The Isle of Bute

Most years we would be off to Rothesay for the holidays. Rothesay was the main town on the Isle of Bute, and was a holiday destination for many Scots. My grandfather had built a small holiday hut on the Isle and he and my grandmother would often spend time there. When not in use, the hut was available for others in the family to use. Getting to the hut from Oakley was an epic journey particularly with the luggage that had to be dragged along. First, there was a bus trip to Dunfermline, another from there to Glasgow, and yet another to suburban Greenfield where my grandparents lived. A night or two may have been spent at Greenfield, and then back into Glasgow by bus, and a train journey to Wemyss Bay where the ferry docked. The train ride always seemed duller than it should have been. Even though I was full of excitement knowing that Rothesay was getting closer with every mile, the trip never quite had the fun of gala day with coloured streamers flowing in the wind.

Once a year a gala would be organised by my father’s work. It was probably organised by the work’s social club rather than the pit owners, but who can say. They were very exciting affairs designed to give the kids a day out with their parents. They were a kind of elaborate, well-organised picnic that was usually held in a public park, and getting there was half the fun. So, from my point of view they began at the local train station. Actually, they started several weeks before as the anticipation of the event led to increased levels of excitement as the date got closer and closer. I wouldn’t be half surprised if a special train was put on for the occasion. Every window would be open as the train sped along with kids hanging out waving and screaming to each other, and generally waving streamers from the windows. You couldn’t even think about going on a gala without streamers. A steam train thundering along with its smoke plume trailing, and every carriage covered in a rainbow of colour from the streamers on a gala day is a magnificent sight.

At the journey’s end, and eyes full of grit and soot from too much time spent leaning out the carriage window, we marched off to the park where the gala was to be held. People generally brought a mat to sit on while they had lunch. There would be several marquees with rows of trestle tables set up for the catering. Lunch was provided and everyone was given a paper bag with sandwiches and perhaps a piece of cake or two. There would be urns simmering, quietly stewing the tea. And of course, there was the beer tent. This was where the men disappeared while the women looked after the kids. Games were organised for the children with plenty of prizes to be won. So there was always good incentive to join in. I could never remember the trip home. I don’t doubt I wore myself out during the day, and slept on the return trip along with the men who were sleeping off the effects of their day in the beer tent.

Soon, the train trip was over, and the ferry crossing to Rothesay was about to begin. The thrill of the sight and sound of the ferry’s steam engine hissing and throbbing in the centre of the ship was a magnet for any boy with its various connecting rods and cams sliding and turning. But the journey was not yet at an end and required a taxi trip and a trudge through a muddy field to get to the hut.

The hut was at the end of a line of other huts set out on the edge of a field on Canada Hill. It was certainly a difficult place to get to, but the effort was worth it for the view alone. The farmer had been enterprising enough to know that there was money to be made by leasing a small section of his land, and progressively a series of these holiday huts were built. The land may well be a caravan park now!

The hut was located on the high side of the field positioning it perfectly to take in the wonderful vista across the treetops and fields to the sea, and the mainland beyond. The landscape fell away gradually to the coast, which was a relatively short walk to the coast with its pebble beaches, icy water, and the wulks (whelks) that my father relished, and hunted for among the rocks. The trees on the adjacent hill were often silhouetted against the sea, and the mainland towns of Largs and Wemyss Bay were just visible across the water in the distance. The whole panorama would have made a perfect picture postcard.

A bus route ran near the farm, but there was a long walk from the bus stop to the hut, part of which crossed a golf course, and was really rather picturesque with a stile or two to clamber over along the way. The path was used regularly by holiday makers much to the annoyance of the golfers, and before the word ‘fore’ had any meaning I used to see small groups of people wearing funny clothes waving at us or shaking their fists, presumably with the intention of making us get out the way. A few of the more impatient golfers wouldn’t wait for us to cross and played on despite the danger of us being in the middle of the fairway. I seem to remember on one occasion hearing a thud nearby and the sudden and unexpected appearance of a small white ball. With this new found treasure to play with securely in hand, one of the strangely dressed golfers in the distance had something new to jump up and down about as he witnessed his ball being carried off by a small boy. The distance from the hut to Rothesay itself wasn’t excessive, and on any other day if the bus didn’t come you could simply walk the distance. But loaded down with baggage, a taxi ride was the way to get to the hut. However, that presented a new problem.

There was a taxi rank at the dockside, which was convenient, and there were always plenty of cabs waiting on the rank, but when the drivers realised where we wanted to go they often lost interest in us. “Where do you want to go?” the drivers repeated as though they misheard. “Canada Hill? I broke an axle last time I went there,” one of them said. “Find somebody else to take you.” We often spent a long time waiting, probably until a cabby turned up who was so well down on his day’s earnings that he was willing to risk the drive and take us there. Maybe they took pity on us. We’d get dropped off at the farmhouse. I think the farm track was badly pot holed. We then had to trudge around the perimeter of the muddy field to get to the hut. Wellingtons or galoshes were mandatory for negotiating this field.

My grandfather had built the hut in stages throughout the years. It was essentially one large room that could be partitioned with a curtain to screen off the ‘bedroom’. It had simple furnishings. A table, a few chairs, a double bed, and a sofa bed my father subsequently had a fight with. There was a coal fire stove that had a couple of hot plates and a small oven, which was also the source of warmth in the hut. There was also a small workshop attached (my grandfather was a woodworker after all), that led to a side door to the outside toilet. The toilet had a dry lavatory, and every few days someone had the task of carrying the specially designed bucket down the edge of the field where the farmer had dug a large disposal pit. A white picket fence enclosed the lot, which was just as well as it kept the odd curious cow from wandering up to the doorstep.

A shuch (open drain) ran behind the huts, and my brother and I were encouraged to pee in it to ease the burden on the lavatory bucket. The shuch was a small trench the farmer had dug at the rear of the huts to prevent the field from becoming water logged. There was always water flowing in it, which provided a convenient self-flushing action. It was probably used as a sullage drain by the huts. I don’t know where the water went. I hope it didn’t disappear into the ground amongst some rocks to come bubbling up at a roadside embankment in the appearance of a natural spring.

My father seldom went to the hut with us, preferring to take separate holidays from the wife and kids, usually in the company of Joe, Vic, Tony Homes and a few others of a regular camping crowd. Anyway they often travelled on motorcycles on their camping trips, or when they went by car there was so much gear there would have been little room for anyone else, and no one would have wanted kids there. They went on camping trips all over Scotland, sometimes to England and on occasion to the continent. We always went to Rothesay. We never really had many family holidays together, and I suspect the ones we did have as a family were at my mother’s behest. I suspect my mother felt put out, by my father always going to different places around the country on these camping trips. Why should he get to see Scotland’s finest sights, and her lumbered with the kids all the time, and now they were planning to emigrate to Australia with her having seen little of Scotland herself? It wasn’t as though these camping trips were an all male event; Bella was one of the regulars. Before leaving for Australia, a day trip was arranged, and a drive around the Trossachs was organised. A single day was not much of a concession, but the Trossachs was certainly an exquisite choice for a farewell sightseeing trip. So, it was generally my brother, myself, my mother and her sister June and sometimes a friend who would go to Rothesay. My mother’s friend Ruby would sometimes come. There would be others who would drop in for a day visit or two, and included Jimmy Hisslop, a dear friend of my mother’s, I recall being there for a day or so on one occasion, and sometimes Alf Paterson visited.

My father was always a bit tardy in getting out of bed in the morning when on holiday. With limited space in the hut, the sofa bed he was using had to be folded and turned back into a couch during the day, to create some space in the hut. He wouldn’t get out of bed, so my mother and June threatened to fold up the bed, with him still in it. He ignored them, and as a joke they both took hold of the bottom of the sofa bed, and started to fold it, with him still lying on it. This was a ludicrous thing to do. It was also dangerous. The bed could have been damaged. My mother and June were laughing at the idea of him being folded inside the sofa, and my father was laughing because he didn’t think they had the strength to lift the bed with him on it. But the bed had springs on the mechanism that helped it close. It folded more easily than anyone expected. Suddenly he was screaming in pain, or so he said. Probably fear. Their attempts to pull it open failed initially. It was stuck, or so they said. My father was cursing, shouting abuse, but the others were in fits of laughter. It seemed to be stuck in the half open position, and there he was wrapped in sheets and blankets with his legs forced over his head. Of course, it was eventually pulled open, and no harm seemed to be done. Though, I think he was a bit grumpy that morning. He didn’t sleep in any longer.

I don’t recall how we washed ourselves in the hut; there was no bathroom. There was no running water. Possibly the workshop had been planned as a bathroom, that never eventuated. Water was collected by resting a container against the embankment behind the hut, to collect runoff from the land behind us. Milk and potatoes were purchased from the farmhouse on the opposite corner of the field. My brother and I would be sent whenever required. There was usually quite a trade done at the farmhouse, and campers would line up at the dairy to buy milk and other necessities. All the campers had their own special milk tubs to carry their milk, and it would be ladled from a huge tub in the dairy. Milk doesn’t come much fresher than that.

The first time I went to the farmhouse to buy potatoes I became tongue-tied. Standing in line I listened to the different voices of people chatting while they waited in the queue. Some of the accents sounded posh. And here was me with my singsong Fife accent that by all accounts some Scots found difficult to understand, and right at that moment I became acutely aware that my accent was more endowed with slang than accent. Would anyone be able to understand me? Should I ask for ‘potatoes’ as others were doing? This was the posh way of speaking, after all. The teachers at school urged us to pronounce our words this way. ‘Naw, alask fur taughties’ like I normally would, I thought. But maybe they wouldn’t know what ‘taughties’ were. Some people say ‘tatties’, which might be better. ‘Tatties’ or ‘potatoes’, ‘taughties’ or ‘potatoes’? Before I knew it, I was at the front of the queue. .
“Can I help you?”
“A pound of pot-taughties, please.”
And a roar of laughter filled the room, as I couldn’t decide whether to say ‘potatoes’ and sound posh or be myself. I paid for my purchase midst smiles from all, felt my face redden, and ran back to the hut.

Rothesay’s esplanade was a feature of the town with its ordered garden beds, neatly clipped lawns, decorated trees, giant chess sets and street performers. The trees and gardens were decorated with coloured animals; squirrels and the like that were illuminated at night. Without doubt it was kitsch, but I loved it. There was also a putting green in the gardens that helped create a holiday atmosphere. The ferry and other ships docked nearby. There was a protected harbour for a small fleet of fishing boats that were often left high and dry when the tide went out. Small powered boats could be rented. They were popular with holidaymakers, and were always to be seen meandering around the foreshore. And despite the concerns by my mother of us drowning, John and I would pool our savings and head straight to them.

The esplanade was also the venue for street performers to earn a quid or two. There was an escape artist who drew large crowds of spectators. He was a weather worn, gypsy of a man. He was popular with the Rothesay crowd, and a circle of people would quickly form around him before his performance. His assistant bound him in chains, and his act was to free himself, but before his performance he demanded payment. The spectators were asked to throw coins into the circle, and he became indignant and abusive if insufficient money was forthcoming.

I squeezed to the front of the circle of spectators on one occasion to see him. He wore a brown leather waistcoat, possibly to ease the pressure of the chains. The chains wrapped his body, criss-crossing his chest and wrapped around his neck. He was trussed up as if in a straight jacket. He inspected the money on the ground, counting it, and strutted about abusing the crowd for being stingy. He refused to attempt an escape and threatened to have the chains removed if no more money was forthcoming. A few more coins tinkled to the ground, and with a nod to his assistant to collect the cash, the performance began. In a bout of bending and stretching movements he lurched around the ring in an effort to free himself. The crowd laughed, booed, cheered and heckled him, but gradually you could see the chains shift their positions on his body. I think he generally escaped, but I seem to recall seeing him on other occasions with a thinning crowd that was becoming smaller by the minute as he lunged around unsuccessfully trying to free himself.