Spring 1971 An Edinburgh Adventure

On Saturday, 6 March, 1971 five of us took off on a spring adventure - Ali Douglas; Les Ramage; Boo-Boo Hanlon; Iain and Peter Hoffmann..

  Ali Douglas; Iain Hoffmann; the Author; and ‘Boo-Boo’ Hanlon in front of

Mons Meg, Edinburgh Castle, 1971

      

We took the number 27 bus to Edinburgh Castle to explore our heritage. It was always good fun going out together, great company with many laughs. Although we had a rough outline of the day ahead, we never quite knew what would happen or who we might meet along the way.

                   

Iain Hoffmann; the Author; and Boo-Boo Hanlon - Soldier unknown

         

Iain Hoffmann; Boo-Boo Hanlon; and the Author 43 years later at

Swanston Golf Club, Edinburgh

From the castle we walked all the way down the Royal Mile and then up and over Arthur's Seat. We were in no hurry and walked at an easy pace, calling in at one or two of the shops along the way. There were fewer tourists around then and the Old Town still had a significant population, so it was local people and workers who were in the area.

                

Iain Hoffmann and Ali Douglas Boo-Boo Hanlon and Les Ramage Arthurs Seat 

Although we were young and fit the climb up Arthur's Seat was a stiff one and we quickly built up a sweat and the beginning of a sound appetite. At one stage, whilst running through the long grass, we unknowingly came to the edge of a sharp precipice which would have been all too easy to have fallen over.

 Ali Douglas and either Les Ramage or  Boo-Boo dangerously close to the edge above Holyrood Palace

We had a general sense of direction now. Once we had reached the summit and taken in the 360 degree panoramic view of Edinburgh, we traversed Arthur's Seat and got sight of Duddingston Loch in the valley below; we'd found our bearings. It was downhill now. We leapt like hares and galloped like horses, occasionally crashing, rolling and laughing, as we ran and tumbled down the hill.

                        

No matter the weather, Holyrood Park and Duddingston Loch are quite magical with quiet  parts where you can completely escape the city.

                    

Duddingston Loch, Charles Lee, 1853

A century before, Robert Louis Stevenson enjoyed it in all the seasons too. He writes in the winter of 1874, of looking down on the frozen loch, at the skaters flitting around, under the light from the moon and lit torches.

                    

Skaters, Duddingston Loch, Charles Lee, 1857

A fantasy in dull school lessons was to visit Duddingston Loch on a spring or autumn Saturday afternoon with a rubber dinghy and gently float around the loch, whilst listening to a football commentary on my miniature radio.             

Duddingston Loch

After the excitement of Edinburgh Castle, the Royal Mile and Arthur's Seat, the long road through Duddingston to Durham Road was the least enjoyable part of the journey, particularly because by then, we were hungry.

 Boo-Boo Hanlon, Duddingston Golf Course, 1971 the end in sight

Afternoon tea awaits for five hungry boys

We hadn't planned ahead or notified our grandparents, but we knew from old, that there was no trouble turning up announced on their doorstep. There was a warm welcome and a massive tea soon followed bacon and eggs and scones and buns were soon drummed up for us to enjoy.

  

Grandfather (Gaga), buying the Ford Zephyr, Hawick with the Author

After tea, we got a lift back home from Portobello to Oxgangs in our grandfather's large stylish Ford Zephyr car with its American styled tail fins. It easily accommodated three in the front and three in the back. I suppose we were cheeky in requesting a lift back by 6.30 pm, but Ali had to get home to see an Aunt and Uncle. Even after the day’s adventures, we still had the energy to play a game of singles and dodgy ball well into the evening.

Happy, timeless and seemingly endless days of friendship and companionship.

Photies From The South-Oxgangs And Its Neighbouring Edinburgh Communities: Colinton Village Garages

It's occasionally occurred to me that perhaps an interesting linked follow on from The Stair would be to publish on the blog an occasional photo gallery, with a few comments. Similar to commencing the blog last summer it's not something which I've really thought through and getting a hold of personal photographs from individuals who lived in Oxgangs, Colinton Mains, Swanston Village etc. over the decades would be challenging. 

I don't think it should be restricted to the general period of The Stair i.e. 1958-1972, but could be from a century ago right up to today. I know that one of the followers of The Stair kindly offered to go out and take any photographs for me that I might need for The Stair as he is one hundred and seventy five miles closer to Oxgangs than me! With the changing seasons, new building developments, etc. there must be some interesting possibilities especially if one were able to intersperse these with photographs from time gone by. If any readers have any thoughts, suggestions, ideas (Perhaps I should explore putting a notice in Oxgangs Library?) or better still, photographs they might like to share, please get in touch! This could be done through the blog or by e mail-the address is: peter.hoffmann@btinternet.com

Photograph by Gordon Boyd

These two photographs would appear to have been taken over half a century ago. I vaguely recall seeing the old garage as it was as a wee boy, when I was in my grandfather's old converted Bedford van, when we bought some petrol at the old Swanson's Garage further up toward Merchiston Castle School. Now that I think of it I seem to recall he worked at the old butcher's shop that existed almost next door to Waddell's Garage at Spylaw Street.The butcher's shop was long established and on the go when we left Colinton for the Highands in 1996-despite walking past it each week and whilst walking Atticus when he was a very wee boy it never occurred to me that my grandfather had worked there-funny thing, memory! The garage still exists today and isn't too different-back in the late winter in January d'Artagnan and I enjoyed a meal with friends at the Spylaw Tavern next door. It still has a charm to it.

The second photograph (below) is interesting-selling petrol and Standard Vanguard cars on a shoe string-the site now has a large modern chemist's on it. These cars were produced between 1947 and 1963. I remember the site well when it remained unused for years. When we stayed at West Mill Road, Colinton for seven years it stood empty-I hadn't realised that it had formerly been a garage. Talking of garages, when we first moved to West Mill Road, three old Summer Wine gentlemen ran a hole in the wall garage for fun and an interest-it too had an old world charm to it.

Photograph by Gordon Boyd

Milk; Fags And The NHS

Over the years to make money I had many paper rounds and also delivered milk. However, I always considered myself to be more of a paper boy, than a milk boy. You tended however to make more money as a milk boy and also received better tips. And if one was on a milk float it was better fun-less solitary because one was in company.

That said, I had a number of milk rounds over the years, including working for Douglas Blades, more of which in a future blog. At times I worked for a small dairy shop at Boroughmuirhead, Bruntsfield and also Berry's Dairy at Falcon Road West. These shops were there for decades and were family businesses. For delivering the milk I had a two wheel metal barrow. It was a solid, heavy old thing; Sean Connery had probably used the same one back in 1940!

Delivering The Milk
(Peter Hoffmann)

On weekdays there were four to five crates of milk to deliver; on the Saturday there was an extra crate which also accommodated some cream and butter. My round encompassed the old tenement flats around Bruntsfield Place; whereas the Berry’s Dairy job covered Morningside Road and the streets off. 

On some occasions in the New Year whilst we were still on holiday Iain Hoffmann, Les Ramage, Ali Douglas and Paul Forbes sometimes accompanied me-for a laugh and to liven things up we would drop one of the tetra packs from the top floor of one of the tenements. It had to be dropped in a certain way, so that it fell like a stone with a corner taking the impact-the noise broke the deep silence in the building and of course there was milk everywhere-we raced down the stairs quickly before disturbed residents opened their doors.

What was better fun was working for Edinburgh&Dumfrieshire Dairies on their battery powered three wheeled vehicles. These were open sided, to allow the milk boys-usually three of us, to hop on and off the vehicle, with our little four or eight pint carriers. We’d dart in and out of the Morningside houses collecting the empties and replacing them with gleaming full bottles of milk. Up until then I presumed all that one could buy was silver top milk; however, some of these fancy houses received red top and also gold top-the latter, being Jersey milk.

This work was more fun because one was in the company of others, rather than being on your lonesome. That said, on icy cold mornings my hands would get painfully cold, almost reducing me to tears. What was deadlier however was going down the incredibly steep Craighouse Avenue with its right angle turn into Balcarres Street. I always thought the vehicle was going to over-turn; especially when the roads were covered in ice. To counteract the threat of this happening, all the boys had to stand on the driver’s side or else vacate the vehicle.

A good friend who worked regularly for the Dummy was Geoff Hunter.He lived at Oxgangs Farm Avenue. I worked on and off at different times with him-often after he had inveigled me away from the loneliness of the long distance paper-boy!

Geoff Hunter

I haven't seen Geoff for almost forty years. He was a nice lad-a very able student in our class at Hunters Tryst School where he was never out of the top three and who went on to Boroughmuir Secondary School too. I hung about with him on and off over the years. We scived off school together-being in different classes at the Junior School we had to fabricate headaches and temperatures at the same time! On another occasion we scived off school to go the Radio 1 Roadshow in Princes Street Gardens; we'd visit the Pit Stop Cafe at Chesser where my grandfather footed the bill for our bacon rolls and orange juice; we played table tennis together at the after school club; and also attended Boys Brigade together at Barclay Church, Bruntsfield each Friday evening retiring with others afterwards to Demarcos Cafe at Tollcross to enjoy their fabulous coke floats and hamburger rolls. Geoff was a smoker and got me into the fags too for a few months. Today he's Head of Personnel at NHS Edinburgh and is still a talented table tennis player and goalkeeper.

Summer Has Gone

On Saturday 15 July, 1972, five of us set off for a camping holiday to Stobo, Peebleshire. The five were Alison Blades; Fiona Blades; Paul Forbes; Iain Hoffmann; and me. We got a lift down there from Douglas Blades in his red Austin pick-up.

Douglas's van could only seat two passengers in the cabin, so Alison and Fiona sat inside. Paul, Iain and I meanwhile sat in the back with all the camping gear and luggage; we were completely open and exposed to the elements, although fortunately the weather was set fair. It was a great feeling sitting in the back of the pick-up with the rushing breeze blowing our hair back. We felt cool, metaphorically and then literally, as the journey progressed through the wynding, open roads of the Borders. After we travelled through Penicuik we passed Leadburn Junction and made our way to Eddlestone where we turned right for the drive over the gentle Meldon Hills and then on through old Lyne Station, Stobo Castle, Stobo Kirk and the tiny hamlet of Stobo.

To keep sheltered from the wind we had to snuggle up together and kept as low down in the vehicle as possible. Fortunately we didn't come across any policemen en-route-although it was a laxer age, they might well have stopped us if they'd seen us sitting in the back of an open vehicle.

Stobo is a sylvan spot in Peebleshire set amongst the gentle and beautiful Borders landscape. It's little known unless you are perhaps familiar with the early works of John Buchan. Forty years before James Patrick McIntosh, the great Dundee artist painted a well known painting of the kirk; the painting is in the collection of Edinburgh's City Art Centre. Today, Stobo is a little better known because of the exclusive health spa at Stobo Castle.

Stobo Church (James Patrick McIntosh)

We had managed to borrow a large tent from the church - I think it belonged to Oxgangs Evangelical Church rather than Charlotte Chapel - I note from my diary that it was Fiona who got it for us. I had borrowed a sleeping bag from my grandparents and bought in lots of food from The Store, including a few flagons of cider - looking back it seems amazing that teenagers could buy alchohol and tobacco so easily.

Paul Forbes; Peter Hoffmann; and Iain Hoffmann trying to keep up!
(Heather Robertson)

The farmer gave us the go ahead to camp in his field. I note from my diary that after setting up the tent that evening (with a hand from Douglas) we thereafter managed a swim in the River Tweed followed by a good supper washed down with cider - a deadly combination! According to the diary we were tipsy - a rather quaint word. Paul had clearly consumed too much and was sick. I recall him swearing that he'd seen a shooting star during the night, but we were dubious, much to his dismay.

Normally the problem with camping in Scotland is the weather - people often get washed out and have to give up and go home. Ironically, we had some difficulty with the weather too, but for the opposite reason. We chose one of those very rare occasions when Scotland had a heatwave!

The week we'd chosen to go camping was the hottest of the summer. In the following days the temperature was mostly in the eighties. Indeed it was so hot that most of us began to suffer from heatstroke. By the following Tuesday our grandparents were good enough to drive down to take Alison and Iain back home to The Stair to recover. The group photograph shows how badly Alison was suffering. Again, from my diary I noticed that I too was sick that evening, noting that I was feeling crap!

Grandfather (William Robertson); Alison Blades; Paul Forbes; Fiona Blades; Grandmother (Josephine Robertson); Peter Hoffmann; and Iain Hoffmann
(Heather Robertson)

However, in between, we had a lovely time. We were up early with the light and stayed up late into the evening sitting around our camp-fire. Sometimes we'd cook a fish that had been gifted to us by local fishermen during the day. The bus-driver on the Peebles to Glasgow late night bus used to flash his lights at the happy young campers as he drove the country bus along the old B712 road. From the spring through to the summer we'd all enjoyed occasional card games back at The Stair, so before turning in for the evening we sat and played games of trumps. Before we all drifted off to sleep inside the tent, the craic was always good with much story telling, nonsense and hilarity. We'd be awoken in the morning by the sounds of birdsong. The only sound during the night was the gentle plashing of water as it lapped against the small pebbles, but once or twice during the night there might be a strange sound or screech which broke the silence - What was that? (or if it was Paul What the fuck was that!) was the usual refrain from one of us, but we felt safe and secure in one another's company and soon fell back to sleep.

Paul Forbes; Peter Hoffmann; and Iain Hoffmann
(Heather Robertson)

During the day we used to spend a great deal of time in the River Tweed. It was a glorious spot. Adjacent to our tent was a small still pool which kept our submerged drinks cool and which we also used for bathing. We used the opposite side of the bank, which was a good four or five feet higher up for diving into the main body of the river. Here the water was around eight feet deep. It was wonderful to begin the day with a dive into the pure clean water. Throughout the day, whenever we sizzled with the heat, we'd stroll across and dive and dive again into the water.

Paul Forbes and Peter Hoffmann diving; Iain Hoffmann watching, learning and admiring-not! Iain was the diver par excellent!
(Heather Robertson)

On most days a few families came for picnics and were often friendly. Entertained by our exploits they were often kind offering us some of their food. Half a mile away there was a tiny wee shop in the little hamlet of Stobo. Paul and I usually wandered down early each morning to pick up a pint of milk, some bread and lemonade or coke to keep the fluids up.

Peter Hoffmann (Heather Robertson)

The lovely county town of Peebles was six miles away. On one occasion Paul and I began walking there but it was terribly hot and exhausting. We stuck our thumbs out to a couple of passing vehicles but without any success. Being a quiet country lane there was very little traffic on the road. Of a sudden we heard a car in the distance. I immediately lay down on the road whilst Paul leapt up and down and waved down an older, charming English couple and told them rather dramatically that I'd fainted with the heat. They kindly offered us a lift into town. Rather like Stanley Baxter in The Fast Lady I of course made an immediate recovery and we were soon conversing happily with them on the drive into town!

Peebles for pleasure runs the old motto and we sauntered around enjoying games of putting and of all things playing with swans down by the River Tweed. I assume we got a country bus back to Stobo as I suspect walking the six miles back to our camp-site would have been beyond us. Fiona, Paul and I stayed on for the rest of the week. We gathered firewood from the local wood, swam, conversed, played cards and generally lapped up the sun and the experience, before Douglas kindly came down to collect us and drive us back to The Stair.

When that summer of 1972 came to an end it marked a point in time - a line in the sand - the bell was ringing for the last lap and the end of my boyhood. It wasn't long afterwards, indeed only a few weeks later that I decided to leave school. A few months later, at the start of winter I left The Stair, only to return for occasional visits.

Summer Has Gone’ 

I have tidings for you,

The stag bells;

Winter pours;

Summer has gone

Wind is high and cold;

The sun is low;

Its course is short;

The sea runs strongly…

Cold has seized

The wings of birds;

Season of ice.

These are my tidings

       (Early Irish Lyrics, Oxford 1956)