Runnin up that hill

We hae, or at least we used tae hae, afore the smokin ban cam alang tae kill them aff, mony a great auld pub in Embra. Yin that some o ye may be familiar wi is the Guildford Arms, up ahint the auld Woolworth's shop on Princes Street. Aye awricht, ah ken, there's nae Woolies there noo, jist a shop that says it sells aipples an disnae, but ye ken whaur ah am, up aside the Register Hoose. It's a braw drinkin palace inside, weel worth a visit if ye've no been in, but the reason ah bring it up is the path at the side, oan the right as ye look at the photie. Ye see that wee path? It goes at an angle up the side tae the Cafe Royal, ye wi me? Weel, that wee bit path, that's aw that's left o an ancient auld road ah yaist tae ken weel. Let me tell ye aboot Gabriel's Road...

Ma tale affsets lang syne in 1607, when yin o King Jamie Saxt's pals, Tam o the Coogate, found siller ore oan his property oot by Linlithgow. Bein the guid pal that he wis, the king relieved Tam o his discovery pronto, fer a sma fee of course, opened a mine, an sent the ore tae be refined doon at a new mill he built oan the Water o Leith. Sadly the silvermine wisnae the goldmine the king hoped it wid be, an soon enough the ore ran oot an the venture foondert, but fer a few year it gave up ample tae pay its way.

Bein as ah am the whelp o a Black Bitch (an proud o it!) ah grew up no far fae this mine. Ah mynd as a wee bairn playin in the auld abandoned mine-workins, practisin ma yodellin skills an scarin the livin daylights oot o aw ma pals. This great daurk gash in the earth, hunkert awa doon at the bottom o a wee glen, we thocht wis the very gates o Hell itsel, an hid aw manner o beasties an monsters, dragons an trolls, daemons an deils. No that there were ony, but ah had some awfy gullible pals...

The Silvermills that King James sent the ore tae are aw built ower noo wi posh single-ends, but they yaist tae staun doon near Stockbridge, jist ahint St Stephen's kirk. The path fae the toun doon tae the mills wis kent as Gabriel's Road, we cryed it that efter the auld man Gabriel that kept a drinkin-howf doon by the mills. Nane o us kent his real name but he blew a mean trumpet an had sic an angelic wee face. Ah baptised him efter a heavy session yin Friday nicht an the name, weel it kinda stuck... The baptism wis an accident by the way, ah wis a lot younger then an ah couldnae haud ma drink as easy as ah dae now, ah went tits-ower-erse an the drink went tits-ower-Gabriel, but that's anither story...

Gabriel's Road struck aff fae the end o the dam that held back the Nor Loch, across fae the fit o Halkerston's Wynd, near tae whaur we dooked Betty Trot that day. The dam stood roughly whaur the North Brig stauns noo, an the path climbed up the steep slope whaur they built the North British Hotel tae Moultrey's Hill, afore descendin doon the ither side taewards Silvermills. Oan a warm summer's day there wis nothin nicer than takin a daunder ower tae Moultrey's, tae a wee fermhoose inn by the road cryed 'Peace an Plenty', it wis whaur the Royal Bank Heid Office is noo, fer some lovely curds an whey. Nane o yer Mr Whippy or Jerry'n'Ben's rubbish fer us. Aw naw, we had curds an whey! Ah wid get a wee bowl o the stuff, find masel a wee tuffet tae sit doon oan, an ooooh... scrumptious... mmm...

Moultrey's Hill itsel stood at the end o a wee ridge, alang the line o which George Street wis laid oot. This wis anither braw bit fer a walk oan a fine summer's day, alang the ridge tae the bit field that went by the name o Barefit's Park. Noo, ah ken whit ye're thinkin, "Whit wis it cryed Barefit's Park fer?" an ah wid dearly love tae tell ye it wis oan account o aw us young hippy lassies skippin merrily through the gress wi nae shoes nor stockins oan oor pretty feet, runnin up that hill singin hippy songs, spreadin hippy free love an gettin up tae awsorts. Ah ken at least a couple o ye that wid prefer that onyroads, pyntin nae fingers...

Sadly tho, it wisnae. It wis cryed that efter the owner, a Mr Bearford fae oot East Lothian an got corrupted intae Barefit ower the years. Sad ah ken, but true. Dinnae let that tak onythin awa fae the place tho, it wis a bonnie field. Ah spent mony a summer's day wanderin through the whins, pickin flooers or catchin butterflees, strollin doon the hill an across the Lang Dykes path tae the banks o the Nor Loch. It wis bonnie jist sae lang as the wind wisnae blawin ower fae the Auld Toun, fer it could get a bit smelly in the summer. If ye lay oan yer back an shut yer een ye could imagine ye were awa oot in the country, while in fact ye were ony a hauf-mile fae yer hoose. Ye had tae keep in mynd that onythin ye did in Barefit's Park could be seen fae the back windaes o the High Street, which brings me tae Robert Irvine an his terrible deed.

Noo this widnae be Embra, an it widnae be Shootinfaetheshin, if there wisnae a terrible deed lurkin there amangst the bushes, wid it?

Robert Irvine wis a probationary meenister that had taken up a job tutorin twa young laddies, the sons o a Mr Gordon o Ellon, that bidit doon in Broughton village. Noo like a lot o young gentlemen he enjoyed a wee bit o dallyin oan the side, an he wis dallyin this day wi the Gordon's scullerymaid, when he wis seen by the twa young laddies. This compromisin scene they happened, in aw innocence, tae mention tae their mither at tea-time.

Of course this upset the young Casanova, thinkin that if word got oot he wid get barred fae the meenistry. He broodit oan this, turnin his anger at the laddies intae a monster inside hissel. Oan the follaein Sunday, efter kirk, he took the twa laddies fer a walk up tae Barefit's Park, an there, in broad daylicht, an in fu view o the back windaes o the toun, he attacked an murdered the laddies wi a clasp-knife...




It didnae tak lang tae chase the brute doon, seein as how he wis seen by sae mony witnesses oan the toun side o the loch, an when he wis chasit doon, he wis still coverit in blood fae the terrible deed. He wis caught, as we yaist tae cry it, 'ridd-haundit', that is tae say, wi the blood still fresh oan his hauns. This meant that there wis nae need fer a trial, an first thing oan the Wednesday mornin, the 1st o May 1717, the beast had baith his hauns cut aff, an wis strung up oan the gibbet doon by Broughton toll-hoose...

There's a wee somethin fer ye tae think aboot next time ye're doon Princes Street Gairdens lickin yer Mr Whippy. Oan second thochts mibbe naw. Tell ye whit, jist think oan me dancin barefit through the whins wi ma butterflee net an endin up flat oan ma back in Barefit's Park. That'll dae ye noo, awa ye go, ah'm aff tae mak masel some yummy curds an whey. Cheerio!

Ah'm still waitin...

It's been said lang syne that Embra fowk are a wee bit oan the unfreenly side, that they can be awfy staun-affish an a bit cauld-fishlike. This is usually said when we're bein compared wi the Weegies fae Glesca toun, but aften it's jist said oan its ain. Ah cannae agree wi this masel, ah've aye found fowk in Embra tae be warm an welcomin as much as the next toun's fowk. They've aye welcomed me, even though ah'm a whelp o a Black Bitch masel an no a native Edinburgher, an ah ken fer a fact that they welcomed ma pal Jean. Ah've mentioned ma pal Jean afore if ah'm no mistook, an ah think it's time ah telt ye Jean's story...

Jean wis a Huguenot, yin o the Protestants fae France wha had been sufferin persecution at the hauns o the Catholics. It wis oor ain Queen Mary's guid-mither, Catherine de Medici, wha lay at the centre o this web o persecution, an it wis her that instigatit the Massacre o St Bartholomew's Eve in the August o 1572, a month-lang orgy o murder an wickedness that drove mony o the Huguenots fae their hame. Mary by this time wis enjoyin her time at the Virgin Queen's 'pleasure', an her son Jamie Saxt wis oan the throne o Scotland. Bein o the 'reformed' religion hissel, Jamie invitit some o these Protestant refugees tae come bide in Scotland, an let them big a wee refugee camp at the tap end o Leith Loan jist abune Broughton village. In turn the Huguenots brocht wi them their skills as weavers an manufacturers o cloth an paper. Jean's faither, Monsieur D'Armerie wis yin o their maister-weavers.

Ah first met Jean yin day doon oan the Shore at Leith. Ah wis waitin fer a shipment o sherry tae come in fae Spain, ah aye liked tae hae first-pick, an Jean wis oot lookin fer some fresh fish. Oor een met ower a barrel o deid haddock, an it wis love at first sicht. He had thon dark pools o een that ye jist wantit tae jump intae an droon yersel, a jawline as solid as the Castle Rock, an an erse like twa steamin haggis in a clout. Ah didnae ken whaur tae luik first, an ah wis that flustered at the sicht o the man ah endit up buyin three haddock insteid o sherry! Ah wis fair mad at masel that nicht ah can tell ye...

Ah never got talkin tae Jean that day, luikin as ah did like a cherry-beetroot an haein completely lost the power o speech aw o a sudden, but it wisnae twa weeks later, when ah jist happened tae be hingin aboot up the tap o the Loan, afore ah bumped intae him again, near cawin the puir lad ower an giein him sic a fricht he let oot a big "Merde!" Jist as weel ah kent some o the lingua francais, fer a meenit ah thocht he had cried me a horse, but insteid ah kent he wis jist sweerin. Yince ah'd steadied him oan his feet again we got tae talkin an we hit it aff somethin fierce, like a great big Beltane bonfire that's jist had an auld settee chucked oan it...

We were lyin up oan Mr Moultray's hill this day, up whaur the St James Centre's ugly auld hulk noo stauns, an we were luikin doon the hill tae wee Picardy, whaur Picardy Place still reminds us o the french weavers, an past that doon tae Broughton village an the Canon's Mills ahint, snugglin doon by the Water o Leith. We'd jist feenished oor picnic o corn-breid an cheese washed doon wi a couple o flagons o ale, an a few fresh-picked brambles. We lay back oan the sward an got tae talkin aboot whit gifties we wantit tae gie each ither. Ah says ah wid like tae knit Jean a pair o thon awfy-awfy-ticht cyclin shorts, ah thocht they wid help bring oot his, err, his physique, an then Jean asks me whit ah wid like fae him...

Ah thocht fer a meenit, an then ah says "Jean, ah wid like tae hae yin o thon rid silk petticoats like Rhett Butler gave Mammy in thon story 'Gang wi the Wind', yin that wid rustle when ah walked." "Sophia" says he, "Sophia, votre souhait est ma commande."

Ooh, ah loved his french accent so ah did, it aye made me gang jeely-like at the knees, e'en lyin oan ma back. True tae his word tho, Jean went back doon the hill tae wee Picardy that nicht, had a wee word wi his faither, an they pit in an order tae the auld country tae import some mulberry bushes an a wee colony o' silkworms, which they then plantit up oan the very spot oan that hill whaur we had lain that day...

Jist like the thing tho, oor Scottish weather no bein sae clement as the French, neither the mulberry bushes nor the silkworms thrived, an six month later aw ah had tae show fer it wis a wee rid silk hankie, finely embroideret wi SP an JA in the corner. Ah said tae Jean, tryin tae encourage the puir wee lamb, that ah still wantit that fine rid silk petticoat, but ye ken whit? Ah'm still waitin...

The Hound o Love

Here, ah'm gaunnae start aff th'day by sayin somethin some o ye may find a wee bit controversial, but ah'll say it onyroads.

Ma auld mither, bless her soul, is a Black Bitch!

She's prood tae be cried yin, ah'm prood that she is yin. Fer ma ain sel, ah can only lay claim tae bein a whelp o a Black Bitch, but that'll hae tae dae me, sae there's nae pynt in greetin aboot it...

Let me tell ye ma wee story. It's a story aboot love an loyalty, it's aboot cruelty an vindictiveness, it's aboot stayin loyal tae the past. Ma story concerns the wee toun o Linlithgow, some o ye may ken it, it sits aroon 16 mile west o Edinburgh in the coonty o West Lothian. Lithgae (as it's cried by the locals) may coont as a wee toun these days, but mony year ago it wis yin o Scotland's foremaist burghs. In fact in 1368 it wis yin o the Court of Four Burghs alang wi Edinburgh, Stirling and Lanark, an it wis langtime a favourite o Kings an Princes. There wis a royal hoose in Lithca fae at least as faur back as King David, weel afore the Wars o Independence, an whit ye see th'day is but a ruin o a great an gracefu Royal Palace. Ma auld pal Walter Scott couldnae hae put it better when he wrote in his novel Marmion:

"Of all the palaces so fair
Built for the royal dwelling,
In Scotland far beyond compare
Linlithgow is excelling."

This Palace sae fair sits in a park upon a hill owerlookin a loch aboot a mile in width, in the middle o which stauns an island, a wee island, an upon this island stauns a solitary tree. This tree played a central role in the life o medieval Lithca, fer it wis the chosen place o punishment fer the miscreants o the toun.

In a less enlightened age it wis the practice o the toun's magistrates tae sentence criminals tae be tied tae this tree, an left tae die. Noo bearin in mind that ye might get sentenced fer as little as stealin a loaf o breid, some wid say that this wis a gey harsh thing tae dae, but then, ye've got tae mind they had less tae entertain thersels wi in thon days, an watchin a puir auld biddy sterve tae death helped pass the time an gied the tounsfowk somethin tae blether aboot.

So ye can imagine their displeasure this yin time when, haein tied this auld bloke tae the tree, ony time they lookit oot at the island, there he wis, bold as brass, hale an hearty. They couldnae figure oot whit wis gaun oan. Until at last yin day some eagle-eye in the toun espied a figure swimmin oot tae the island!

Weel! Wis it no the mannie's faithfu dug swimmin oot, wi a piece in its mou! Noo dinnae ask me if it wis a piece oan cheese, or mibbe a wee ham piece, ah dinnae ken, but either way ye get the gist. The hound wis keepin auld Mr Convict alive, a shinin example o love an loyalty that wid pit wur ain Greyfriars Bobby tae shame. They say that a dug is a man's best freen, an that man sure had whit they nooadays cry a BFF in that dug.

So sure as guns ye can tell whit they did next. That's right, they tied the puir dug tae the tree! Cruel cruel people that they were though, they still endit up celebratin the dug by pittin it oan the toun's crest, which ye can see at the tap o ma story. A black bitch dug, tied tae a tree, oan an island, in a loch.

An tae this very day, if ye're born within the bounds o Lithgae toun, ye hae the right tae ca yersel a Black Bitch, an regardless o the march o politically correct progress, fowk like ma auld mither still haud their heids high an say it wi pride.

"Ah'm a Black Bitch fae auld Lithgae toun!"