent which was as steady as a rock and kept out the chill winds. I loved this patch of heather and the raucous, croaking grouse. I loved being here, probably the only person high on Lochnagar in this cold, Spring night. It's a grand drug, whisky, taken in the right place at the right time.

Next morning a cap of cloud clung firmly to the summit so I gave up any thought of going back up and doing more drawing. I was away early and sat down on a rock where the Lochnagar and Spittal tracks meet. The grouse were very active and noisy. They make interesting sounds, which in human speak sound like "I will, I will, I will - What?, What?, What?" then take flight and land with the classic, "Go back, Go back, Go back." Lower down I rounded a corner and stopped dead as a heard of red deer flowed over the track only a few yards away. They scrambled up the banking with a touch of wide eyed panic when they noticed me then headed up the hill. I presumed this was the same mob I'd seen the morning before cropping the haughs at the Spittal. They were still in their drab winter coats and quickly became invisible among the dark heather.

The slopes around here are managed grouse moor and just before the woods there was a big patch of moor burn. This is done by sporting estates to encourage new growth of heather and provide a variety of environment for the grouse. Among the black ash and stalks were weird clumps of sphagnum moss, not green but pinky brown in colour. Soft and spongy, they were like the life of some alien planet, surviving in a blasted, hostile landscape, which indeed, was true.

Sphagnum Moss surviving among the moor burn.

 

The path through the woods avoids the estate cottages and a good Land Rover track leads straight across the flats for a kilometre to the stand of pines around the Spittal. Now there is only one occupied house, toilets and a wooden hut serving as a Ranger and visitors centre. The Spittal, (from where we get hospitality and hospital) was a hospice or hostel established for pilgrims and travellers by the Bishop of Aberdeen back in Medieval times. The other main pass, over the Cairnwell, had a hospice at the southern end, the Spittal of Glenshee. In those days, St Andrews with its shrine was a big attraction. This all got knocked on the head with the Reformation but the community must have adapted and the religious hospice became an Inn. This would have served drovers with their herds, cadgers with strings of pack ponies, packmen, itinerant labourers as well as whole regiments of horse and foot crossing the Capel Mounth track. Archaeologists have found the remains of ten longhouses, a corn drying kiln, barn, kailyard and drove road. High on the crystal waters of the Alt Darrarie there was that essential for  medicinal purposes and civilised living, a whisky still. The Inn is thought to have closed in the 1850's.

 

As I suspected, the deer had gone. The leaden grey sky and the distant piping of Curlews gave a lonesome, sad feel to the place. This was exaggerated by a solitary pink foot goose, flying low and honking balefully which crossed the track just ahead of me. It sounded agitated and I suspect it was looking for it's palls. I arrived back at the car just after 9am, having spent almost exactly twenty four hours on Lochnagar.

Devils Point

One evening, in May 2014, I set out to drive to Linn of Dee. Unfortunately I discovered that after 1800 hours the road beyond Bridge of Cally was closed for resurfacing. I had to make a detour from Blairgowrie over to Dunkeld, up the A9 to Pitlochry then back over by Kirkmichael to Glenshee. This took an extra hour and I was not amused. As I walked into Bob Scotts bothy the gloom was descending in the Glen but the last rays of the sun blazed orange like a beacon on the summit of Derry Cairngorm. As I approached the bothy I could smell wood smoke, so I knew I would have company.



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.

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.


Devils Point and Cairn Toul. Mixed media on paper. 56 x 38 cms. 2015

A man came up the track with a dog that was limping and stopped and had a blether. The dog had hurts it's leg on Braeriach so he'd stayed over at Corrour for the night. It was packed out but someone had a guitar and there was a few drams and singing. It sounded like good fun. After this I packed up and wandered down to the bothy where I had a look around. It was many years since I'd been there and it had changed for the better. The old stone box with heather on the floor was now wood floored, wood lined and with a sleeping platform. The glorious wonder was an extension that contains a high privy. You actually have to climb up steps to get to it. I liked that. In the past, in summer, it was a foul place. Praise can not be too high for those indefatigable souls who trek in monthly to change the toilet bags

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



Always expect the unexpected.
Off set drawing and watercolour on paper
32 x 40 cms




.
"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.


.

The Haunted Rucksack

For many years I used my trusty Tiso 'tattie sack' rucksack. This was simplicity itself and designed for climbing and hauling up rock walls where anything that got in the way was an encumbrance. It was big enough for weekends and I lived out of it all my student years. When I bought a nylon hike tent, however, I felt I needed a rucksack more rigid and comfortable for carrying heavier loads. I bought a pack frame and  the separate canvas sack that fitted on it. It was comfortable enough but a bit awkward and spikey when travelling on public transport.

Looking north up Glen Tilt

One day I took a train to Blair Athol and walked up Glen Tilt, camping at the bridge across the Tarf. Next day I crossed the watershed from the Tilt to the Dee. The cloud was closed right down and I could see very little. It was October and the Red Deer rut was in full swing. I was surrounded by roaring, but the roarers and groaners were invisible. Soon I heard a different sound, the unmistakable, spirit lifting honking of a great skein of geese heading south through Glen Tilt. They sounded just above my head but I couldn't see them. I was overwhelmed by the feeling of taking part in a great natural process. Being alone and not being able to see these events seemed to make them more surprising and intense.

It was too early to stop at Corrour bothy so I carried on through the Lairig Ghru. I had walked this way several times before so knew what to expect. As usual, the mist was down as I boulder hopped past the Pools of Dee and started to descend the northern side. There was a stronger breeze here and I began to notice a strange sound. WOOOOOOO - WOOOOOO. It started as a low moaning and as gusts intensified rose to a loud whistle. This really worried me. In fact I was genuinely rattled. I'd read all that tosh about the Big Grey Man of Ben Macdui and mentally filed it away with the Loch Ness Monster and Flying Saucers as the domain of silly, confused people and Nutters. I began to think I was one of them, but said to myself,
"Pull yourself together. There must be a rational explanation."
I tried to concentrate intensely on the sound and pinpoint exactly where it came from. Surprisingly, it came from exactly behind my left ear. The windward side. I slipped out of the pack frame and dumped it on the ground. Aha! There were holes in the aluminium tube frame so you could adjust the position of the cross bar. The wind was blowing in the holes and creating a ghostly tune. I wasn't being haunted after all. Even so, that really spooked me. I still had an irrational fear that the rucksack was haunted.

The Haunted Rucksack. Offset drawing and watercolour.

Not long after this I sold it cheaply to a friend. He kept it a little while then gave it to another friend. This friend of a friend passed it to another friend who quickly passed it on to a friend who had a friend and this friend was an obsessive Munro Bagger. He used the pack frame frequently but never completed the Munros. He ended up in a mental hospital STARK, STARING, MAD!

A BOTHY FULL OF MAGGOTS

 

 

 

When I was still at school the Cairngorms seemed far away. Although I had heard of Ben Macdhui and the mysterious Lairig Ghru this range of hills held an almost mythical status. They were beyond my horizon. One day in the High Street I bumped into Cammy and he asked,

"Do you fancy going to the Cairngorms?"

"Wow! Yes, but how do we get there?"

"Well, Davy has just passed his driving test."

Davy, like me, was still at school but his family owned a local bakers and had a wee Mini van to make deliveries.Being the youngest it was Roberts and my luck to be stuck in the back of the van lounging as best we could on sleeping bags and cushions. Our view was severely constrained out of the windscreen by the heads of Davy and Cammy. We rolled about a bit going through the bends in Glenfarg but crawled through the Sunday quiet streets of Perth. Beyond Bridge of Cally the road twisted and turned up Glenshee, hugging every hillock and round tight, twisty bends. Luckily, neither Robert or I suffered from travel sickness or the outcome could have been messy. The Mini was the perfect vehicle for these roads. It took the Devils Elbow and Cairnwell in it's stride and rolled quickly down to Braemar. We tumbled out of the back at Linn of Dee, desperate to stretch our legs

 

The woods along the Dee were a delight. I hadn't expected to see so many mature Scots Pines. As we walked to Derry Lodge I was awed by the openness. I wasn't prepared for the scale of things. Distances were longer, views wider and the tops higher than the hills I was used to. Unfortunately, although it was a mild day with a few glimpses of sun the clouds hung stubbornly to the tops. In the thick mist of late afternoon we climbed a broad, rocky ridge and reached a small cairn. This, Cammy confidently pronounced, was the summit of Derry Cairngorm. I am by nature a sceptic.

"Are you sure this isn't a false summit?"

He was adamant. Anyway, it was growing late and we had a long way to go back. For practical and face saving reasons this had to be the summit. Years later, when it no longer mattered, I found that it wasn't.

 

Before I had my own transport travelling to and from the Cairngorms was always a problem. Sometimes these journeys were more memorable than the actual walks. When I was an Art Student in Dundee I took a train to Aviemore and walked south through the Lairig Ghru, stopping overnight at Corrour bothy. Next day I walked out to Braemar where I caught a bus to Aberdeen. I tried to get a train to Dundee but the last train had gone, so I walked back to the bus station. Unfortunately, the Dundee bus had left ages ago but the last local was going as far as Montrose. I walked out of Montrose on the road south across the bridge and climbed a hill. My feet were sore as I had ill fitting boots and big blisters on my heels. I sat down on the verge overlooking Montrose Basin and watched a team of salmon fishers netting from the beach. I took a professional interest in this as I'd done this job myself on the River Tay. The gloom of the summer night was descending and there was no traffic on the road.
"Well", I thought, "What will I do?"
I had a sleeping bag so if I couldn't get a lift I'd just go behind a dyke and crawl into my bag for the short summer night. The strange thing is, once I'd decided on this I felt wonderfully calm and content. I was about to open my rucksack when I heard a big truck grinding up the hill. I gave it the thumb and it came to a halt. The driver dropped me in east Dundee so I still had a couple of miles to walk. It was dark now and the city was quite. I scattered a plague of rabbits grazing round the gravestones as I passed by Craigie cemetery. Because of the blisters my normal lope had degenerated to a hobble as I passed along the Arbroath Road and Seagate to the Nethergate. The city centre was silent. The good people of Dundee were all abed. I saw no one. The last lap out the Perth Road to my wee slum flat in St. Peters Street was agony. I collapsed on my bed and slept solid till the late afternoon.



Corrour bothy before modernisation.

The Lairig Ghru is a very popular route and many people stop overnight at Corrour bothy. This lies at the foot of Devils Point, one of the few pointy peaks in a massif made up of eroded plateau. The first time I stayed there was my first bothy night anywhere. I was alone and it was a dark, windy night. The building was just a basic stone shelter with heather scattered on the floor. The wind howled and my solitary candle flickered in the draught. Sometime in the early morning I woke with a start. Something was loudly rustling and rummaging beside me. I shone a torch at my rucksack and saw a mouse was nibbling it's way into my food bag. It was only a very small mouse but it made a very loud noise. I considered flattening the creature angrily with a boot but relented and instead chased it away and hung my rucksack on a wall nail.  

 






Corrour Bothy in the 1980's. Oil on canvas on board. 460mm x 610mm

  

After that I stayed at the bothy many times. I'd heard it could be busy, but because I was a shift worker I was usually there midweek, so had the place to myself.

On a beautiful July afternoon I walked into Corrour from Linn of Dee with Ian Macdonald. When the bothy came into view we could see a couple of little figures outside it.
"Well, it looks as if we'll have some company tonight."
"The worst case," I said, "is a party of school kids. The place could be packed out."
I didn't think this likely. Although we knew someone else was there we were surprised, even shocked, when we stepped through the open door. Our worst fears had been realised. Although it was just about tea time the floor was crammed with seven or eight young boys. They were already in their sleeping bags, giggling, wriggling and writhing on the floor, leg wrestling and looking like demented maggots. We managed to squeeze in and prepared a meal. After a brew we climbed the slope above the bothy onto Devils Point, partly to get away from this madness. It was a wonderful, calm evening, with great views down Glen Dee.  





Looking down Glen Dee from Devils Point




A bothy full of maggots. Oil on board.

 

 We returned to find the kids quietened down a bit and we were able to squeeze in near the old fireplace. Then just when we thought no one else would turn up, a few walkers came down off the hill understandably looking for a place to lay their heads. We all squeezed up even tighter and spent a sweaty, uncomfortable night on the floor. I don't think I slept much but the day dawned bright and sunny.

 After a quick breakfast it was back up Devils Point again. The previous day had been warm but this was a scorcher, with hardly a cloud in the sky. We followed the corrie edge to Cairn Toul and frequently heard the "whup, whup, whup," of a helicopter operating somewhere below us. We spotted it flying up the Lairig Ghru, well below. Then with a sudden roar a navy blue Hunter trainer roared up the glen and we both held our breathes as the fast jet passed close below the helicopter and was soon out of sight. As we approached the summit of Cairn Toul the Royal Marines helicopter suddenly popped up out of the corrie and the pilot waved and obligingly hovered over the cairn while we took photographs.


Obliging pilot hovering for a photo shoot





From the summit we headed south west to Loch nan Stuirteag then over the bald, gravelly tops of Monadh Mor and Beinn Bhrotain. In the baking heat this last leg was more like a walk over a desert than boggy Scotland. It was one of those rare, glorious days, both mist and midge free.





Cairn Toul and Ben Macdui from the south west